tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31533388716863456982024-02-19T09:07:04.806-08:00the güero chingón chronicles<b><big>stories from the san gabriel valley
</big></b>Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-62564864417277144032012-09-11T18:20:00.001-07:002012-09-11T18:20:44.824-07:00The Olympic Spirit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was the summer of 1984. The Olympics were in town. Everywhere
you looked there were advertisements for the games plastered on bus benches,
newspaper boxes and billboards. Almost all the commercials on TV had something
to do with the games. By the time the torch bearer lit the flame at the
Coliseum, the city was rabid with Olympic fever. My brothers and I were just as
excited as anybody else. But we didn</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;">’</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;">t care about the sporting events. We were psyched about the McDonald’s promotional game called, “If The US Wins,
You Win.”</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
The concept was simple. The cashiers handed out game cards,
no purchase necessary. All you had to do was ask. On the front of the cards was
a round foil medal that you scratched off to reveal an Olympic event. If the US
team won the gold medal in that event, you got a Big Mac. For the silver medal,
you got fries. Bronze, a Coke. </div>
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Of course, we didn’t know shit about politics at
the time, but the Soviet bloc had boycotted the games that year. So the US
team, with very little competition, was kicking some serious ass. This meant
lots of free McDonald’s food for us.</div>
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</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
We ate at
McDonald’s two or three times a day. Each morning we walked the five and a half
blocks to the McDonald’s on Garvey to redeem our winning game cards and get new
ones. In the lobby, they’d set up a board with the results of all
the events. If we were lucky we got a card for an event that had already been
played. Otherwise, we’d add the game card to our collection and wait.</div>
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It was the greatest summer of our young lives. </div>
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Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-70980892075854194712012-09-11T15:40:00.001-07:002012-09-11T16:26:11.994-07:00the güeros<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: 0.2in;">Even though it wasn’t exactly a
barrio, in the Seventies, before the Asians moved in, the part of Rosemead where we lived was predominantly
Chicano. Our street belonged to Lomas. The other side of the
freeway was Sangra territory. Although the gangs weren’t very active anymore—everybody was in jail, too old or shot up to fight like the good ole days—the signs of old
rivalries were omnipresent. Almost any available wall, fence, post, and curb displayed
the remnants of their bitter feud in chicken scratch graffiti. We knew the
chips in the stucco on the front of our house were from stray Sangra bullets aimed
at our neighbor Joker, who used to hide in our crawlspace when the cops came
looking for him. Joker had always been cool to us. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.2in;">We were proud to have been born on Lomas turf, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.2in;">but the kids our age, the
burgeoning cholos, they never let us forget that we were different. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.2in;">They called us the güeros. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.2in;">There
were some old white folks around and the occasional half-breed, but on our
street, we were the only white family. And we weren’t just white. We were
tow-headed, blue-eyed, lilywhite Mormons. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.2in;">From the first day of school, we
weren’t just bullied, we were brutalized. With my baby face and big mouth, I
was an easy target of abuse. I had to start running fifteen seconds before the
final bell just to avoid a farewell knuckle sandwich. It got so bad, the folks
sent us to the YMCA to learn karate. Self defense wasn’t my thing though. So I
learned to run faster, but I kept talking shit like there was no tomorrow. Eventually,
mom finagled a way to send us all to a school in Alhambra, but the upper middle
class kids there knew we didn’t belong. We had the stink of poverty and
ridicule on us. They called us white trash. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.2in;">I learned at a young age that there was no way
to win. </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></h2>
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<!--EndFragment-->Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-57884028774927174232012-09-11T15:36:00.001-07:002012-09-11T16:27:32.585-07:00the freeway wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_CD9TQMRCM1bHYKGSqy60_WRNTsZYA7nORIo8u86TSjwJHTeVHYVgH450rFauqBm9bOb5Zyx2honZWyXsiewAZglFJqgcerT6WXEyjxK5u5kCe01v0Quf2wKhwP5Cjip45PsaptIBEc/s1600/freewaywall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_CD9TQMRCM1bHYKGSqy60_WRNTsZYA7nORIo8u86TSjwJHTeVHYVgH450rFauqBm9bOb5Zyx2honZWyXsiewAZglFJqgcerT6WXEyjxK5u5kCe01v0Quf2wKhwP5Cjip45PsaptIBEc/s400/freewaywall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was born on the San Bernardino
Freeway. Eastbound side. A twelve-foot concrete wall separated our backyard
from the fury of one of the busiest freeways in LA: six lanes going west, six
lanes going east, and down the center, the Union Pacific. Behind the wall,
traffic was a constant roar. During rush hour, the cars crept by, with faulty
mufflers sputtering, transmissions grinding, brakes squealing and stereos blasting. Motorcycles mainlined while sedans idled. Eighteen-wheelers struggled
in low gear. The occasional voices, franticly shouting into the callbox… <span style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.2in;">At
night, the cars came in waves, a few seconds of silence followed by a steady
current of traffic. In the ebb and flow of late night transit, I discovered
infinity, like a strip of gauze stretched taut.</span></span></h2>
Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-49714135384082172302012-09-11T15:21:00.003-07:002012-09-11T17:54:33.086-07:00the wash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">When we weren’t embroiled in an epic game of Ditch ‘Em, we’d ride our BMX bikes to San Gabriel High and climb the roofs. In the empty dirt lots around town, we’d carve out off-road courses with abandoned shopping carts and practice jumps. We’d scale the fence that barricaded the Wash and ride through the concrete channels to Marrano Beach, where we’d play Rambo in the scum-laden, swampy water. And since there usually weren’t enough BB guns to go around, one of us would have to be the human prey while the rest took pot shots from the trees along the bank. -- from </span><strong style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline: none 0px;">The Baudrey Boys</strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br /></span>
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<a href="http://bridgehunter.com/ca/los-angeles/bh37926/" target="_blank">images via</a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br /></span>Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-71822527181758731492012-08-25T13:49:00.001-07:002012-09-11T15:41:09.398-07:00The Red Light Haze of Fury<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IRyHQSjqaStRBk6XWtcFWTUIJdgN3A7mVhqV4wsXiaB9sprcfwRPMALe90m6jF-JXkfLJcVi05Uq3bIE9TtHX0XD-Qvt4yhQw-3y5ahuHJZ2RpKjsCqDIVM2PAphLVsWXYE6W3zKgcw/s1600/pillsbury_sample.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IRyHQSjqaStRBk6XWtcFWTUIJdgN3A7mVhqV4wsXiaB9sprcfwRPMALe90m6jF-JXkfLJcVi05Uq3bIE9TtHX0XD-Qvt4yhQw-3y5ahuHJZ2RpKjsCqDIVM2PAphLVsWXYE6W3zKgcw/s400/pillsbury_sample.jpg" width="382" /></a></div>
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<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
From "<a href="http://piltdownlad.tumblr.com/post/30189937121/the-pillsbury-cholo-from-the-zine-piltdownlad-1">The Pillsbury Cholo</a>"</h2>
Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-82103053550303488782012-08-25T13:38:00.001-07:002012-09-11T18:05:22.343-07:00In Case You Are Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisTZLhHqN7c1g9FAYwP-VvDYrvHNJzO8NjREbYeqN9D3GmagMUdeQpXoYuBo_9c4WtD4cbuV9tkfXATVTqFumXGgK_0RLRBf-sYE7XpqFdhTMy-l9E17FhYX4Ub_Cap2KpeIEa2KVHstA/s1600/map_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisTZLhHqN7c1g9FAYwP-VvDYrvHNJzO8NjREbYeqN9D3GmagMUdeQpXoYuBo_9c4WtD4cbuV9tkfXATVTqFumXGgK_0RLRBf-sYE7XpqFdhTMy-l9E17FhYX4Ub_Cap2KpeIEa2KVHstA/s400/map_web.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Map by Eric Brightwell.Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-6216129872010463552012-08-25T13:24:00.005-07:002012-09-11T18:05:47.845-07:00Chump Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
From <a href="http://www.kellydessaint.com/piltdownlad/2012/01/27/guerochingonstories/" style="background-color: white; color: #4d469c; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; text-decoration: none;">Piltdownlad #1 - The Güero Chingón Stories</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A zine about growing up in the San Gabriel Valley during the 70s and 80s.</div>
</h3>
<br />Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-89424002403125521612012-08-25T13:10:00.003-07:002012-08-25T13:11:06.186-07:00The Güero Chingón Stories - Vol. 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtNXLJh9KoZ6kKj55DGJkDkilIJl-tSF4j7r3fEt5X77jBTk9ysEAQAu5nSn5Yf_yOLJn6QNPrFBMQKUwPgePZGIvN47FhQPJhOcELnOzZbQR8ODas8AubdnraeUO_OsPXdeYUXZES4g/s1600/guero_cover_etsy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtNXLJh9KoZ6kKj55DGJkDkilIJl-tSF4j7r3fEt5X77jBTk9ysEAQAu5nSn5Yf_yOLJn6QNPrFBMQKUwPgePZGIvN47FhQPJhOcELnOzZbQR8ODas8AubdnraeUO_OsPXdeYUXZES4g/s640/guero_cover_etsy.jpg" width="414" /></a></div>
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<h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.kellydessaint.com/piltdownlad/2012/01/27/guerochingonstories/">Piltdownlad #1 - The Güero Chingón Stories</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A zine about growing up in the San Gabriel Valley during the 70s and 80s.</div>
</h3>
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<br />Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-13074442047042624772011-06-14T16:56:00.000-07:002013-03-18T17:54:02.863-07:00the pillsbury cholo<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hP4ydy_QXg3L_Mygt5j5R8ZYOxW2Ff63RJA1ujBRz6kJlyzviVrEyU597iZZ55hFBVkaW-B7flY4hyRn3JlpudOl6QjoA1ySZFXbJeQw3GRVMc2XQ0Q12S6dtTbtEmv6AEsNYZrp5kY/s1600/pillsbury_cholo.jpg" /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">Hector wanted to look tough.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> With his hair slicked back, the bandana low on his forehead, the pressed chinos and the plaid shirt buttoned at the neck, he was the poster boy of cholo severity. But no matter how chingón he dressed, Hector had a face like the Pillsbury doughboy. Regardless of his mood, he was always smiling. To compensate for his cheerful countenance, Hector did everything he could to boost his cred and prove what a badass he really was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> In fourth period wood shop at Keppel High, I watched Hector run circles trying to impress the homeboys in class. He was non-stop talking shit, bragging about the many heinas he’d banged, or the five Sangra locos he took on all by himself. Everybody knew he was a wannabe. But since his uncle was a bigshot in Lomas, doing time for attempted murder at Pelican Bay, they played along. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> I was in no position to judge. I was the only whiteboy in shop class, and with my baby face, I looked like I'd wandered into Keppel from Emerson Elementary by mistake. But even though I kept my distance, I was on the bottom of the totem pole and an easy target.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> The verbal taunts started at the beginning of the semester: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Hey, güero. Weren’t you at the bowling alley last night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “No. What are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Oh, musta been somebody else. You whiteboys all look the same to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Hahahaha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> It was all fun and games until the day I walked into the class just as Hector turned the corner and shoulder blocked me. Not expecting the sudden impact, I fell backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Hector sniggered into his fist as he sauntered away. “Sorry, holmes. Didn’t see you there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> At first, I couldn’t gauge the sincerity in his apology, since his perma smile was the ultimate poker face. So I let it slide. But a few weeks later, I was about to take my seat in class when Hector pulled the stool out from under me. I grabbed the edge of the work table just before my ass hit the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “What the fuck?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Oh, were you gonna sit there?” Hector asked in a high-pitched mocking tone. “Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “He’s punking you, ese,” Sergio told me as we shared the belt-sander. “If you keep taking his shit, you’ll be his bitch all year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Sergio had a point. It seemed like I’d always been in the crosshairs of one mental midget thug after another. Back in elementary school, I got picked on so much I had to start running fifteen seconds before the final bell, just to make it out the door without a farewell knuckle sandwich. It happened so much that I finally lamented my plight to the folks. Their solution was to send me to the Y. But karate classes were on Friday nights, the same time as Dukes of Hazard and Dallas. I didn’t see why I had to miss my favorite TV shows on account of some asshole who didn’t like me because I was born with such contemptible features as blonde hair and blue eyes and a baby face. I had no choice in the matter! Finally, the bullying got so bad, the folks sent me to a school in Alhambra. Not that things were much better there. The upperclass kids had their own methods of keeping the weaker kids down. But at least I was getting my ass kicked on a regular basis anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Since then, the folks split up, and I was back in public school. I didn’t want to spend the next four years getting ragged on by a fat bastard like Hector. So I asked Sergio, “What can I do?” He lived down the street from me. His mom bought Avon from my mom. Sergio was truly chingón... to the bone. I once saw him beat the shit out of this guy without even making a fist. Sergio just grabbed him by the ears and slammed the dude’s face into his knee. Over and over, until his pantleg was splattered with blood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “You gotta duke him, vato. Right in his goofy mouth. One blow. That’s all it takes. The fat boys always go down easy. Trust me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> I wanted to believe Sergio. He’d always been cool to me. But Hector was twice my weight class. I wouldn’t have gambled on those odds. Even though I never missed an episode of WWF wrestling, I doubted any of the moves I tried out on my little brother would help me when it came to throwing blows for real. Still, I had to do something…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Then, about a week later, back in shop class, Hector was eating sunflower seeds at the next table over. As he cracked them open between his snaggled front teeth, he flicked one of the moist shells onto my arm. I turned and glared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Hector was all smiles. “Que pasa, holmes? Want some polly seeds?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Earlier, when I got to class, I had found a strip of nails for the shop nailgun under my table. There were about fifteen nails in a row, like a serrated blade. As I flipped the nails over in my hand, the razor sharp edges nicked my thumb. When a second shell landed on my shoulder, I stood up and felt the sweat of my palm against the strip of nails. “Knock it off, asshole!” I shouted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> But my protests sent Hector into a convulsion of laughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Órale!” He slapped his seat mate’s arm and said loud enough for the whole class to hear: “Check out güero chingón!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> I glanced across the room at the teacher, helping a student file a block of wood. His back was turned, oblivious as ever. It was now or never. I reared back, Fernando Valenzuela style, and chucked the strip of nails right at the fat motherfucker.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> In the red light haze of fury, I heard a wail and opened my eyes. Hector clutched his forearm. A torrent of blood gushed through his fingers, collecting in the sawdust. He looked like a maniacal, laughing clown, his lips forming a smile, even in pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> I was immediately collared and sent to the principal’s office, where they read me the riot act: “Your attendance record is dreadful, your grades disgraceful, and now this… You’ve left us with no other choice: expulsion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> I phoned the old man at the Reserve Center and waited across the street, smoking and fantasizing about my new life of leisure. When he pulled up, still in his Army fatigues, he said, “I guess I need to go in there and sort this crap out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “It’s no use,” I protested. “They said I gotta go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> But he went anyway and testified on my behalf. “He’s really a good kid... Things are rough for him at home... his mother’s never around... there’s no discipline at the house... As soon as I get custody, he’ll be living in a different school district, so if he could only finish out the school year...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Of course they bought it. Nothing like a hard luck tale from a man in uniform. Shit, with all those stripes and chevrons on his shoulders, he outranked most authority figures. My sentence was reduced to a week’s suspension, and for the rest of the year, I had to carry an attendance card to prove that I’d been to class. So there was no more ditching after lunch anymore to hang out with the stoners at 7-Eleven. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> But it was a small price to pay. From that day on, thanks to Hector, who transferred over to auto shop, I was known as güero chingón.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">From the zine <b>THE PILLSBURY CHOLO</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">illustrations by art mark.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">Available from <a href="http://www.kellydessaint.com/piltdownlad" target="_blank">http://www.kellydessaint.com/piltdownlad</a></span></div>
Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-29966751951132975132011-06-05T15:51:00.003-07:002012-07-11T11:00:10.284-07:00primo territoryFrom the zine, <b>Junior Careers</b>:<br />
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<a href="http://www.kellydessaint.com/2012/07/primo-territory-from-piltdownlad-3-junior-careers/">READ THE REST OF THE STORY</a></div>Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-21126715346780404302011-06-05T10:32:00.000-07:002012-07-02T10:05:17.619-07:00the breaker beatdown<div id="fb-root">
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“Guess who I saw today?” Oscar said as he rummaged through my kitchen cupboards, checking each package of ramen for his favorite, shrimp. At first I thought it was an off-handed comment, but when he answered his own question with, “Your best friend, Eddie,” I nearly choked. Just the mention of Eddie’s name and my guts clenched up like a fist.
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“So?” I pretended not to give a shit.</div>
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“So?” Once he found the flavor he was looking for, Oscar smacked the bag against the counter and ripped it open. “So, he said your ass is grass next time he sees you.”
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“He said that?” It came out as an unanticipated squeak.
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“Dude, you never shoulda messed with Eddie.” Oscar laughed and poured the flavor packet over the shattered noodles. “So he doesn’t like cats. What’s it to ya? Tell your mom to get more shrimp. This is the last one.”
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Oh, the injustice of it all…
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Earlier that day, I was sitting on the porch when Eddie walked by and kicked my cat. Completely unprovoked. Fluffy was just minding his own business, sunbathing on the sidewalk. After he screeched across the yard, I went over to the fence and said, “Hey, man. Don’t kick my cat.” That’s all. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground. Didn’t even see Eddie make a fist before I saw stars. “Motherfucker,” I seethed when I came to a few seconds later. I jumped up and ran inside my house to get the aluminum bat I kept with my old little league gear in the living room. I charged outside, ready to rumble. Eddie saw me coming and took off. I chased after him, swinging the bat over my head and shouting, “Come back here so I can bash your fucking brains in!” By the time I reached the corner, he was a distant figure. “MOTHERFUCKER!”
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Later that afternoon, as I held a sandwich bag of ice against my shiner, Oscar showed up. He lived on the other side of the freeway and, since our house was a few doors down from the bridge, he made daily pitstops on his way home to raid our well-stocked cupboards. My mother always made sure we had plenty of snack foods to tide us over until dinner, which didn’t usually happen until Benny Hill came on.
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When Oscar told me that Eddie was on the warpath, I tried to save face behind a veil of bravado.
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“Fuck Eddie. I’m ready to throw blows anytime. Lucky for him he ran away like a yellow-bellied homo. Otherwise, I woulda fucked him up.” I picked up the bat and hit my palm with the business end for emphasis. “Big time.”
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“Stupid. You can’t carry that bat around with you everywhere you go.” Oscar tapped the bottom of his ramen bag to make sure he’d gotten all the crumbs and mumbled, “Besides, he’ll just take it away from you and shove it up your culo.”
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“Yeah, right.”
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“Just watch. One day you’ll be walking home from school or something and you won’t even see it coming. He’ll be like the fucking Predator.” Oscar cracked up at his little joke. As if he sensed my growing dismay, he added, “Course, you could just say you’re sorry.”</div>
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“Really?” I raised my eyebrows at the prospect. “You think?”</div>
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“Sure. I mean, he’s still gonna duke you, but at least you’d get it over with.” Oscar laughed so hard he spewed ramen crumbs across the table. </div>
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In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have challenged Eddie’s right to kick my cat. He was a real thug. Long after the rest of us had given up the fantasy of being as buff as Lou Ferrigno and Arnold Schwarzenegger, Eddie kept pumping iron. He played football at Mark Keppel and walked like he was about to fall backwards. </div>
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Convinced by Oscar that a showdown was inevitable, I went on high-alert. For the next few weeks, I avoided certain streets and took the long way to the corner store. Day and night, I maintained a roving eye for any potential ambush. I walked with a lit cigarette, in case I had to stub it out in Eddie’s eye to make a getaway. But after a month or so, I began to think I could dodge Eddie indefinitely. Despite the occasional update from Oscar, all was quiet in the neighborhood. </div>
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I’d almost forgotten about Eddie, when I walked outside one day and saw Oscar and some of the poppers and lockers from across the freeway breakdancing on the sidewalk in front of my house. I was pissed. This was rocker turf, and they knew it.</div>
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Without thinking, I went out the gate and approached the group. One guy was spinning on his hand while the other four crouched along the edge of the cardboard watching and egging him on. </div>
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“Hey!” I shouted. “You can’t do that shit on my property!” </div>
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“Fuck you,” said Oscar. “This is city property.” </div>
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“I don’t care. You gotta go!” </div>
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“You gonna make us leave?” asked a guy whose back was to me. When he turned around, I felt a gob of panic suddenly lodged in my throat. </div>
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“Where’s your bat now, motherfucker?” </div>
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Before I could run, Eddie and the breakers surrounded me. I glanced through their smiling, menacing faces and heard the snap, crack and pop of sweaty knuckles. I thought of my trusty bat, leaned against the wall by the front door. </div>
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“C’mon, guys. Be cool.” I made a move to break free from the pack, but they instantly grabbed my wrists and shoulders. </div>
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“Not so fast, guero,” Eddie said. “You’re coming with us.” </div>
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They pushed me into the street, up the hill towards the freeway ramp. </div>
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“Where we going?” I asked. “Your sister on the clock? Seriously, man. I’m cool. I hit that shit last week and I’m still sick to my stomach. Tell your old man I want my nickel back!” </div>
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Before I could laugh, Eddie nailed me in the back while another guy slapped my head a few times. </div>
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“Hold him tight!” Oscar shouted. With a running a start, he kicked me right in the ass crack. I fell to the asphalt and winced as the rough surface bit into my hands. </div>
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“Yuck it up now, funny boy.” Oscar set off a real laugh riot. </div>
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“That all you got? You fucking beaners!” I lunged towards my fence, but Eddie twisted my arm and put me in a headlock. When I struggled, he squeezed tighter. Bent over, like a heretic in stocks, I looked up at Oscar. “Fuck you, Oscar Meyer, the dick dog. You better not come to my house no more.” </div>
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“Fuck you and your nasty house. You’re getting what’s coming to ya. I always told you that big mouth of your was gonna get your ass kicked.” </div>
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I took a few hits and then one of the breakers said, “No, no, I got a better plan.” </div>
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They huddled and then busted up laughing. </div>
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“Yeah!” </div>
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“Time to pay up, motherfucker.” </div>
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I was at their mercy now. I knew it. So as they marched me up the street, I unleashed a fusillade of invectives:
“YOU COCK SUCKING MOTHER FUCKING WETBACK FAGGOT ASS FAGGOTS CUM BREATHERS SONS OF BITCH WHORES BUTT FUCKING HOMOS I BET YOU GUYS FUCK EACH OTHER UP THE ASS EVERY NIGHT WITH YOUR TINY LITTLE DICKS!!!” </div>
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Eddie tightened his hold and I made the rest of the journey up the hill struggling to stay on my feet. </div>
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At the end of the street, Eddie released the chokehold and pushed me onto the freeway ramp. I glanced across the sea of ivy at the speeding cars on the 10. Without the sound barrier of the wall, traffic was a cacophonous roar. </div>
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“What the fuck?” </div>
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“You only got one way to go.” Eddie pointed at the freeway entrance. </div>
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The others laughed. </div>
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“Really?” Now it was my turn to laugh. “You want me to get on the freeway?” Suckers. Little did they know... I grew up with the fury of transportation in my back yard. The freeway was my Mississippi. </div>
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“You know what?” Casually, I straightened the wrinkles in my t-shirt. “Fuck you and your cum-gurgling whore mothers!” I let out a long-winded kamikaze cry and took off down the ramp.</div>
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I ran along the shoulder, staying close to the wall and keeping an eye on ground for jetsam and tufts of weeds protruded from the broken patches of asphalt. A steady stream of cars and trucks whizzed by. Some honked, as if to let me know I was in danger. I passed my house and recognized the tree branches hanging over the wall. I kept going. Here, the wall was twice my height and there was no way I could get over. But under the bridge, there was a section of the wall shorter than the rest. </div>
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That’s where I jumped over and dropped into the ivy. To avoid a confrontation on the sidewalk, I headed for a narrow passageway between the wall that led to my neighbor’s backyard. </div>
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Safe and sound in my own back yard, I passed the lemon tree and smiled. With my shirt pulled out, I made a basket and filled it with fruit. Then I climbed onto the roof of my house and waited.</div>
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When I heard voices, I took aim.“FUCK YOU FAGGOTT WETBACK MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!”</div>
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As I chucked the lemons, I was screaming and laughing so hard I almost feel off the roof. Under the onslaught of citrus missiles, the breakers ran serpentine. By the time I exhausted my arsenal, they had scattered. </div>
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“Don’t forget your cardboard!” I yelled into the empty street. </div>
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The next day, Javier stopped by. He lived down the street. After pouring himself a glass of Kool-Aid, he said, “I heard about your chingasa with Oscar and Eddie.” </div>
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“Yeah. I really showed them, didn’t I?” I had been all smiles since. </div>
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“You know, you’re only making shit worse. You need to mellow out.” </div>
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“Fuck them!” </div>
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“You just don’t get it, do you?” </div>
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“What’s to get? They’re assholes.” </div>
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“Let me see if I can explain this so you understand…” Javier tossed the plastic cup into the sink and wiped off the red mustache. “You remember how in Scarface the guy guy ended up with no allies in the end, so that when the assassins came for him, he was all alone? Well, you’re like that. You got no friends on the street. Everybody thinks you’re a dick. I think you’re a dick. If it weren’t for your brother, I wouldn’t even be talking to you right now.” </div>
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I considered his advice. “So what you’re saying is that I’m like Tony Montana?” I assumed a machinegun wielding pose and said in my best Cuban accent, “Fuck with me, you fucking with the best.” </div>
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“Stupid, I’m just trying to help.” Javier turned to leave. </div>
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“Hey, Javie.” </div>
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“What?” </div>
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“Say goodbye to the bad guy…” </div>
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_____________________________</div>
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güero chingón #3 <br />
cover by id.<br />
illustrations by art mark.
</div>Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3153338871686345698.post-16546275906533196692011-06-04T23:46:00.001-07:002012-02-18T19:29:33.874-08:00chump change<div id="fb-root"></div><script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#appId=247466981948904&xfbml=1">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOH8ooYeWxESXVQKAjLYO8P0gGVxE7GJrtHqq5kotMO3wp7Apdnvk_OPW_hHEdsSu0elHdR0CmQfMG0_7YiuwM18Q6tCgspIMWvx_GTw6G1d1eWr2euBQigx4H-_KYKtU1snt1uMkvPsI/s1600/chump_change_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOH8ooYeWxESXVQKAjLYO8P0gGVxE7GJrtHqq5kotMO3wp7Apdnvk_OPW_hHEdsSu0elHdR0CmQfMG0_7YiuwM18Q6tCgspIMWvx_GTw6G1d1eWr2euBQigx4H-_KYKtU1snt1uMkvPsI/s1600/chump_change_web.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Joey and I were hanging out at the Sav-On plaza</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">, like we did most days that summer. I was sitting on the small firetruck that jerked back and forth, while Joey straddled the silver pony that bounced up and down. But the rides were idle. Even if we had been flush, a quarter was too precious to waste on a few minutes of mechanical jostling. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 15px;">Instead, we killed time watching the shoppers come and go. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> It seemed like the whole world was out spending money except for us. We had needs too, but once baby sister showed up on the scene, our allowances were a thing of the past. Room and board, that’s all we got anymore. For everything else, we were on our own.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Once school let out, we tried any way we could to make a buck. We hit up the neighbors, looking to do odd jobs. But what could we do? We were kids. We had no skills. Some people took pity on us. We swept a few driveways and weeded a couple gardens. The junkman hired us to haul that mysterious pile of bricks from the front of his house to the back. But when we were done, he wanted to look at porno mags with us in the garage, so we never went back to his place.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We tried collecting bottles for the deposit, thinking we’d make a fortune for sure. Bottles were worth three cents a pop, and people threw them away like they were trash. So one morning, we snagged a shopping cart and pushed it all around town, picking up the empties. But after scrounging through slop filled garbage cans for hours, we took our bounty to the grocery store and cashed out: a lousy seventy-five cents. Split down the middle. A total bust. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Then we discovered panhandling. Back when we were hanging out at the Alpha Beta I double-dared Joey to ask this lady walking into the store for a dime. Joey never turned down a dare. Especially a double dare. He walked right up to her and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, do you have a dime so I can call my mother?” The lady stopped, opened her change purse and placed a shiny coin in his palm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> It was like a miracle, that first taste of free money. We spent the rest of the day with our feet on the pad that opened the sliding doors and our hands held high. “Excuse me, do you have a dime?” When the manager chased us off, we moved on to the next place of business. We must have covered every grocery, restaurant, bar and liquor store in Rosemead, Monterey Park, San Gabriel, Alhambra and parts of Temple City. We went anywhere we knew adults spent money. Worked like a charm too, until Mrs. Garcia spotted us outside the post office. She told mom, and that was the end of that racket.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> So there we were, on the skids, sitting on the rides that never went anywhere as the world of commerce streamed passed, when Nick happened to walk by.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Hey, NickGyver!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We joined him where he was standing at a row of newspaper boxes. “Whatcha doing, NickGyver?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Oh, nothing. Just a little experiment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Experiment?” This was the best news we’d heard in days. “What kind of experiment?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Nick looked over his shoulder. “Check it out.” He dropped a coin into the slot of a Herald Examiner and lifted up the door. “You ever thought about how a newspaper box works?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We shook our heads. Only Nick thought about things like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “It’s quite simple, actually. You put a quarter in the slot and it slides through a mechanism that unlocks the door. Then it falls into this compartment right here under the handle under the handle.” Nick tapped the silver metal plate on the front of the box. “Must be tons of quarters in there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We shrugged. “So?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “So, you probably think it’s impossible to get to them all, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We nodded. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Well, check it out...” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We leaned in real close. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “You see this hole right here.” He pointed to a hole inside the box, next to where the papers were stacked. “If my calculations are correct, this hole leads to that compartment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Joey and I looked at a hole too small for any hand. “Okay. Now what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Lemme see your gum,” Nick told Joey, who spit out the wad of Juicy Fruit he’d been gnawing on since breakfast. “You can have your drool back.” Nick wiped his hand on Joey’s shirt. Then he pulled a straw out of his pocket and mashed the wad onto the end of it. We eagle-eyed his technique as he lowered the straw, gum-end, into the hole and circled it around slowly. He pulled the straw out and stuck to the ball of gum, like fish on a hook, three quarters sparkled in the sunlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Fucking NickGyver! That was awesome!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “Be cool.” Nick scanned the parking lot. “Don’t wanna attract attention. Now here’s the deal…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Nick began issuing instructions. Joey went into the drug store to buy a pack of Bubblicious with one of the newly acquired quarters and I searched the ground for McDonald’s straws. “The thicker the better,” Nick said. Then, Joey kept watch while Nick and I went to work. First, we cleaned out the Examiner box, then moved on to the Times and then the Tribune. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> Slowly, but surely, we extracted all the quarters, two and three at a time. We took turns on lookout, creating diversions in case any shoppers or the manager got nosey. When all the boxes were empty, we counted the loot in the alley behind the store. Seventeen bucks even. And two slugs. Split three ways, our pockets bulged and jangled as we headed over to Jim’s to celebrate. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> We placed our orders and laid the stacks of quarters on the counter. The woman at the cash register said, “What did you boys do, break open your piggybanks?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “That’s right!” I patted Nick on the back. “It’s his birthday and we’ve been saving up to treat him to a feast.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “In that case, mijos,” the cashier said. “Here’s a sundae on the house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGfF3UPmBS6-TNQZTS-VRHrxb-EJknGeE3JxgUy1elwe4crpBL6Qxm9j62imZvodNQSE3MycpRN_XoT4FNXquZ4GrpldIfx7tnGwFVn2GRm83tKMR8FV3TXHFt7MLHydokLnmZZtOT8c/s1600/quarters_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGfF3UPmBS6-TNQZTS-VRHrxb-EJknGeE3JxgUy1elwe4crpBL6Qxm9j62imZvodNQSE3MycpRN_XoT4FNXquZ4GrpldIfx7tnGwFVn2GRm83tKMR8FV3TXHFt7MLHydokLnmZZtOT8c/s320/quarters_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> The next afternoon Joey and I were ready to hit the newspaper boxes at the Boy’s Market on Del Mar. “They got a whole bunch over there. Think of all the quarters we could score!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> But Nick was over it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"> “That’s chump change. I got a better plan. You know the old junkman who lives up the street? Well, I got it on authority that he’s got this massive stash of silver dollars. I’m talking about pickle jars full of ‘em. Keeps ‘em in his closet. And get this, my source says that sometime this weekend he’s cruising out to San Bernardino, where his wife is planted. Think about it. This is the perfect time to make a move. I could use a couple lookouts. We’ll split the take three ways. Just like last time. What d’ya say? You guys down for a real heist?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">________________________________</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">from <b>güero chingón #2</b></span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="align: left; clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEC_8Ix_K4xjAH4EZfMGv1ezBu0rZwdK9tbAsK2xAHkObau_4kio4dVT-3dhe5_xUURwaX-jC9DgEaYT5Bvx5-CtKtXMVY5RiiQbOx5wiGy0lqHkR3mT0yb4G-wKAVRnSux0S9qJX17s/s1600/chump_cover_web.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEC_8Ix_K4xjAH4EZfMGv1ezBu0rZwdK9tbAsK2xAHkObau_4kio4dVT-3dhe5_xUURwaX-jC9DgEaYT5Bvx5-CtKtXMVY5RiiQbOx5wiGy0lqHkR3mT0yb4G-wKAVRnSux0S9qJX17s/s400/chump_cover_web.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">zine cover by id.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">illustrations by art mark.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11pt;">Available from <b><a href="htpp://www.piltdownlad.com">PILTDOWNLAD</a></b></span></div>Kellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171850937014564896noreply@blogger.com1