Jumped In (9 page)

The next part of the 1 percent: I'm spending too much time with too many old people. No offense to Ginny and Bill, but I'd like to hang out with someone who doesn't have her hair dyed bluish, or someone who doesn't have more hair growing out of his ears and nose than the top of his head. And it'd be nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn't start sentences with “I remember when I was your age,” followed by a firsthand account of plowing the fields behind a mule or joining Pa to take up arms against the British in the fucking Revolutionary War!

The third and final portion of the 1 percent is curiosity.

I'm curious about Luis.

I wanna know what Luis is like. I mean, I thought I knew what he was like. I thought he was someone who wouldn't write a poem for stupid Cassidy. I don't know why, but I wanna know. And I'm curious to see where a kid like him lives.
How
he lives.

The fear of what Luis would do to me if I don't meet him is so big that this 1 percent of stuff doesn't even matter. I'd be meeting Luis if the 1 percent didn't exist.

But it does.

 

NOT GETTING EXCITED ABOUT WRITING POETRY

I
MEET HIM OUT IN FRONT OF SCHOOL AFTER THE BELL RINGS
.

None of his cholo friends are there.

No Carlos.

We start walking without a word between us. I'm freaking out on the inside, and I try to convince myself that I can back out later.

Could I back out?

What would he do if I did?

Okay, maybe I can't back out, but frankly, after what I've seen from Luis in class, I figure he won't have the guts to go through with this either.

Luis's apartment is a hike from Puget High School.

We walk up the hill a few blocks through the quiet, woodsy neighborhood that abruptly erupts into sleazy Pac Highway. Past a casino, a junkyard, an adult video shop, a drugstore, a 7-Eleven, a Taco Bell, and some old motels. We turn up the hill, east to the Viking Glen.

The Viking Glen is a typical boxy, gloomy beige, run-down apartment complex. We make our way around a plastic kids' slide, a couple bikes with training wheels, a
Little Mermaid
wading pool full of dirty rainwater.

It gives me the creeps.

I can't believe I'm here.

Luis walks up to a first-floor apartment, pulls out a key, and opens the door. He motions for me to head in.

Is it a trap?

I prepare myself for the worst.

The outside of the Viking Glen is a dump. But Luis's mom—or whoever—has this little apartment looking pretty nice. There's a big, gray, comfy-looking couch and a landscape painting of Mount Rainier hanging on the cream-colored wall, a full dining room table, and some bar stools at the counter.

Luis walks into the kitchen and sticks his head inside the fridge.

“Want something to drink?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Beer?” he says. “Split a forty?”

Look, I'm no square, all right? But I don't drink alcohol. I've heard too many stories about my dad back in the day. So that's the deal with that. But now I've got a gangster offering me a beer. How do you not accept beer from a gangster? I mean,
come on.…
So I say, “All right.”

Luis looks back in the fridge. “Oops, no forties, man. Clean out. And as far as beers go, we only got
root
,” he says pointing at a can.

Luis tosses it to me. I feel like a dumbass.

He grabs a couple mugs and says, “I'll work on those forties for next time.” He's smirking at me just like that time I called Cassidy a bitch.

He must have caught me looking the place over, because he starts explaining things.

“I live here with my mom. She's at work at the airport till midnight. Sometimes she works graveyard and she's there all night. My brother stays here sometimes, but he lives over in Burien. What about you?”

“Oh, yeah. I, uh, live with my grandparents off 216th, toward the bottom of the hill.”

“How's that?” He says it like he's actually interested.

“It's all right. They're okay. Old. Really, really old.”

“They know you're here? You wanna call them or something?”

“I guess I'd better.”

Luis hands me the phone and I make the call.

“Grandma?”

“Sam, thank the good Lord! I just got back from shopping. I checked your room. You weren't back home yet. You weren't in bed. I looked all over the house. Sam, where the devil are you?”

“I'm at a kid's house doing a project for school. I'll be home in a couple hours.”

There's silence on the other end.

Then, “Sam, that's great! Schoolwork on a Friday night! What's the project? Who's your friend—”

“Bye!” I slam the phone down.

Are you kidding me with the questions?

Luis has our “beers” on the little kitchen table next to a yellow notepad and pen.

And he sits there like we're gonna use them.

He's already written a title on the page.
Sam and Luis: The Explosive Epic Bust-Out Spectacular!

“Serious?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah.”

“Look, I have no idea—”

“I don't either,” Luis says. “I just wanna do this.”

I'm panicking. I don't wanna piss him off, but the word slips out: “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“What?” he says.

“Why you wanna do this?”

Luis looks at me like he wants to say something, but the words are stuck in him.

He looks down at the floor.

Up at the ceiling.

Takes a gulp of root beer.

Then he goes off.

“What if I go through life and I never say what I gotta say? Sure, Cassidy's a pain in the ass, but she wants to know what we got to say, and she's giving us a chance to say it, so what the hell? You only live once. Right?”

“I guess so.”

He just sits there totally serious. Thinking.

I'm wondering what in the hell is going on. I'm wondering if I got anything I wanna say. We slurp our root beers without saying anything for what seems like forever. Then, out of nowhere, Luis starts tossing out lines, clearly expecting me to fire back.

“
We're Luis and Sam and we're giving a shout-out …
Sam?”

“What?”

I crunch the empty root beer can in my hands. I hate this whole thing. But I make the decision to think of something. I figure I don't have a choice. And there's no way I can say anything dumber than what Luis is coming up with.

“
We're Luis and Sam, laying low all the time …
Sam?”

“Um … uh … Gimme a sec here.”

“
We're Luis and Sam, and you don't know us
 … Sam?”

Ah, fuck … I'm thinking … I'm thinking.…

“
I'm Luis. He's Sam. Something about something. No plans…”

Jesus! This kid is a freaking robot of talking. I try to block his words so I can think. I squeeze out “
And … we … we're sick of listening to you all, so we're bustin' this rhyme.
”

“What? That doesn't go with
no plans.
”

“I'm still on
We're Luis and Sam, layin' low all the time.
I'm sorry. I'm slow.”

He immediately starts writing. “
We're Luis and Sam, layin' low all the time/Now we're sick of listening, so we're bustin' this rhyme!”

“
With words sublime, just in time—”

“
Sublime.
That's cool,” Luis says. “Sublime.”

I don't even know what
sublime
means.

He comes back with “
To wake you up and blow your mind.
Yes!” He's scribbling and going, “Okay, okay,” and I'm thinking,
This guy is crazy,
but all of a sudden, I realize I'm laughing.

I'm laughing.

We write crap like that, bouncing back and forth for a while. It's mostly posing, stupid, silly stuff, but we end up with a poem. And together, we read it back:

We're comin' atcha with fast-flyin' words

No lyin' you can't catch 'em 'cuz they're all a blur

So sit back, relax and wait your turn

Listen to Luis and Sam for a chance to learn

Yeah, we got words stored up for all you fools

They're flying atcha, no holds barred, no rules

Now that we've started, we can't take 'em back

We're a full-on slam, massive blast attack!

We look at each other like that was ridiculous.

But cool.

There's a shout from the living room.

 

HOME EARLY

“
L
EW-EE-EES!
I'm ho-ome!”

“It's my mom. She's home early. Please don't judge me based on anything she says.”

She pokes her head into Luis's room. “Hey, guys. You look hungry.” She looks at me and says, “I'm Leticia. You hungry, Sam?”

She knows my name.

I look to Luis, not knowing if I should tell the truth or politely say,
I'm fine, we just had a snack.

He turns to me and says, “Well?”

And she says, “Burgers?”

“Okay.”

We get back to work—behind a closed door now—until Luis's mom calls us to dinner.

We have a seat at the table. I wait to dig in, wondering if we have to say grace.

No grace.

There are three big burgers on plates and all the fixings and some salad and glasses of water. Leticia hands me the plate and says, “Go for it, Sam.”

I go for it.

Then Leticia launches in with the questions. “So, how's the project?”

I say, “Fine.”

Luis says, “Good.”

“What's the topic?”

I say nothing.

Luis says, “We're still in the planning stages, Ma. We don't want to blow the whole thing by talking about it too much.”

“
Ay, tú,”
she says, reaching over and messing with his hair.

Then she turns on me. “So, Sam. Samuel? Or Sam?”

“Sam's fine.”

“How are your parents doing?”

“I live with my grandparents, actually. They're fine.”

“That's good.”

“Are they working?”

“They retired from Boeing a couple years ago.”

“Ah. What did they do there?”

“Put
737
s together.”

“Uh-huh. What team were they on?”

I look at her blankly.

She comes back with “Welding, interiors, paint, wings, engine? There's a lot to putting a jet together.”

“I'm not sure.”

“You should ask them sometime.”

“Yeah.” I feel like a dumbass for never having asked them what they did at Boeing for forty years of their life.

Leticia finally turns to Luis, but all she does is ask him to pass the salad dressing. “What are your interests, Sam?”

“Huh?” I know what she means, but I have to buy some time.

“What do you like to do for fun? What are you into?”

There is silence while I wonder why I'm freaking out about answering questions from a woman I don't even know.

They're waiting for an answer, so I say, “Music.”

“Playing music? Writing? What kind of music?”

I decide I'm gonna say it. If she makes fun of me, I'll tell her it was a joke and say I really wanna be a software developer. “I'm into rock music. Bands from the late eighties and early nineties. Nirvana. The Melvins. Mudhoney, Soundgarden. I wanna play bass and write songs. I used to write lyrics, but not so much anymore. And I don't know how to play bass yet … but I'm thinking about starting that stuff up sometime.”

Dead silence.

No response.

I'm an idiot.

Because grunge is dead.

And, come on! Who would ever honestly give a rat's ass about a random teenager spouting off about his stupid dreams? As I think it, I mentally air-quote the word
dreams
. Because
not
air-quoting means you're the kind of loser who goes around saying the word
dreams
seriously—like you believe in unicorns and fairies and rainbows.

Leticia slaps the table and says, “Go for it. It's never too late to get started on a song. And I'm sure there's a decent bass on Craigslist.” She looks up and waves her arm. “I can just see you up on that stage, Sam.” She turns to Luis. “Wouldn't that be great?” She looks right at me and says, “Do it, Sam. Do it.”

I nod at her, like
I'm totally going to get started on that.
But inside, my guts are turning over because I can't believe this conversation is happening.

“You've got a passion,” she says. “You should go for it. That's what I tell Luis.”

“Ah, Ma, don't—”

“I tell him to figure out what he wants to do. As long as it's constructive, I'll back him one hundred percent. Isn't that right, Luis?”

I realize this discussion is partly about me and a lot about Luis.

“Sam, maybe some of your initiative will rub off on my
flojo
son.”

“
Flojo
?” I ask.

“Lazy,” she says making a face and poking him in the gut.

Somehow Leticia can get on Luis's case without seeming like a total
B.
I mean he doesn't seem thrilled with it, but he's not pissed off, either.

We finish up and take the dishes to the kitchen. Luis starts washing, so I dry. When we're done, I tell Luis I better head home.

He says, “Yeah, okay,” and reaches in his pocket and whips out his phone. “You got a cell?”