Reno, Nevada

It was five-thirty a.m. in Reno, Nevada. The biggest little Shithole on Earth. Lunkhead had played a show earlier and had wandered into this casino for the cheap breakfast buffet. We stopped to try our luck on the nickle slots (choice of the world-class loser) before the feast. My head was swimming and I felt like I was in slow motion. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours and had lost my last dollar before the show in a vending machine. A city chock full of people losing their last dollars on flips of the cards, rolls of the dice, and pulls of the slot arm, and I lost mine to a crooked Pepsi machine. The house always wins.
Pete was as hot as you can get on a nickel slot and seemed to never lose. It went on and on, and I slumped down in the machine opposite him. There was a woman behind us, whom I was now facing, who was the living embodiment of the term 'slot jockey'. She was more than a slot jockey, though, she was a slot Goddess.
Manning THREE machines at once, she moved like an orangutan. Her long, puffy arms snaked around rythymically. Sliding back and forth, in and out, shifting and swaying, sliding in tokens and pulling back arms, she was a master at work. It was glorious, hundreds of pounds of loose flesh rolling to and fro beneath a flimsy housedress. She danced to a music that only she could hear, like a perpetual gambling machine.
I stared at her, getting more and more entranced. This woman had done something most of us could only dream of. She had found her ONE TRUE CALLING. Everyone seeks their true calling, everyone wants to find that one fucking thing that they do better than anyone else. And Slot Goddess had done just that, right here right now, amidst the neon lights, oxygen-enriched air and the tang of losing.
Suddenly, something went wrong. Drastically wrong. Slot Goddess stopped abruptly and leaned in to study one of the displays. She tapped it a couple timkes, then started punching it. Then she let out a howl, leapt to her feet, and began to slam her body into the machine. I stood up in disbelief as she rammed herself into the offending machine over and over like a defensive lineman hitting a two-man sled. By the time the men in suits were able to claw her off the stingy slot machine half the casino was watching this human tragedy unfold.
It took five huge mooks to finally drag the screaming, crying, shrieking Slot Goddess away. It was sad, I really felt for her. You can't just stifle a person's gift like that. She got hosed. She probably got hosed all the time, but this was different like taking away Picasso's brush, or Michaelangelo's chisels, or Ron Jeremy's cock.
We didn't really feel like being there any longer and decided to move on. Pete pocketed his winnings of eighty-five cents and we shuffled out into the electric blue dawn.

A and B and C

The summer before eighth grade was one of the strangest of my life. It was before I discovered skateboarding and punk rock and made the friends that I would keep to this very day, but I had become too old for my G.I. Joes and Star Wars toys. My best friend was Mark who had moved to California during the winter, leaving me and Paul to go it alone on our block. Paul was from Thailand and the only thing we really had in common was Mark, but we each had noone else. Well, we had our families, but I only had sisters and Paul only had one sister and some really freaky parents. They had drinking glasses with naked men and women on them and gutted fish in their driveway. Also, when you ate over, they used kleenex as napkins. So, we played catch with the football and looked at the drinking glasses and lamented the loss of Mark and all the games that had now been rendered unplayable with only two participants.
One morning I was bored and wandered down to Paul's house and a tall, angry looking thai teenager opened the door. I asked if Paul was home and he looked at me like I had snot on my face. "Paul? PAUL?" He walked away without a word, leaving the door hanging open. I leaned in and there were two more of them. Also teenaged, also pissed-off looking. Huh. I went around back and found Paul and his mom gutting fish from a pail. I asked who the kid who answered the door was. Paul said that it was his cousin. What's his name?, I asked. We just call him 'A', Paul answered. Does he have a real name, I asked. Paul said that he did but it was long and weird, so they just called him 'A'. At the time, this made perfect sense, but looking back I wonder since these kids were thai and Paul was thai, could the name really have been that difficult for him?
I watched Paul's mom for a while, she would grab, slice, and gut the fish in one fluid motion, a real pro. I was always real curious about Paul's parents. They were obviously horny as hell, but they were also ugly as sin. Constantly sweaty and covered in zits, they were always barking orders at Paul in thai. They didn't seem to like anything, let alone sex, but noone serves Kool-Aid to company in glasses like THOSE unless you were way into sex. The little sister was cute as heck and would develop into quite the little sexpot quickly, making me think Paul's mom musta been fine in her day, but watching her fling fish guts across the lawn I found that hard to picture.
Paul asked me if I wanted to play soccer with him and his cousins. I hated soccer then and I hate it now, but the fish guts smelled rank in the summer heat and we had nothing else to do so I said yes and he trotted up the back steps to get the others while I tried to look down Paul's mom's polyester blouse. She never, ever said one word to me. I don't know if she was physically capable of speech. Every time she had something to say she'd walk over and whisper into their ears. Maybe that's why Paul's horny dad liked her.
Now, when I was a kid growing up in middle America, soccer was a game wimps played to avoid getting hit while playing football, the official sport of our neighborhood. Which was yet another reason to mourn Mark's moving; he was always the pro-football swing vote. I sighed and tied my shoes as Paul and his cousins came trotting down the stairs.
Since we had five players, we recuited Patty to play goalie for our team, agreeing that the two youngest players would be the goalies. What are the other two kids' names, I asked Paul. The middle one is called 'B' and the youngest is 'C', he said. Of course.
I'd never met anyone who was actually good at soccer before, it had seemed to me like being good at lawn jarts or something, but they scored two goals so quickly I had barely moved from the spot on the lawn I'd started in. I caught Paul's mom smirking at us as A banged goals off the fence so hard I thought it would go right through it. Patty dove out of the way, shrieking, and I was super glad not to be the youngest. The ball didn't come near me until we were down four to nothing so I figured I'd better put a little American whoop-ass on these guys and started up the field. I took about three steps up the field and was lining up what would surley be a cannonball of a shot when I got plastered from behind by a lightning-quick B. I skidded into the fence and rolled over as they ran past me, laughing and passing the ball between them, ending with A booming another goal off the rickety wooden fence, actually cracking a couple slats this time. Patty wascowering in the corner, watching the action between her fingers.
It went on like this for a while. They would, push us down, blindsiude us, trip us, laugh at us, and bang goal after goal off the fence like a goddamn wrecking crew. Finally me and Paul joined Patty in the garden, out of harms way, and they got bored and wandered off. I went home and vowed never to play soccer against anyone except Americans ever again.
A couple days later I was at the beach with my sisters when we ran into a couple kids I knew from school. They asked if I knew these chinese kids that had beaten them up. Yes, I do, but they're thai, I said. Apparently they'd caught Tom outside of Spot-Lite, a local mini-mart type place we went to for candy and baseball cards and shit, and had beaten him up and took the money right out of his pockets. I felt lucky to have gotten off just having my ass kicked on the soccer field.
That's how it went for the rest of the summer. A and B and C would wander the neighborhood, beating up local kids for no apparent reason, jabbering at them in thai and stealing whatever they had. Apparently my friendship with Paul had bought me some kind of immunity. I'd see them riding by on someone elses bike or eating someone elses candy and they'd just glare at me. I never said a word to them, just looked down at my shoes until they were gone. Then one afternoon, my little sister Corinne came home and told me they'd stolen her bike while she was swimming at Battershall beach. Shit. I was gonna have to face them for sure. I spent the rest of the day trying to devise a plan that would result in getting the bike back without getting destroyed by A and B and C.
That night I went over to Paul's after dinner and asked if he wanted to play catch. We hung out in the front yard while A and B and C watched TV, ignoring us. They had zero interest in every sport except soccer and ass-kickings. When it got too dark we went inside and hung out in the basement drinking Kool-Aid out of naked lady glasses and watching the A-Team on TV. When I was leaving I made it a point to leave through the garage and unlocked the side door on my way out.
I went home and Corinne asked me if I'd gotten her bike back yet. Not yet, I told her, just be cool. She was a little girl and was never cool and she told me if I didn't get it back soon she'd tell dad and then I'd really be in trouble, both for being friends with a family of theives and being too much of a wimp to stand up to them. I assured her I'd handle it.
That night I lay in bed waiting for everyone to fall asleep then waited a half hour and climbed out my bedroom window and shimmied down the drainpipe as quietly as I could. It was a Wednesday night and deathly quiet on the block as I crept down the street to Paul's house. I hid in the shrubs outside and listened for signs of life. I could her the angry yammering of Paul's dad, but not A or B or C, so I figured he must be talking to his mute wife. I decided to make my move. I crept around to a side yard and hoped noone had noticed I'd unlocked the door. I grabbed the knob and turned it as gently as I could and it popped open. I slipped into the garage and saw Corinne's bike and wheeled it carefully to the door, making sure not to bump into anything. I set it on the lawn outside and closed the door without taking a breath.
I jumped on the bike and was about to ride away when I heard voices coming down the street, peering around the corner I saw A and B and C in the streetlight. Shit! This was bad. I was caught between houses and they'd see me for sure when they went to the front door. There was only one way out. I picked up the bike and threw it over the fence into some bushes, then jumped over after it, trying to be as quiet as possible. I ran through Paul's backyard and threw it over the next fence, then jumped over again. I did this the whole way down the block, hopping the fence, tossing the bike, hopping the fence again. I moved quickly so if anyone heard me I'd be into the next yard before they got to their window. I reached the end of the block and looked around the side of the house I was next to, and saw the trio entering Paul's front door at the opposite end of the block. I raced back up the street to my own house and snuck in the back door, stashing Corinne's bike under a tarp in the yard so I wouldn't wake my parents opening the garage, then snuck upstairs to bed, exhausted.
School started soon after, and just as quickly as they'd appeared A and B and C disappeared. I didn't see Paul much after that, my birthday was right around then and my parents got me a Variflex skateboard. I just didn't have much to say to Paul after that. I started hanging with a crew of guys from another block and running the streets more. One night towards winter I was skating home at dusk when I went past Paul's house and in the front yard were three teenaged thai girls playing jumprope with Patty. Hey Patty, I hollered, who are those girls? Oh, she called back, they're my cousins, A and B and C. I laughed and pushed on home.

Land Race

It was a perfect midwestern summer night and I was working my job as a delivery truck driver for the local newspaper. The kinda night that makes you wish the sun would never come up, never bring the heat and humidity. Windows down, Art Bell on the radio, I whisked through my route in near-record time, spurred on by the fact that it was my last night of work before our band, Lunkhead, left on tour on Wednesday. I didn't even have to wait for our roommate/roadie Dave to finish his route because he'd borrowed Ron's car, so I could just drop off my empty company van, walk across the street to where I'd parked the band vand, and bail home.
As I crested the hill on Washington street, the sun glistening off Lake Michigan, I saw that the cops had cordoned off Sheridan road, the street our barn was on. Hm. I cut over and hopped on the Amstutz to come the back way in. As I passed the garage I could see that there'd been an accident right in front of the barn doors. There were cops everywhere and a couple smashed-up cars strewn about. I squinted against the morning brightness, and I wasn't positive, but it sure looked like our band van was a little farther forward in the spot than I remembered parking it. My stomach jumped into my throat as I raced down the side street and into the alley up to the garage, and between the buildings I could see that Ron's car looked askew also.
I squealed to a halt in the parking lot and ran through the building to the front and the commotion. As I raced through the office my boss Tim called out to me but I burst through the doors and onto the street, hoping my eyes had decieved me.
Fuck. They hadn't. And it was worse than I thought. The vans front end was gone and the side of Ron's car was caved in, both cars, along with two others I didn't recognize, were completely demolished. One guy was just sitting in his totalled station wagon, arm on the door, apparently waiting for someone to get his door open so he could get out. The other car was empty and there were cops all over the place, but no Waukegan cops.
My first reaction was anger. We had a fucking rock tour to go on, dammit! Who the fuck did this?!? I jogged up to a group of Zion cops.
"What the fuck is going on?!?" I hollered at them.
One broke away and walked over to intercept me.
"Uhh, sir, please remain calm, there's been a fatality." he said in a hushed tone.
What? A fatality? Who? How?
The cop pointed at the guy waiting to be let out of his station wagon, and he was not waiting for anything, he was dead.
It was crazy, though, no visible blood. He didn't even look like he was in pain. That only made it worse. They huustled me back into Tim's office.
We spent the next few hours filling out forms and getting bits and pieces of the story. The reason that all these were outa town cops was that this high speed chase had started up in Kenosha and screamed down the straightaway of Sheridan Road through Zion, Winthrop Harbor, and Beach Park before t-boning this poor couple on their way to their jobs as nurses at the local hospital. They were only three blocks away.
It also turns out that the guy who did it was alive and well and in custody. He was an escaped mental patient. An honest-to-God escaped mental patient. He'd stolen a car and was delusional. Later in court, he'd say he didn't know the cops were CHASING him, he thought he was in a "Land Race" and if he won the race he'd get some land. I don't know anyone who has ever heard of a land race.
So, with the tour hanging by a thread, Dave and I walked home in a daze to break the news to Ron. Both totalled vehicles were in his name. Ron had lost two cars without even getting out of bed. Ouch.
Ron took the news surprisingly well and we sat and drank coffee and let it all sink in. We'd lost the only two working vehicles in our household. Our band was scheduled to leave on our next tour in mere days. Things looked bleak.
But as usual, we were at our best when the pressure was on. First thing monday morning, we were working the phones, grilling the insurance company and resceduling the first couple shows. Two days and about a hundred phone calls later (Ron was great, he was really pouring it on to everyone at the insurance company, "Do you know what this is doing to our REPUTATION?"), a terrified little woman from the insurance company was dropping off a check at our slanty shanty on 10th street in the heart of the wrong side of the tracks. Within hours we were standing in some rednecks driveway in Antioch while Blackjack checked out an 84 Dodge Ram van and haggling over the price.
Shortly we were cruising down the country roads, smoking a celebratory joint in our captains chairs (no more sitting on the floor around the burn hole in the carpeting for us!). We built a hutch in back, packed it up, kissed our chicks, and soon Wildwood was receding in the rear view mirror.