Razorcake Issue #20

“Yes, it’s just like that,” I said, “and that
night it just got to be too much. It started off all
right. Dennis spiking my hair, Neto picking us
up and being his usual asshole self. Same shit,
different night, you know? As soon as we got to
the club, though, it felt like one thing after
another started going wrong, like the planets
were aligning in all the worst ways.
“It started with that fat fucking bartender
there. He starts hassling me about my age again,
wanting to see proof I was over 21, and here
comes Neto save the day. The homeboys show
up and for some reason I feel like some kid running
after his big brother – there, but not really
belonging. And I start thinking, ‘Well, fuck, this
is how it always feels, don’t it? Dopey, Dennis’
’cause they still think I’m some dumbass kid.
I’m thinking that even this fool I don’t even
know, high as a kite and swaying in front of me,
doesn’t respect me. I’m thinking it’s always
gonna be this way. I’m thinking about a lot of
things, but most of all, I’m thinking about the
smell that’s oozing off this guy like a cloud of
smoky dog shit. And from somewhere I hear
myself say, ‘Fuck you, scumbag.’ I see him pull
back to drill on me and I just….”
“…blew up,” Nacho finished.
“Yeah. I don’t know if he got the shot off or
not, but I guess the shiner on my eye means he
did,” I said. “One minute he’s getting ready to
let fly and the next minute I’m covered in blood,
Neto and Louie are off the stage and they’re
“Good thing,” I said. “She’d kill us both.”
The cliff by the water tower provided a good
view of everything west of East Los Angeles.
On a really clear day, you could even see the
ocean if you looked hard enough. At night, it
looked like Christmas. We looked out at the
lights of the city, beers in hand, taking it all in.
“How do you feel about what happened?” he
asked after a while. I thought for a minute and
sighed.
“Not too good. Like shit, actually. I mean,
I’ve been in fights before, but I’ve never gone
off like that. I know the guy was a dick, but I feel
like I’m the dick and I don’t know why.”
Nacho took a drink from his beer and pointed
the bottle out at the city. “Let me tell you
So I thought about how screwed up and unfair the world was, how it eats up
the weak and figured, if the world ain’t gonna make things right, fuck it, I will.
tag-along little brother,’ and I’m getting madder
and madder, right? But I don’t say anything. The
guys are teasing me, like they always do, only
this time it’s really grating on me. We go inside
and the music’s going and the slam pit’s churning
and the whole scene is helping to ease things
up. I’m starting to feel better and I’m thinking
that maybe the night’s gonna be all right after
all.”
“And then here comes the drunk guy,”
Nacho said.
“Right, here comes the drunk guy. I’m
standing there watching Neto’s band, waiting to
see if I’m gonna get a chance to sing ‘Cosmetic
Christ’ again like at their last couple of gigs. All
of a sudden someone crashes full-on into me
from behind and lands on his back right in front
of me. I look down and see this big fucker that’s
at least twice my age, laid out with an empty
plastic cup still in his hand. I’m thinkin’, no
harm, no foul, right? He’s on his ass, I’m cool,
and he didn’t mean anything by it, so I reach
down and help him out. When I get him up, he
looks at me with these glazed, red eyes and says,
‘Pardon me, little boy.’
“I just stood there for a second, stunned,
unable to think of anything to say,” I said. “Then
I notice this smell and I start thinking about the
time the freezer in our garage broke down and
we didn’t know it for a couple of weeks. My
mom had gone out to get one of the packages of
meat she stored in there and came back in with
this funny look on her face. She told Dennis and
me that the freezer was broken and that we had
to clear it out before the repairman came, so we
went out there with a bucket and some sponges.
I opened the freezer door. Have you ever
smelled rotting meat before? It’s a really sweet
smell, so sweet it makes you want to vomit. I got
blasted in the face by this smell when I opened
the door and I tried to hold my breath, but the
smell only got worse, like it was making its way
through my skin or something. I ran round the
side of the garage and threw up everything I had
in my stomach and, a few seconds later, Dennis
was right next to me. I never forgot that smell
and, I swear, that’s what I was smelled that
night.
“Soon enough I realize that what I’m
smelling is not rancid meat, but this drunk fuck’s
breath, mixed in with cheap cologne and stale
Marlboros. I’m thinking about that bartender
who fucks with me every time I go to that club.
I’m thinking how no one takes me seriously
dragging me to the back of the club. Neto’s
laughing and screaming something at me, but
it’s like he’s speaking in some language I don’t
even know. Then Dennis is there, emptying a
cup of water on the top of my head. Whoosh,
everything comes back into focus, and suddenly
I’m scared, I mean really scared, ’cause I can’t
remember shit, I’ve got all this blood on me but
no cuts anywhere and everybody in the club is
staring at me. Dennis takes me outside to Neto’s
car and tells what he saw. He asks me what happened
and, I don’t why, I say, ‘Nothing, just
some drunk asshole who picked the wrong night
to snap.’ Neto runs out to the car with his keys,
gives them to Dennis and tells him the cops are
coming and he’ll meet us in the alley behind the
car wash. He keeps looking over at me and saying
‘you crazy little fucker’ over and over. Man,
I didn’t know that Gremlin could move that
fast.”
“Dennis said he was pretty freaked out,”
Nacho said, polishing off his last taco. “I think
you scared the shit out of a lot of people that
night.”
“And, see, that was the weird part,” I said.
“Later on, when everybody met up in the alley,
all of a sudden I’m getting mad respect from
everyone, even Neto, who’s still laughing and
telling me ‘you crazy little fucker’ but ain’t hitting
me with ‘little fuckin’ mocoso’ caps like
usual. They’re all going on about how that punk
deserved it for messing with one of the boys. All
these guys who, although they’re friends, never
really paid much attention to me before are suddenly
treating me like I’m a fuckin’ celebrity.”
“Yeah, you’re getting into chingazos has
become the talk of the town, Dopey. You handled
your business without running and hiding
behind your big brother. That shows you’re
becoming your own man, one that deserves
respect from his peers.”
We shared the tacos I hadn’t touched and left
Avalo’s. Nacho picked up a six-pack from Eva’s
Liquor next door. We hopped into his old
Mustang and drove around for a while, cranking
some Minor Threat, before finally ending up by
the water tower up the hill off of Rowan Avenue
as night was settling in. We got out, he placed
the sixer on the hood and pulled two out, handing
me one. I looked at him, surprised. He’d
never offered me so much as a drink before.
“Just this once I think it’ll be all right,” he
said when he saw the look on my face. “I won’t
tell your mom, tough guy.”
something, Dopey. There’s millions of people
out there and they all break down into three categories:
People who don’t feel the need throw
chingazos for any reason, people who hate to
throw chingazos but will when push comes to
shove, and people who enjoy throwing chingazos.
Now, the people who won’t and the people
who enjoy it are pretty much self-explanatory,
but the people in the middle are a little bit harder
to define, which is kinda weird because I
think there’s more of them out there.”
He emptied his bottle, dropped it down the
side of the hill and took another from the pack.
“The funny thing about the people in the middle
is that they’re always talking a mean talk, trying
to make everyone think they’re like these crazy
fuckers that enjoy beating people up. I won’t
even begin trying to explain why they’re like
that, because it really ain’t all that important.
What is important is how they feel inside. They
hate having to deal with all the fighting drama,
all the hurt feelings and the guilt, and wish they
could live like the ones who feel there’s no justification
for fighting over anything.”
“I’m one of those in the middle,” I said, taking
a drink.
“Yes, you are, and so am I,” he said.
“But I always thought you kinda liked fighting,
Nacho. You do it enough.”
“Hate it,” he said. “Fucking loathe it. But the
reason that most of us fight is because of exactly
that: reasons. There’s so many to fight over.
Some people don’t even need a good reason to
go off, but they feel that need; they indulge it
and then feel like shit later.”
“Where do you find so many reasons?” I
asked. “Seems like every week you end up in
some shit with somebody.”
“There’s only ever been one for me,” he
said. “You know things were really bad when I
was a kid, right? My father was one of those assholes
that got his kicks from hurting other people.
He loved it. And he’d always get away with
it, you know? All the shit he put us through, all
the times the pigs showed up at our house, and
not once did anything ever happen to him. When
my mother finally got sick of his shit and we
left, he got to go on doing what he like to
whomever he liked, completely unaffected and
we ended up completely fucked up. It wasn’t
fair.
“Remember Richard, that guy Dennis and I
were friends with in the eighth grade? He was a
really nice guy, smart, shy. But
21
JIMMY ALVARADO