Blazed (19 page)

My high from the show, from the blues, has disappeared just like that.

Visions of me beating that twat, Tyler, with a baseball bat smash through my head.

Like great, dude. Awesome.

My father likes you better than me.

I'm sure he likes bacon cheeseburgers better than me too.

Fuck that dude and fuck his jacket.

And fuck his TOMS, too.

“YOU OKAY?” I ASK KRISTEN.

“That piece of shit,” she snorts. “What'd he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Like, who does he think he is? Just disappearing like that and showing back up smelling like a dumb bitch's perfume.”

“That guy sucks,” I say. “My father should be ashamed for liking him.”

“Your father loves him.”

“Cos of the coke?”

She shakes her head. “No. He thinks Tyler's cool or something. He actually wants him to work for his hedge fund so he can bring him into the business.”

“You're joking.”

“No. That's what fathers do with their sons.”

“That phony is not his son.”

“Closest thing he's had to one, Jaime.”

My shoulders bunch up. “Besides the one he made with my mother and never fucking tried to talk to before she OD'd.”

“He's tried,” she says. “Jesus Christ, he's tried so hard. Your mother won't let him get near you.”

“Bullshit.”

“It's not,” she says. “God, it's not. I've seen him cry about it, Jaime. I've seen him break down and just lose it. Fucking lose it, man.”

Right as I'm about to respond, this street kid pops up right next to her, throwing his arm around her shoulders.

“You're so pretty,” he snarls. “Wanna date me?”

Kristen jumps away.

“Come on, sweet thang,” he says. “How about a cigarette instead?”

“Get lost,” she says.

Dude steps toward her. “Just a cigarette.” He reaches for her, but she steps away. “Come on, girl. Give me a fucking cigarette. I saw your pack.”

“No,” she goes.

“Give me one!” he yells, then steps at her again.

So I shove him and he slams against a newspaper box. “Leave her alone,” I snap.

Then,
BAM!

I get shoved from behind by this other street kid I didn't even see.

BAM!

I get shoved again by a third kid I didn't see.

“What the fuck?” I say.

BAM!

Another shove by the first asshole.

When I turn around, all three of them have me surrounded.

“Not so tough now,” the guy that went after Kristen barks. “Not so fucking tough now, are you, bro?”

“Relax,” I say.

I try and move past them and around the corner of the building, then—

BAM!

I get shoved again and nail the store window.

“Give me your fucking money!” one of the kids shouts.

“Screw you,” I say.

“What's that?” he goes, then pulls out a switchblade.

I'm trapped against the building.

“Give me your wallet,” one of them says again.

“Fuck you, you dirty pieces of shit.”

“Nope,” says the kid with the knife. “Fuck you.”

He comes right at me and I close my eyes.

Wait for the blows and the blade.

Take a deep breath.

Just breathe.

Fucking breathe, man.

But they never come. Instead, the two dudes who Kristen was talking to when I was talking to Tyler come jumping in.

One of them pummels the kid holding the knife with a backpack. Just slams it right into that cocksucker's head and he drops hard.

Then the other guy punches the street kid to my right in the back of the head. That kid buckles over and when
he does, I pound my right fist into his face and knock him down on his ass.

The other street kid, who's got fucking dreadlocks and baggy jeans, he takes off running across the street, yelling at this huge pack of street kids standing on the corner watching to help out.

“Shit,” says the kid with the backpack. “We gotta bail now. Come on.”

I step around the corner and grab Kristen's arm. “Let's go,” I say.

Before we take off in a dead sprint up Ashbury, Kristen fucking kicks the street kid who pulled the knife on me two times in the face. I spit on him.

“Fucking loser!” she screams.

We start running, but I turn back.

“What are you doing?” she goes.

I kick the dude three times, screaming, “You pussy fuck! Don't touch her again. You fucking pussy piece of trash! You never touch her again. Fucking creep!”

“Jaime,” Kristen goes. “Stop.”

She grabs me and tries to pull me away.

“Let's go,” she says.

I spit on the dude again.

“Now, Jaime. Come on.”

I kick him one more time.

“Jaime!” she screams, yanking me backward now.

“Hey,” I say, calmly turning toward her. “You okay?”

“I'm fucking fabulous,” she goes.

“Great.”

I'm smiling.

“Let's go, dude.”

She grabs my hand and we run away laughing.

THE FOUR OF US FINALLY
come to a stop when we get to my father's house. We catch our breath in the driveway. All the lights are turned off inside.

“Fucking thank you,” I say right away to those dudes. “Jesus Christ. I thought I was gonna get cut.”

“No problem, dude,” the kid with the backpack says. “I'm Eddie.”

“Jaime.”

“Brandon,” the other kid says. “Fuck those dirty-ass street losers. Just fuck them. I hate them.”

“Pure garbage,” Eddie snorts. “That's what they are.”

“Fucking trust fund runaways,” Brandon snaps. “They read
Into the Wild
and decided their parents sucked for making a ton of money and giving them nice things and making sure they had all the food they ever needed.”

“They probably didn't even read it,” says Kristen.

“No shit,” Eddie laughs. “They probably watched the movie. Fell in love with Emile Hirsch and took off in the middle of the night with their parents' credit card in their sock.”

All of us laugh.

These dudes are rad.

Eddie's got black hair that hangs down to his shoulders. He's a little bit taller than me and skinny. He's wearing tight black jeans, a red hoodie with a white zipper, and a pair of black Nike Cortez.

Brandon's got short blond hair that's all messy. He's my height and he's got black plugs in both ears. He's wearing a blue-and-black flannel shirt, white jeans with both knees ripped out, and a pair of all-black Chucks.

Eddie opens his backpack and pulls out a pint of Wild Turkey whiskey and the remains of a twelve-pack of PBR.

He hands a beer to each of us.

“So you live here?” he asks me and Kristen.

“She does,” I say.

“Not you?”

“Nah.”

I open the beer and tell them about my situation. When I'm done, both of them cheers me and Brandon goes, “Welcome, my man.”

“Thanks for saving my fucking life.”

“That dude wouldn't have cut you,” Eddie snorts. “Just robbed you.”

“Well, it was still awesome what you did.”

I take my wallet out and try to give them both a hundred dollars. Kristen is on her phone, not really paying attention, texting someone.

“Fuck that,” Brandon says. “Buy the beers the next time we see you.”

“I'll probably never see you dudes again,” I say.

“Come to the Mission tomorrow,” Brandon says.

“I don't know where that's at, man. I just got here last night.”

“There's a bus that'll pick you up right on that corner and take you there in five fucking minutes. Maybe less,” Eddie goes.

“Well, what's going on there?”

“Our band is playing a show in front of the Twenty-Fourth Street BART station.”

“What's your band?”

“Devil Feeder,” Eddie answers. “It's the two of us. I play bass and Brandon drums.”

“Sweet. What time?”

“We're going on right at four,” says Brandon. “You're gonna wanna be there on time, too. I doubt we'll get more than two songs in.”

“Why?”

“Cops will shut it down pretty quickly. We don't have a permit to play.”

“I don't get it,” I say.

“It's fun,” says Eddie. “There's nothing to get besides it's fun. We stole a fucking Live 105 banner from one of their booths at Outside Lands last year. Figure, if we hang that up before we play, people will think it's official till at least the second song. Maybe the third. It's gonna be dope regardless. It's gonna be fun, and that's the whole point of being in a band.”

“Cool. I'll totally come by.”

“With beers,” says Brandon.

“Sure. With beers.”

“Here,” Eddie goes, then hands me the Wild Turkey.

I take a swig. A small one. And hold it in my throat for, like, ten seconds before I finally choke it down.

“Damn,” I say, coughing. “Rough.”

Kristen puts her phone away. “You guys live in the hood?” she asks.

“Nah,” Brandon says. “I live in the Sunset on Taraval and Forty-Sixth.”

“I'm in the Excelsior,” Eddie goes.

“How deep?”

“A few blocks past the Safeway.”

“That's deep,” Kristen goes. “How old are you guys?”

“How old do you want us to be?” says Eddie.

Kristen laughs and takes a huge pull from the whiskey and just downs it tough.

“Funny,” she says. “But really?”

Eddie's eighteen and Brandon's seventeen.

Kristen takes another whiskey drink and then takes her bullet out.

“You boys do coke?”

“Sure,” says Eddie. “I live for the drip.”

Kristen hands the bullet to him. As he's taking it from her, he squeezes her hand and winks.

“You're a babe,” he says.

“Is that right?” she goes, smiling from ear to ear.

“Yup,” says Eddie.

“And what about it?” Kristen goes.

“Nothing,” Eddie says. “I'm just musing.”

“Lovely.”

He lets go of her and does a bump and then passes the coke to Brandon, who does a bump.

This is when Tyler shows up. Of course that's who Kristen was texting.

He's real heated, too.

“What the fuck is this?” he snaps. “Who are these guys?”

“That's Brandon and Eddie,” says Kristen. “They saved Jaime's life a few minutes ago.”

“Bullshit.”

Eddie laughs. “Are you for real?” he goes.

“What are you talking about?” Tyler asks.

“I don't know,” Eddie says, waving a hand in the air. “Like the letter jacket and the cardigan.”

“Fuck you,” Tyler snorts.

“Dude,” I go. “Piss off.”

“Fuck you too,” says Tyler.

He grabs Kristen and tells her about this party in Hayes Valley.

“There's a cab on its way right now,” he says.

“Maybe she doesn't wanna go,” I say, looking at Kristen.

She looks away from me. Tyler pulls out a Baggie of coke and puts it in her hand.

“Sounds fun,” she says.

Tyler shoots me a look. “What'd I tell you.”

“You're a dick,” says Brandon.

“Mind your own business,” Tyler says.

“You dress like a dick too,” snaps Eddie.

“Oh really,” Tyler snorts.

He starts toward Eddie, but Kristen grabs him. “Just stop it,” she says. “Jesus, man. Just stop it.”

The cab shows up. Tyler walks over and sticks his head through the passenger-side window and then opens the back door.

“You don't have to go,” I tell her. “We're better company anyway.”

Kristen comes over and gives me a hug. “I have to,” she says. “What a wild fucking night, though.”

“Day,” I say. “The whole day.”

“Right,” she goes.

“Morgan.”

“Yes,” she says. “James motherfucking Morgan.”

“So rad.”

“Yes, it was. Have fun with Dominique tomorrow, dude.”

“Hopefully she's cool.”

“She's the best, Jaime.”

“Let's go, Kristen,” Tyler snorts.

“You know he sucks,” I say.

“He's all right,” she says back. “You'll see.”

“You're better than all right.”

“Obviously I'm not,” she goes, and lets me go and hops into the cab.

I flip the car off as it pulls away. Pretty sure Tyler flips me back off with both hands.

D-bag.

And the three of us, me, Eddie, and Brandon, we kick it for another hour in the driveway and finish the beer and whiskey and listen to this band I've never heard of, the Shipping News, and they're really good, and then the Murder City Devils, who I love so goddamn much.

AFTER I JACK OFF TO
these images of me fucking Yolandi from Die Antwoord—twice—I get out of bed, smoke an Oxy, and jot down this idea for a new poem I've been kicking around my head for the last two days.

Something big, something that spans time
[insert random
Buffalo '66
joke anywhere now],
about a girl, lots of images, something nostalgic . . .

This is what I write before chasing the dragon some more. On my way to the shower, I run into my father in the hallway. He's walking out of his bedroom, holding a bottle of champagne, wearing nothing but the towel around his waist.

“Oh, hey there,” he goes.

It's pretty much awkward.

No, it's totally awkward really.

“What's up with you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just relaxing with Leslie. Sunday Funday.”