Lens Cleaner

He'd watched Joyce's right hand resting, wrist up on her knee, for the entire ride home that day. She'd pinched the bridge of her aquamarine bifocals between her thumb and index finger as if escorting a specimen to a laboratory. When she'd walked into their bedroom, she pulled a supple lens cloth from her bedside table and swabbed it smoothly across the left lens capturing a sample of the coarse grit of their son's ashes. When she was done, she'd placed the cloth into a tiny plastic zip-pouch, and tucked it away. On her way out of the room, she'd dropped the glasses into her pink plastic wastebasket with a hollow plunk that neither startled nor soothed either of them. Today, the loose ends of her illness, their life together sufficiently cauterized, Omar rescued the sealed up lens cloth from it's place in her nightstand drawer, and moved it to his side of the bed.

Moondrops

Marilyn's ruffled collar rested gracefully on her clavicle, the sheer ivory silk complementing the tailored periwinkle lapel of her Sunday jacket. Her daughter, Constance, in the next car suppressed a grin, proud to have gotten the thing on her mother today. Sunday indeed. It was Marilyn's most stylish outfit, but for years she'd refused to wear it, citing that at her age there wasn't an occasion special enough for such a well-made suit of clothes. But today Constance got to see the product of so many hours of conscientious stitching adorning her beloved mother. And without the orange lipstick for once.


"It's called Persian Melon"

"I'm sorry to break it to you, but that is bright orange."

"I've been told that warm tones suit me. I like it."

"Mother, why do you think Revlon Moondrops #585 is the only orange lipstick at the store? Because no one else is foolish enough to wear such a god-awful color on their face. I think the Newberry stocks it specifically for you."

"Well that's very nice of them." She smiled and turned back to face the mirror and clip on her pearl earrings.

"I just wish you could see yourself sometimes. You're such a beautiful woman and you ruin it with all that garbage you put on."

"Well, I don't think it's garbage. This is how I've always dressed. This is how I've always worn my make-up. I don't see why I have to change who I am now because it doesn't suit you. You're welcome to change with every fad that comes along. You're young, you're supposed to. But let me be."

"It's not about fads, it's about knowing what works for you."

"This works for me, dear."


But today Constance got her way. The sun glinted brightly on the late morning caravan, seeming to her simultaneously appropriate and not. She was pleased with her mother's appearance. She'd gotten up early, long before anyone else in the house to go down and fix her mother up. When Constance walked into the room, Marilyn was a clean slate, ready for her make-over. She lay quietly while Constance applied soft, natural-hued powders and creams gingerly not to disturb her mother's cool, delicate skin. Marylin didn't argue for once, didn't insist on Persian Melon. The transformation was remarkable. When Constance was done she could only describe her mother as looking altogether natural.

She'd pressed the suit the night before and selected appropriate accessories. Constance gave in on the earrings. Her mother loved them, and anyway they matched the silk blouse and the pearl buttons on the jacket. Marilyn's joints were a little stiffer than usual, but Constance was used to the silent struggle of tugging fabric over her mother's arthritic limbs. As she arranged the collar, she thought an occasion special enough, but didn't dare say this out loud.

Now, in the passenger seat of her daughter's late-model coup, Constance glanced at the police officer next to her window and thought he looked out of place, riding along so slowly on his motorcycle. She slid her right hand into her special occasion purse and pulled out a marbled emerald tube of Persian Melon, #585. She removed the cap, twisted up the stump of waxy orange lipstick, and breathed in its sweet, oily, vaguely floral smell. Without looking at a mirror for guidance, she applied an even layer of her mother's signature shade to her own lips, then covered her face with her cold, dry palms.

Thin, Cobalt Blue Line

Maybe it was the Heineken I drank in the terminal before boarding my usual BUR to OAK flight. Maybe it was the late, hazy hour. Something drew my attention out the window of the Southwest commuter plane, to the cobalt blue runway lights that looked so familiar and in an instant conjured a long lost memory, and closed a loop of associations. I laughed a little to myself, realizing that the backside of Burbank was Sun Valley. The backside of the suburbs was the ghetto. The backside of 2009, for the moment, was 1992.

Claudia and Letty, the older sisters of two of my friends clamored into the room where Lisa, Tonie and I were still sleeping at noon on a Friday. We were ditching and had no intentions of making it to school. The older girls, both 19, woke us up to say we had to come to a costume party.

“It’s Halloween! We got matching masks for all of us. Aren’t they cute?” Letty pulled simple black satin eye-masks with feathers out of her aqua plastic swap meet bag.

Lisa sat up and said, “Uhhh…no. We’re not going to anymore cholo parties. Everytime we go with you there ends up being drama.”

“But these aren’t cholos! They’re techno guys!”

“What’s that?”

“They’re just chill. They’re not from nowhere. They’re completely different.”

Claudia added, “They don’t bang, they don’t claim no neighborhood. They just chill and have parties, and they all dance.”

“Aaaayyyy! You guys have to come! We need more girls. We can’t go just the two of us!” Letty was not giving up.

“Fine, but if there’s cholos there, we’re leaving.”

“I promise they’re not from nowhere.”

We got up and made our own trip to the swap meet for some Mary Kay and Merci Gelle. In those days, we spent a lot of time getting ready. After the shower, the hair had to be scrunched with mousse and left to dry before you could do your bangs. The bangs involved curling irons, hot rollers, round and vented brushes, and lots of Aquanet. I was still learning, so I pretty much copied whatever I saw, down to the Light Ivory foundation, and I was not a Light Ivory girl. We all shared makeup, Light Ivory Coverstick, great for undereye circles, zits, and hickeys. Everything else was brown: blush, shadow, lipstick. This was the mark of fashionable girls, girls who weren’t cholas. Cholas were forever wearing hard black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, but we knew better. Brown makeup was softer, more natural, and it separated us from the gang bangers we were outgrowing.

When we got to Tonie’s house that night, Letty and Claudia instructed us that when you went to techno parties, you could either wear baggy pants with suspenders and cute little tops, or short shorts with cute little tops. Since I didn’t have baggy pants, they cut my jeans into Daisy Dukes, lent me a pair of cowboy boots and a tube top, and I was ready to go. None of us had cars or knew how to drive, so we made some phone calls looking for a ride, but there were no takers, so we headed out to the party on foot.

It seemed like we walked for hours through different residential and insdustrial neighborhoods, finally ending in a warehouse district. We followed the sound of heavy bass to where the promoters had broken into an abandoned warehouse. Once we knew where the party was, Letty and Claudia decided we needed to get some drinks before going inside. We found a liquor store and the girls got some guy to buy us each a 40 of Mickey’s. While we drank, Claudia told us how she’d kicked it with Everlast from House of Pain after a concert a few weeks earlier. They’d spent the night drinking Mickey’s and she was convinced it was the best malt liquor around.

It was two weeks before my 14th birthday, so the girls dedicated their first 40s to me and Letty, who would be turning 20 the following week. Once the beer was gone we paid our $5 and went into the party. I realized walking in that I didn’t know how to dance yet. I’d never been to a dance party before and certainly wasn’t prepared to show off up on a go-go box, but there I found myself, thick little thighs and nalgas hanging out of my Dukes, stomping along to some deep house song I’d never heard. In those days, you could always count on one of the DJs playing Tainted Love, and we danced to that too. Our love of KROQ was a symbol of us not being ghetto. Sure we listened to HipHop and House on Power106, but we also knew our Cure, Smiths, and Berlin.

Sweating, buzzed, feeling more grown up and having more fun than I ever anticipated, I still had to pee like crazy. 40 ounces of malt liquor goes through a 13 year old bladder like malt liquor through a seive, and I quickly learned that party girls don’t need no stinking bathrooms. No, we were worldly, rebel women who could pee in the bushes just like the boys. We were squatting behind a white, tagged up delivery truck when we first heard the popping sounds. We paused in our peeing, “Are those fireworks?”

“Maybe it’s coming from inside.”

And louder, closer, guns started blasting everywhere. We didn’t stop to drip-dry, just pulled up our tiny little shorts and ran, and ran, and ran, fiercely clinging to each other’s shirts and hands so we wouldn’t get separated in the crowd.

We stopped at a fence. Nowhere else to run. Behind the fence a field of cobalt blue runway lights stretched as far as we could see. “Where are we?”

Tonie sat on the curb, crying. “Where’s my brother? You guys have to find Eddie. He can’t be back there. Oh my god, what if he got shot?”

“He didn’t, he was inside, I’m sure he ran like everybody else. We’ll look for him once the crowd dies down.”

“Oh my god, what if the cops got him? Look, see who they’re arresting. Is that Danny Lugo? Eddie was with him.”

We prayed, we worried. I already had a reputation for predictions because one night I’d had a bad feeling about going out and the party we’d gone to had gotten raided by the cops. So everyone looked to me to see if I thought Eddie would be ok. “He’s fine. Nothing happened to him. We should just stay here for a while, then look for him if he doesn’t find us. Do you guys know where we are? What airport is this?”

“I don’t know. How far did we walk? Maybe we’re in San Fernando or Sylmar.”

“How are we gonna get home?”

“We’ll have to get a ride.”

“From who?”

“We’ll just have to get one. Don’t worry, I’ll get us home.” Letty always knew what to do.

“O.K.”

And she did. We waited for a long time. A cop came along and asked what we were doing. We didn’t run, figuring we had a good excuse. Tonie explained that we’d gotten separated from her brother and were waiting for him to find us. “You need to get going. It’s past curfew. I’m not gonna call your parents, but you need to go ahead on home now.”

So Letty got us a ride. She flagged down some guys in an Oldsmobile and sweet talked them. Asked if they’d give 5 cute girls a ride home. When he asked what he’d get in return, she said he’d get the honor of giving 5 cute girls a ride home. He laughed, said we’d have to pile on laps (the car was already full). So we sat on his friends’ laps and got home, where Eddie was waiting for us and watching a re-run of S.T.U.D.S. on channel 9. We ran to the fridge, heated tortillas on the stove and spread them with peanut butter and jelly, ate and fell asleep like little angels with our make-up on.

On the plane, looking out, I realized how close we’d been to home that night, how close the good neighborhoods are to the bad ones, and what a thin line there is between the little raver girl who found safety in those runway lights, and the woman who was flying over them.

Outbound

The number 38 bus is almost always full. After work, Lydia walks two blocks east to Stockton to catch the outbound coach. She finds a seat in the front section of center-facing seats reserved for seniors and persons with disabilities. A recorded voice reminds her that she will need to vacate her seat if any such people board the bus.

She settles in, relieved to be off her feet for the long, cross-town trip, then hears one young man ask another, “Hey man, what’s that stand for? I always forget.”

“My sweatshirt? It’s USSR in Russian: CCCP is Russian for USSR.”

“Oh, right, right.”

“Yeah, you have no idea how much shit I get for wearing this thing. It’s like, it’s just a fuckin’ sweatshirt, you know?”

“Sure, sure man, I can see that. But you know, people are ingnorant, right?”

“Right?!”

The older woman to Lydia’s left interjects, “Now you know you wear that shirt exactly so that folks will give you a hard time. You ain’t wearing that to not get noticed, now are you? Mm hmm, I got your number.” The young man ignores her, flashing a look at his inquisitor. She continues, addressing Lydia, “I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding, but you know as well as I do what he’s really looking for.” Lydia remains silent, breathing in slow, shallow wisps, trying to adjust to the viscous smell of breath, body, stale beer, and soiled underpants.

After a while, the passengers with the farthest destinations quit counting stops and simply ride along. Some busy themselves with books and magazines, as much for the distraction as for inhibiting conversation. Lydia has forgotten her compulsory prop today, and rides unarmed against unsolicited chit chat.

“Look at this! It’s like iPod Nation up in here!” exclaims the woman to Lydia’s left. “Little white earplugs, everyone’s got little white earplugs.” She goes on in response to Lydia’s silence, “Oh, you must not wanna talk today. Mm hmm, I see.”

A teenager in an oversized sweatshirt gets on at the intersection of Geary and Jones and begins tagging the inside of the bus’s window with a yellow Mean Streak marker. He overhears the conversation from across the aisle and shouts, “Nobody wants to talk to your crackhead ass!”

“Nobody wants to talk to my crackhead ass? I don’t see nobody wanting to talk to your punk ass either. Disrespectful motherfucker.

“Ah, Babygirl, I know you know what I mean. You see that boy across the aisle, calling me names: You think you can trust him because he’s saying what you think, because he thinks what you think. But how do you know you can trust what you think? You see an old woman on the bus, you think ‘Listen to this crackhead telling me what’s wrong with the world! What’s wrong with the world is crackheads!’ You think I’m after money, think you can make me go away with money. I tell you what: I’ll take your money. And I’ll go away if you want. But you won’t. You’ll be here all the way to 37th Avenue, and you’ll be back again tomorrow. And I’ll see you come and go. Yes, I will.”

The recorded voice reminds passengers on crowded busses to always protect purses and wallets. Lydia makes a subtle physical adjustment in compliance with this instruction. The woman encourages her: “Go on, make yourself comfortable!

“I tell you what the real problem is: the children of Cain have lost their way. You – you’ve cozied yourself right on out to the edges: satellite pictures of the crevices and hovels, the oceans and the forests. Hmph! Those pictures’ve driven the edge-dwellers into the center, and now the march-steppers have no place to walk – and you wonder now why they ride the bus with you. You take their safe place, they’ll take yours. Yes, Babygirl, they’re here, already, even though they’re not meant for this place. The Lord put them where he intended and you’ve gone and driven them out into the daytime world where they do not belong. Yes, indeed, the march-steppers have lost their walking-place, lost their hiding-place.

“You don’t believe me. That’s ok. You’re afraid of me, but you know what I mean. And you know it’s true. You’ve lost track of who’s crazy anymore. I know. You think that’s your problem. Your problem is you don’t trust how very sane I am.”

“Please exit through the rear doors,” implores the recorded voice.

Near Divisadero the woman takes on a more intimate tone with the girl to her right. “It’s the monsters I’m talking about. You know this. I’m asking you, who do you think your monsters are? They’re the same monsters that have always been. All the monsters in all the stories: they’re real. They’re still here, too, only now they got no place to rest, thanks to you. They are unconfined, you see? They needed to be confined. You need them to be confined. You look like a smart girl. You know who Cain is? All the monsters that walk the earth: they’re of the same bloodline, you know. And the Lord placed them where he saw fit, at the edge of the world. Where is the edge now? Where’re they gonna live now that you’ve blown the forest up with all its secrets clear as day? You don’t need to see the secret places! You have no business in the secret places! Shouldda let mysteries be mysteries.

“Motherfucking satellites! Taking pictures of us in our sleep! They have the license plate of this bus right now broadcast on the computer for all the world to see. What do you think you’re safe from? You think you’re safe from me? I’m the one – I’m the one who’s not safe. I know.

“You! I got your number, too, mother fucker!” She shouts to the boy across the aisle who has begun freestyling a song about crackheads and fellatio.

“Babygirl, I see you getting ready to leave. You’re gonna get off here today and call up your girlfriend and tell her, ‘That same ol’ cooky crackhead was at it again today. Batty as all-get-out, talking about monsters and shit.’ Mm hmm, I know, ‘Now how am I gonna explain just how goddamn batty this old bitch is?’ Tell her I sat too close to you, that’s how you knew I was crazy – no sane person sits this close to a stranger. But I’ll tell you what: you are no stranger sweetheart. I saw you yesterday, and I’ll see you tomorrow. See you every day til the end. Every day til the end. I’ll see you, too, you little punk-ass motherfucker! Yeah, you! ‘Watch the Lord beat you down good, yes. With your sick lil’ self thinkin’ ‘bout laying hands on me… mmm, see the day the Lord lays hands on you and slits you from your navel to your neck. Oh, it’s coming! Yes, and when the Lord speaks, he will speak to the multitudes, and the multitudes will hear!”

Lydia gathers her things and makes her way to the rear doors two stops early. She steps down when the green light flashes.

A History of Valleyness: Duke of Earl

I often wonder if there's much difference between growing up in the suburbs and growing up in the city. I grew up in a place that was a little of both: The Valley. Here's a slice of life from the Val.

One schoolnight in 6th grade, my friend Lisa, who was in all respects my partner in crime, invited me to my first kickback. A kickback, I quickly learned, is an informal gathering in someone's living room or back yard, or sometimes in an abandoned house. This first kickback was at our friend Tonie's apartment in an area of North Hollywood that was run by a gang called Valley Locos. Valley Locos was a lesser known neighborhood, but were cliqued up with larger gangs, so they had a fair amount of street cred at our elementary school. The boys we were hanging out with were between 12 and 15, but they had older homeboys, so we knew they were legit.

Tonie invited us over to watch Duke of Earl, a movie by Victory Outreach Church that offers a fictionalized account of gang culture on the streets and in prison, and draws special attention to the risks inherent in the lifestyle and the benefits of finding Jesus Christ to be one's personal Lord and Savior. We weren't looking for Jesus. I think we were mostly looking for fashion tips and to see which scenes were filmed in places we knew. Tonie's aunt, who kicked it with Pacoima 13, had made her a copy on VHS, and also left half a bottle of Crown Royal for us to drink while we watched. The boys, Payaso, Klever, and Shadow brought a couple of joints and it was on.

Before the boys got there, we fired up the curling iron, applied a liberal coating of Aquanet and lined our lips with Maybeline eyebrow pencil in Dark Brown. We looked hard. We looked street. We looked sexy. We were twelve. Lisa and Tonie were hoping to scam with the boys, and I was hoping to get through the night without anyone calling me a schoolgirl. I was the youngest in the group, had the most protective mother, and was, for the moment, the furthest from dropping out of school. I had also never kissed a boy, and wasn't really sure if "scamming" meant "making out" or "boning."

After saying our "what's ups", we put the tape in the VCR, passed the bottle of Crown around and sparked a J, and by the time Cisco got out of prison, we were spinning the bottle on the floor and taking turns throwing scams in the kitchen. I postponed my 7 minutes in heaven as long as I could, fearing that the boys would tell everyone at school that I didn't know how to kiss. But as Cisco stabbed Duke under the bridge downtown, Payaso put his hands on my hips, lifted me up onto the kitchen counter, and licked my clench lips. It took me a minute, but by the time the credits rolled I had figured out the whole kissing thing and was macking like a puta on prom night.

When I was a kid, I thought we were unique, bad-asses, living a fast life. I assumed the other kids in school were in their bedrooms doing homework at a desk instead of a coffee table and planning for college while we ran around being little traviesas. And I felt both guilty and proud of this. I've realized that the suburban girls were fooling around, too, maybe without the funny nicknames and big hair. But while I'm certain they had plenty of burgundy lipstick to lure their boys to the mack-down, I know they didn't have our soundtrack of killer oldies to set the mood.

Note: Don't ask my where our parents were during all this. I'm saving that info for another post. It's enough to say they weren't there.