Photo by Jim Coit

“Listen, babe, I know how to handle these winos."

Racial violence is not an aberration. It may not be fashionable to admit, and it doesn't excuse it if you do, but the fear, hatred, or quiet apprehension people experience in racially foreign territory can’t be easily denied. Although these stories may have little more value than to serve as a map for racial paranoids, they are not fabricated. This is a record of things that happened to people I know or know of, and that’s all it’s supposed to be. All names and some details have been changed to protect the implicated.

“I thought you could handle them."

Photo by Jim Coit

Gail's First Six-Pack

Gail was in a state of contagious giddiness. She had just turned twenty-one and was excited about the prospect of using her new membership in the alcohol-at-whim club to purchase her first legal six-pack of beer. For more than a year she had been dating Esteban, a Logan Heights resident for all of his twenty-two years, but her presence remained an eyebrow-raiser. It may seem like faulty logic to benevolent liberals of the “we’re all brothers and sisters” persuasion, but a blond, fetching white woman like Gail is a rare sight on the borderline between “Shelltown” (south of 38th Street and National Avenue) and “Little Watts” to the north. If a cracker is spotted in the Heights, the immediate response is that “they musta caught the wrong bus”

He slid down the stairs, located a flushed urinal, and surveyed the walls for any recent racial slurs.

Photo by Robert Burroughs

In the time she’d been dating Esteban, Gail had experienced little difficulty visiting him. Sure, she had to endure fish-eyes from his neighbors, but he assured her that this was the natural reaction. Since there seemed to be no reason to doubt his sincerity. Gail made a point of going with him to his local liquor store on her birthday.

Gail’s relatives often jokingly cautioned her that she should watch herself when she went “down there.” Her brother told her that the spooks and the hard-core beaners would like nothing better than to get their hands on a pretty little white throat

Bob pulled the imitation-diamond-studded switchblade he bought in Tijuana and tried to stick it in Jose’s throat.

Photo by Robert Burroughs

When she told Esteban this, he’d laugh and insist that such sentiments only proved how white people had constructed a romantic notion of the Heights as San Diego’s token ghetto. There wasn’t anything different about the neighborhood. Besides, it was his turf.

Esteban was half-drunk when he agreed to ride with her to the liquor store. Otherwise, he never would have let her drive her mother’s new Mazda into the glass-bathed parking lot. It’s too bad she couldn't smell the half-pint of vodka he was disguising with Dentyne, Lavoris, and practiced sobriety.

“Listen, babe,” he reassured her as she drove the car between a chorus line of drunkards, “I know how to handle these winos. Most of ’em have been there since seven o’clock this morning. They’re too loaded to worry about. Ail anybody has to do is act bad, front ’em off, call their bluff, and they go away. Just watch.”

Esteban got out of the car regretting his spontaneous bravado. He was familiar with such Saturday night situations. The way he told it, he thwarted multitudes of dangerous drunks by merely tilting his head, allowing an unlit cigarette to dangle from his lips, and strategically pulling his identifying mark—the ragged red, white, and green wool hat he wore when he walked through the neighborhood—slightly over his eyelids. He managed to hide the fact that his macho act was completely cosmetic. Each time he went to mail a letter or buy booze, anxiety would overtake him. But before tonight, fortune always went along for the walk. No one had ever called his bluff.

It was busier than he could remember it having been before. The half-drunk became totally paranoiac; his credibility was on the line. He wasn’t wearing his hat because Gail thought it looked stupid, and without his prop, Esteban felt like Popeye minus spinach. He bit his lip and cursed himself for bragging so much to Gail.

Esteban put an arm around Gail and glanced at the dozen or so black teenagers and old men and women swigging Thunderbird and bag-enveloped beers.

“Uh, listen babe,” he croaked. “If these niggers start talking shit, just ignore them.”

She looked at him puzzled. “I thought you could handle them."

Hot and cold flashes rushed through his body. “I can, I can. It’s just that there ain't any sense in inviting trouble."

Esteban was trying to look straight ahead, but he could sense the heads turning and the eyes bulging as he pulled open the liquor store door. A short, stalky black punk with an oversized denim cap resting on an oversized Afro patted Gail on the back.

“Hey, mama, what’s happenin’? What it is? Wanna buy some reds?”

Esteban nudged Gail into the store. As she removed the six-pack from the refrigerator, he looked outside and saw the small mob slapping hands and laughing. He knew unfriendly words were going to be exchanged, but he hoped they could make it to the car and be out of the lot before it made any difference.

Gail lifted the bag of beer over her head. “Now I am a woman1.” Esteban put his arm around her again and they made it out the store. The reds salesman approached Gail.

“Hey mama, you wanna buy some reds, some whites, some weed?”

They walked faster, and he paced himself likewise. This time, he grabbed Gail by the wrist.

“Hey baby, want some meat? I hear you white broads really like black meat.”

Esteban pushed him hard enough so that he lost his footing and nearly tripped.

“Don’t touch her, motherfucker!"

“Fuck you, faggot! Get in your ride! You ain’t gonna do shit!”

The punk lunged at Gail, connecting his beer can to her left cheek. She started crying, and the audience moved in for a better view.

Esteban pushed her inside the car and slammed her door. He was so frazzled he didn’t feel his jaw meeting the punk’s fist. He saw a sextet of equally hostile faces coming to the defense of their man. so it’s a wonder he didn’t fall as he leaped into Gail’s already moving car. He doesn't remember, and thinks Gail is exaggerating, but supposedly his hasty retreat almost caused her to hit a hydrant. What was true was that their exit wasn't swift enough to prevent their assailant from offering a parting gift. As they sped off, a full, unopened can of beer exploded on the hood of the car to the refrain.

“Better get your ass outta here, you white-lookin' ho!”

Last Race War In Lakeside

Sid and Allen remained sober about their mission. Sid had decided they weren’t going to be stupid about it. They wouldn’t speed by in a screeching car and pump bullets into the heads of the black gorilla and the fat white bouncer for the whole world to see. They wouldn’t lean on the car, waiting until the bar closed, with two-by-fours in their hands like redneck vigilantes in a B-movie. They were going to settle their business the right way—as soon as they could think of the right way. Sid was absolutely adamant. Allen had to help him think of something. anything.

“Allen, what in the hell do you think I should do? There has to be something. Should we jump him?"

“Oh, Sid. c’mon. let’s just go. There’s nothing we can do. I don’t wanna wait here all night so you can start a fight with that poor black slob. It’s over.”

“What do you mean it’s over? It ain’t over! I ain’t gonna be bounced out of a bar in my own neighborhood for no nigger. All I did...” .

“All you did was start screaming and making a complete ass of yourself just because he was making out with a white slut you don’t know, that’s all. You made a fool of me!"

Sid reclined, watched Allen screaming like a maniac, and couldn’t fathom what he was hearing. It wasn't his fault that the goddamn redneck Klan had caused so much trouble for the nightclub owners. And he didn’t care who sang there; they could have used donkeys for all he cared. But he could not stand seeing a big black gorilla being deliberately obnoxious, and making out with a white woman just to show how he wouldn’t be intimidated by white men. Worst of all, he hated to think he had been bodily removed by white men simply because he gave the gorilla a bit of a hard time. What hypocrisy. And what a hypocrite Allen was. No great lover of mankind. Allen. Just a coward, a long-winded, loudmouthed coward.

“If you want the snot beaten out of you by those studs in there, that’s your funeral. Drop me off. I got a crowbar you can use."

Crowbar. He could give him his .44 if he were some kind of real friend. It was no use. If he couldn’t get any back-up from his best friend, then what was the use of getting the snot beaten out of him?

“All right, pussy, let’s go home. They’ll probably let him hide in there anyway. Hypocrites!”

Brian the gorilla had no idea what the scuffle was about. He didn't go to the club to start trouble. He was curious to see if it was as terrible as the stories he heard and read claimed. But if it was. he had no intention of hanging around to either observe or participate. He found it hard to believe, since he’d never been accosted or ridiculed by white people. Half of the bands he played drums with were white. The one he played with in San Francisco for seven years was white. The clubs he worked in had mostly white clientele. Maybe he was naive, but he thought the race war ended thirteen years ago in Watts.

He couldn't help feeling like an idiot. He and Julie were having a great time. It wasn’t often that he met a woman who knew so much about music—all music, from

Coltrane to JB to salsa to country. She was the first stranger in this city whom he considered a friend after only an hour of conversation. And he didn’t know he was violating an unwritten law when he kissed her. It was a damn shame. One minute he’s kissing a beautiful woman, the next some wild man is going for his throat with a beer mug. He was pleased that the bouncer sized things up quickly enough to save him. Too bad that Julie became leery of a follow-up. No more than five minutes later she was gone.

An empathetic drunk put a friendly hand on Brian's shoulder.

“What happened to your old lady? You send her home?”

“No, my friend, I just don’t know, I guess the trip got a little too heavy for her, you know. It got a little too heavy for me.”

“Well, you know how it is sometimes.”

“Let me tell you, I thought I did. I guess you gotta live and learn. I'm just glad nothing really serious happened, that’s all.”

Brian chug-a-lugged his beer. He guessed there was no reason to linger any longer. Swan song time.

“Ah, what the hell. I think I’ll have a blow-out by myself until they close the place.”

His new friend burped. “Besides, friend, ya’ never know. Those punks might be out there in the parking lot waiting for you. Drink up. Next round’s on me."

Birmingham West

Birmingham Bob was in a nostalgic mood. He put down his torpedo sandwich and walked to the back of the restaurant. Italian restaurants made him wistful. The empty wine bottles hanging from the ceilings, the red-checked tablecloths, the murky lights, the sloppy, grizzled cooks tossing dough in the air, all made him homesick. Bob is a thoroughbred Irishman from Alabama who has no particular affection for pasta, but that fact of origin had nothing to do with his tear-stained love for Italian restaurants. They made him think of Ada. In his twenty-eight years he never loved anyone like Ada. He knew he was a lousy lover, but Ada could make him feel like Warren Beatty. Her father owned an Italian restaurant in Birmingham.

In less than an hour. Bob had downed three beers to his one torpedo, and they were steadily canceling out his ability to function credibly. He leaned over the jukebox so he could sing along to Freddie Fender’s “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” without anybody staring at him. Instead, he found that his dime had been wasted on a moronic soul song. He gobbled the last portion of his sandwich, dropped a two dollar tip in memory of Ada, and got set for another weekend of pretending he was slumming in his home town.

Bob propped himself against a stop sign, his eyes panning the length of the block. Of all the communities in San Diego County that vaguely reminded him of home—Oceanside, El Cajon, Lakeside—National City was the most reasonable facsimile. In fact, the physical similarity astounded him. The go-go joints, the country bars, the lone porno theater, and the Italian restaurant looked as if they had been shipped from his favorite strip back home. Since he had been discharged from the Marines and registered at State College, he spent most of his off-hours in National City.

Bob hung out there, but he never really felt comfortable. Often during the many drunken conversations he drifted in and out of lately, he would start crying for no reason. When acquaintances would ask why he just didn't go home, he'd mock-giggle and say, “Sad memories.” Then he’d realize how maudlin he sounded and change the subject.

The other aspect of life in the Golden State that Bob couldn’t relate to was the effort at racial cooperation. He always felt somewhat proud to admit he was a racist; it made him believe he was a trend-setter. He never understood why people in California tried so hard to mingle with each other; it denied history, biology, reality. But there he sat, wedged between a foul smelling black man and a couple of chunky Mexican broads who couldn’t speak a whole sentence without polluting the English language with a Spanish word or two. And what was worse, the idiot no-neck bartender was giving them free drinks. The phony brotherly love made him spiritually ill, and the fifth beer in his belly made him physically ill. He resembled Dizzy Gillespie as he stumbled to the bathroom, his cheeks stuffed full of regurgitated salami and beer.

The bathroom was occupied. An old black man was emptying his innards through his mouth into the toilet, and a young Mexican was doing likewise in the urinal. Bob couldn’t wait for the chuke or the spook, so he relieved himself in the sink, to the obvious dismay of his lavatory partners. Later for them, he thought. At least he could keep it until he reached the bathroom. Most of the bastards around here wouldn’t have the class to afford the janitor such consideration.

Bob spit out the last of his dinner, turned the faucet on, and let the water flow over his head. He started to blank out but was saved by the fact that he accidentally chose the hot-water knob. He withdrew, looked at himself in the mirror, and was disgusted by what he saw. If anyone had told him several years ago that he would someday be spending his weekends in a godforsaken hick town in California, he would have spit in their face.

Instead, he was spitting into sinks. He ran his comb through his hair without any regard for how it affected his looks. Ada again. He felt worse about his life than ever before. No use dwelling on the past, though. You don't get waitresses in Birmingham pregnant, promise them that you’re joining the Marines so you’ll be in a better position to take care of them, and never answer their letters. You also don’t make your wasted days and nights better by getting drunk to forget. You don’t because the exact opposite occurs—you remember.

But enough with this nonsense. He smiled at his image and promised it that he’d curb his drinking, crack the books harder so he wouldn't lose his G.I. bill, and make enough money to go home and do his people justice.

He walked back into the bar and decided to finish his last beer. The bartender offered him one on the house, but he declined. He lit a cigarette, rested his head and arms on the bar and stared into space. The Mexican who had shared his vomitorium was staring back, but Bob didn't notice.

“What you looking at," he queried. Bob didn’t answer. He was engrossed in the things he vowed to forget and Tom Jones’ version of “Autumn Leaves.” He hadn’t heard it in years, and had forgotten just how beautiful it was.

“Like, what you see, man?"

Bob was in the ozone of reverie. The emotional crescendo was approaching and he prepared himself for the chill he was about to undergo.

Oooh, but I’ll miss you most of all. myyyy dahhhh-rliin, whehnnn autumnnnnn leeee-uhves, begin to fallll.

“Hey, Gomer, what the hell is wrong with you? You trying to be cute?”

The autumn leaves finished falling, and Bob realized he was being confronted. The empty space turned into angry, inebriated eyes.

“Huh?"

“I said, what you looking at? You queer for my gear?"

Bob lifted his head. He thought he would play along with this chuke’s game. He hadn't gotten into a verbal duel in weeks and he thought it might be amusing.

“If I was queer, it sure as shit wouldn't be for you."

“You been staring at me for the last ten minutes, boy."

“No, Chico, you’re sadly mistaken. You don’t do shit for me."

Bob was usually masterful at averting fist fights by feigning sorrow for his unconscious staring bouts, but tonight he was not the least bit apologetic. He took the rest of his beer, poured it on “Chico’s" lap and made his hastiest exit. “Chico,” however, wasn't satisfied by Bob’s finale. He followed him outside.

“Hey, Gomer, nobody fucks with me like that. And if you wanna get back to the ship with your ass still in your pants you better apologize for that ‘Chico’ shit.”

Bob should have apologized, but humility proved elusive this night.

“What’s your name, then, Chico? Jose? Manuel? Pinchi? Puto?

If Bob had stopped with Jose he might have gotten back to his apartment anatomically intact. Jose leaped with the expertise of a professional tackle, and Bob’s head met the door handle of a parked cab. He couldn’t believe what was happening. Jose blanketed him, kneeing his groin, yanking out gobs of his hair, squeezing his neck in a frantic search for pressure points. Bob’s ordeal was being observed only by faces he hated -black ones, brown ones, yellow ones. No one appeared to be rooting for him.

Bob pulled the imitation-diamond-studded switchblade he bought in Tijuana and tried to stick it in Jose’s throat. But Bob didn’t even know how to thrust a knife. Jose jumped off as soon as he saw it and kicked the knife out of his hand.

The next thing that Bob knew was that he was being tossed into the back seat of a police car. As they carted him off, all he could do was offer the classic adolescent excuse.

“Really, man, he started it all."

The jaded offcer gave t he classic Jack Webb shrug-off. “And I’m really finishing it, man”

Mallory and the Apostles of Peace

In the time Mallory had lived downtown, moving from low-class fleabags that offered communal bathrooms and no televisions, to high-class versions with solo toilets and free color sets in every room, he came to the realization that all the fuss about downtown redevelopment was bunk. He hoped they would never restore the “Gaslamp Quarter.” It was the only part of downtown that reminded him of the big cities he fantasized he would someday inhabit. He especially liked seeing honkies mill in front of the porno shops. They always pretended to be looking for lost addresses. When they thought nobody was watching, they would creep into the porn palaces like children raiding unguarded cookie jars. The white boys amused Mallory. They claimed to be concerned about the spread of smut shops, massage parlors, pimps, whores, and street-corner winos because the merchants said it hurt the image of downtown as a reputable marketplace. Jive. They were trying to clean the streets of excess bloods. But it gave him a perverted pleasure to see the cops stopping every black who hung around Horton Plaza for more than three minutes. It pleased him only because he never had to share in the experience. For two months he made a point of staying a comfortable distance from uncomfortable situations. He kept clean — no public drinking, no drugs, no picking-up on streetwalkers, and no hanging around at Horton long enough to be spotted by anyone he knew.

Mallory mapped out his lifestyle impeccably. He was incognito. Six months ago he dealt in “commodities.” He grossed uncounted thousands last year appropriating other people’s CBs, TVs, radios, stereos, tape decks, drugs— anything. But he made a fatal business error: he stole from a white dude he was nearing friendship with, and just like a white boy, he narked. Mallory stayed cool, though. He left home and didn’t tell anyone where he was going to hide. With all the police sweeps and identity checks that had been going on, he feared staying downtown at first. But since he hadn't been discovered yet, he didn’t want to think about the fact that he was down to two hundred dollars and had to drum some business damn soon.

What he wanted was to go to the Plaza Theater and see The Heretic. He’d become quite a film critic since moving downtown. A darkened all-night theater was a marvelous place to maintain anonymity. You could sleep, booze it up by yourself, and learn the art of film. Like a critic, he gauged a film’s worth by who made it, not by who was in it. That’s why he was so excited about The Heretic. He thought the first Exorcist was dumb, but the director of the new one really got down in Deliverance, particularly the part where the hillbilly pumped the fat dude.

After a half-hour, Mallory knew the new movie was not getting down. He took a flask of rot-gut whiskey out of his boot, poured half of it in a large Coke cup, and from then on enjoyed the movie more. It reminded him of one of those flaky Monster Island flicks. He fell asleep halfway through and woke up during the credit sequence of the dud that was with it. He decided he’d seen enough.

Mallory was thoroughly buzzed. He performed a zig-zag jaywalk in front of a slow-cruising policeman, but the cop’s sympathy and/or lethargy allowed Mallory to make it across the street. He walked over to the Horton fountain and scanned the plaza to see if any born-again mental cases were around. The most dependable one, a middle-aged yodeler for Jesus, whom Mallory suspected of being afflicted with elephantiasis, sat in a lounge chair wearing his usual robe and Mandarin bonnet. He was reading his missal in surprising silence. Mallory was disappointed; the warbler could usually be counted on for laughs. He went up to his lawn pulpit and flailed him with pertinent questions about the likelihood of salvation in this sinful world.

“Hey, brother, how come you sit here all the time like a fool? I don’t mean to come down or nothin’, but I never understand why you Jesus freaks do this. Ain’t it a damn drag having people laugh at the problem between your legs?”

The disciple didn’t bother to look up. Mallory persisted with different variations of the same insult, but he drew nothing. He looked around to see if “the man” was gathering around the plaza. He saw one police ambulance in front of the hot dog joint, but they were busy and he was desperate for fun. He grabbed the preacher’s missal and tossed it into the fountain. The reverend said nothing to Mallory, but looked up into the sky and had an impromptu conversation with Him.

“Loooorrrd, thou art merciful. Condemn not this pagan who knows not that the only way to salvation is through Your almighty sufferance.”

Mallory laughed, shook his head, and figured that he had enough fun for one night. The Lord must have pulled a string on Mallory’s heart to move him to fish the holy book out of the fountain. He tossed it to the reverend, who caught it and clutched it close to his chest.

“Later, brother. When Jesse Christ does a turn on my bladder, I never refuse his call.”

Mallory leaned on the iron rail of the underground bathroom and hesitated; he hated going down there. The patrons never learned the customary discipline of toilet flushing, so the place always smelled like an ammonia laboratory. And the decor depressed him. He hoped he’d someday catch some white jerk etching on the stalls, but whenever he was forced to answer nature’s call, he would find only the finished product; a new message about his race’s physical endowments, intelligence level, or sanitary habits. The only persons he ever encountered were decrepit old hoboes and high school kids as nauseated as he was by the stench they were contributing to.

He slid down the stairs, located a flushed urinal, and surveyed the walls for any recent racial slurs. Except for a few indecipherable Chicano slogs, propositioning phone numbers, and latrine limericks, nothing new had been added. He slapped himself with cold water to revive him for his midnight snack at Jack in the Box. He opened his eyes wide, checking in the mirror the development of the sty he hoped he was imagining. In the mirror were two tall, thin white dudes in denim jackets and leather pants leaning motionlessly against the wall. Mallory wiped his face, put on his one-way sunglasses, and attempted to leave. The leather twin with the red tourniquet tied around his head tightly enough to prevent blood from reaching his brain blocked the way with a white cane. Mallory knew instantly that his two-month sojourn from trouble was about to end. He tried to charm his way out.

“What it is, my man. Cans I help you?

“Sure, Leroy. You can explain who the hell you think you are. You ain't in a pack tonight so you better explain. Why were you bothering with that old dude up there?"

Mallory resigned himself to the idea that he wasn’t going to get out of this one easily, if at all.

“Hey, brotha, I was just putting the dude on a little bit. He don’t know any better. I mean, if he’s your partner. I’m real sorry. Just having a little fun, know what I mean."

The defenders of religious dignity weren’t buying it. They had a darkie cornered and alone, and they intended not to waste the opportunity for a little fun of their own.

“It’s a big deal to us, Leroy. You show respect to white men when you ain’t got anybody to back you up, you hear? You niggers think you can get away with anything. We had a couple good friends get beat up by niggers at Pendleton last year. There’s two of us here and only one of you. How do you like those odds, huh, Leroy?"

In his younger days, Mallory would at least have tried to shove the aggressor’s cane down his throat, but this was no time to take the risk. He did the only thing he could. He lashed out and forced the cane man to fall back on his silent partner’s arms. He ran up the stairs with his white adversaries clawing for his heels.

A block away they caught him by the corner of his jacket and the previously withdrawn partner took the cane and applied it to Mallory’s nostrils. It’s anybody’s guess what might have happened if two police cars hadn’t been parked across from where Mallory received comeuppance for his 'private joke.

The Most Likely to Succeed Meets the Most Certain to Exceed

Eddie pretended to be embarrassed, proving himself an excellent actor. His mother was in the middle of the living room, beaming and bellowing. She spoke little English, and the party guests understood little Filipino. But they all knew what she was rattling on about. Not only had Eddie graduated cum laude, but he had been voted “most likely to succeed” and “most congenial” in his high school yearbook. His mother held the annual open and turned clockwise around the room, pointing out every picture Eddie was in. By the third photo everyone deduced there were at least twelve. Eddie knew it was sixteen, but if he were to correct them it would contradict his pose of modesty. He dumped his chin into his hands and gave everyone the “gee, it was nothing” look that was his trademark whenever someone made an “undue” fuss about him.

Eddie was always the boy wonder of the family—the brightest in school, the best in athletics, and the most popular with classmates. The paradox was that he truly deserved all of his good fortune. He had mastered the Willy Loman goal to be “not just liked, but well liked,” without alienating anyone in the process. He wasn’t a fop; he was a really nice guy.

His relatives had all gathered to pay homage to twelve years of uninterrupted scholastic success. The presents piled high on the floor, the kisses rinsed his faced, and the pats were giving him a backache. Eddie received the glory with habitual humility, but still wished it would end. He was anticipating the encore party, this to be hosted by Nancy, his girlfriend since tenth grade. He looked forward to sharing in the celebration with friends instead of remaining the center of it all.

He grew more anxious about leaving after Nancy called to implore him he should come as soon as possible because carloads of their friends had already arrived. He knew she would be livid if he didn’t get there by at least nine. The relatives were dispersing in small bunches; the last of three uncles was searching for stray children and overcoats, so Eddie felt it an appropriate time to remove his cap and gown. He would have shed it hours ago, but his mother insisted that he have it on at the party. He hurried to his room, neatly packed the graduation clothes in a box, slapped cologne on his back, and left at last.

On the way to the party, Eddie couldn’t imagine what he was going to do about Nancy. He eventually planned to marry her, of course, but definitely not until he finished journalism school, and probably not until he got a job at a real newspaper. He hoped she wouldn’t object too strenuously to such a long postponement, but he knew it was for the best. She herself oiught to be seriously planning a career. She was perfectly fluent in Spanish and could easily find work in a bank or tutoring Mexican kids. He hinted this to her a few times, but she never responded with any degree of interest. So at this point he didn't know if she would be going to Mesa in the fall. He didn’t want to annoy her about it tonight, but very soon he was going to sit her down and force her to come to some kind of decision.

He was so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed his gas gauge was past empty. The car chugged to an abrupt stop. Eddie felt lucky that he was able to coast to the curb with no cars angrily urging him on from behind. He knew there was a gas station open on University Avenue somewhere, and that was only about six blocks away. The sooner he got some gas, the less mad Nancy would be. He cursed himself for forgetting he was running out of gas. He didn’t want to miss a minute of the party.

The nearest streetlight was broken, so Eddie couldn’t see the witnesses to his carelessness. Three fifteen-year-old toughs wearing almost identical uniforms of tight T-shirts, baggy khakis, and head-bands, were sitting on a crumbling wall, taking turns with the new toy their leader, Dino, had brought along for them to admire. It was a Saturday night special he stole from his father’s arsenal. He would have taken something bigger, but he knew his old man wouldn’t appreciate it.

Dino lifted the gun to his cheek, lowered it slowly, and pretended to blast a bullet into one of his compadre’s private parts. They were high on reds and on the newly acquired threat their leader held in his hand. Dino was big for his age and was regarded as an up-and-coming terror in the Eastside. He even had a reputation in other neighborhoods for causing trouble with any ese from a different barrio who dared walk through his part of East San Diego. He’d stop strangers frequently to ask them where they came from. If they gave the right answer or looked as if they could take care of themselves and him, he’d offer the regulation handshake and move on. Dino would opt for a fight only when he had a definite advantage. He and his boys were despised in bordering communities. They were looked upon as violent young punks with no class. and though older vatos couldn’t put up with that kid stuff, Dino didn’t worry because he knew he was bad. He loved seeing dudes lie to him in what he considered total fear for their lives. Now he had a gun to instill even greater fear.

Eddie still took no notice of Dino's boys as he hurried back to the car and sloppily poured the gallon of gas into the tank. It was already 9:15; Nancy was going to kill him. Dino noted him. Without saying anything, he sauntered over to Eddie’s car, his toy dangling from his hand.

“Trouble?”

Eddie tried to adjust his eyes to the dark, but he couldn’t make out Dino’s features very well. He thought Dino was a good Samaritan.

“Nah. nah. I just ran out of gas like an idiot. I'm just worried ’cause my girlfriend’s expecting me and I’m late.”

“Why don’t you show some webos? She got you by ’em?”

Eddie still didn’t realize this was a front-off. He thought Dino was just striking up small talk the only way he knew how.

“You know how it is. She’s having a party and I was supposed to be there a long time ago....”

Dino couldn't care less.

“Where you from?”

“Huh?”

“Where you from?" .

Dino’s boys moved in to enjoy the spectacle, and Eddie finally understood. He tried to edge towards the door but the trio moved in closer.

“Where you from?”

“San Diego. I’m, uh. I’m from here.”

“The Eastside. You live around here. Where?”

Eddie wasn’t familiar with the ritual response.

“No. I’m...I’m from Paradise Hills.”

The bunch burst out laughing. Eddie was quivering and had no idea what to do next. He had sense enough to know he had to get out, but didn’t have enough sense to devise an effective way. He heaved himself against the car door and tried to open it. It was locked. He had nothing in his hands except the plastic bottle. For no logical reason other than potential escape, he threw the bottle into Dino’s face. Drops of gas stung one of his eyes. Eddie got his first sight of Dino’s gun when the butt stung his left ear. He got the second when Dino fired a shot into his stomach. The pain and shock were so intense that Eddie didn’t feel his body being used as a stomping ground. He passed out.