Part One: Entry 15
“Fuck dude,” Frank nods to a moderately attractive girl who walks away from him down the hallway of the house in San Clemente. “That chick just raped me in the bathroom.” He now points to some wet spots on his untucked shirt. “I still got cum on my me.”
Then I notice smoke spewing from a microwave in the kitchen. The house fills with a putrid stench.
“Fuck dude...! Party fuckin’ machine extra...! I fuckin’ nuked that fuckin’ potato man...! Fuck...!” Ish laughs pointing inside the oven at a potato.
“You fuckin’ idiot!” Frank enters the kitchen and instantly kicks the fat punker square in the back. Ish careens towards the pantry trying to keep his balance.
“Fuckin’ trying to ruin my house?!” Frank then punches Ish in the shoulder and chases him outside and down the street.
Later in the evening the party has kicked into high gear as a shitload of partiers have shown up. The living room stereo blasts the Misfits’ Walk Among Us. Me, Frank and Nina in one of the four bedrooms of the two-story house share hits off a bottle of Bacardi 151.
“Are you guys gonna have your way with me now?” Nina, fairly drunk on the rum, slurs as Frank pulls her short skirt up while she lies across my lap on the floor. I pull her panties down exposing her white round soft ass. She grabs Frank’s long blonde, knotted dread locks and pulls his mouth to hers for a sloppy kiss. I slide a forefinger past her asshole to her wet pussy tickling getting it moister.
“Ooh..., yeah,” she’s breathing heavily. “Mmm...”
I sit in the middle of the living room floor working on a Budweiser. The Shining is playing on HBO. Me, Jenkins and a couple others are kind of loosely watching it. A local surfer and a teenage girl walk in and sit down on the couch. It appears that the two are a couple. But it’s not more than two minutes before the girl, more than a little trashed, walks over to me. She starts playing with my bleached spiked hair.
“You’re cute,” she looks into my face. “You look just like Billy Idol.”
I’m wondering if the guy is pissed. He barely seems to notice as he’s staring at the TV entranced.
“Fuck dude...! That fuckin’ kid looks just like Dave Vanian!” the surfer points at the television set referring to the boy in Kubrick’s film.
“Yeah,” Jenkins nods. “He does.”
“That’s gotta be Dave Vanian when he was a kid man.”
“No..., no way dude...” Jenkins comes back. “Dave Vanian was already in the Damned when this movie was made.”
“Oh man... That’s gotta be him man.”
“No..., no dude...”
I’ve completely lost interest in the movie as the girl has not stopped fondling my hair. She’s in a standing position while I’m still on the floor. This freshman, or sophomore college girl is cradling my head and I end up leaning into her with the side of my face pretty much against her crotch. I have some perverse designs in mind and with the surf-dude still enthralled with ‘Dave Vanian, child actor,’ I manage to lure the sweet young thing outdoors alongside the house. Then we’re making out and I unzip her jeans as she leans against wood siding.
“Everybody out...! Everybody out!” a cop stands in the middle of the living room yelling. Drunken teens file out of the place. Jenkins manages to talk him into letting me, Nina and Ish stay because we’ll be sleeping there.
After the cops leave Frank and I are sitting at the kitchen table passing a joint back and forth.
“Fuck...! Fuckin’ Sam Verhoven’s all in my room!” Frank rants. “And I got this chick Laney Donahue completely naked... And first he’s actin’ like he’s asleep and shit... And I’m like, ‘Dude...! Get the fuck outta here...!’ And he’s all..., ‘I’m tired... I just wanna sleep...’ So then I’m like..., ‘Fuck dude..., I’m busy here!’ And then he’s all..., ‘Dude..., I wanna watch.’ ”
I wake up around eleven the next morning on the couch in the living room. I walk down to the 7-11 and buy a frozen burrito for breakfast then head back to the Arceneaux house.
After finishing the burrito, I find a few Miller’s in a cardboard twelve-pack case left in the living room from the night before. No one else is awake, I sit down at the kitchen table and start in on one of the warm beers. I walk into the living room and turn on some Saturday morning cartoons jelling out for a while.
After finishing a couple beers I hear someone screaming from upstairs
“Fuck...! Someone kicked a hole in my wall!” Jenkins is raging.
He comes downstairs and rummages around for some material to conceal the damage with. He ends up patching the kicked in area with a piece of newspaper then heads off to the garage to find some paint.
“Fuck!” Jenkins returns with a paint brush and can of enamel sealer. “I was out there in the garage..., and I remembered that my mom’s got a hide-a-key in one of the tire-wells of her car... So I started feelin’ around in all of ‘em till I found the key,” he holds it up. “We gotta go for a ride after I finish fixin’ this.”
Jenkins throws paint over the newspaper for about a minute. He stands up and takes a look at his patch job.
“Think my mom’ll notice?”
“Yeah..., definitely... You should get Willard to grab some sheetrock from his work site,” I suggest.
“Fuck it...! I’m not dealin’ with it anymore... Let’s go for a spin in that new Saab.”
I follow Jenkins to the garage, he opens the driver’s side door of his mom’s car, gets in and starts it up. I settle into the comfy passenger seat and Jenkins backs out of the garage.
“Let’s go down by State Park see if Gary Crawford wants ta come along,” he points the Saab towards Pacific Coast Highway. “Last night he said he had some killer buds... Maybe he’ll get us stoned.”
We stop for a six pack of Old Milwaukee then pick up Gary. He gets in the car and after a bit, pulls out a fat joint, lights it up. Jenkins takes a hit of pot with one hand while steering towards Avenida Pico.
We continue smoking the weed as we glide along Pico until it turns into TRW road. We’ve got green rolling hills next to us with sparse numbers of cattle grazing in the distance. So strange to see this after minutes earlier winding around lazy San Clemente. We round a curve and before we know it blaze past a bull that is standing in the oncoming lane.
Jenkins slows the car down, turns around and creeps up on the animal a bit, not too close fearing it might charge us. We stop a good twenty feet behind it and Jenkins honks the horn. The bull is oblivious. We pull closer. I lean out the window holding a can of beer in my right hand.
“HEYYY COW!!!” I bellow. Still nothing.
Monday after Willard gets off work he tells me that Jenkins has crashed his mother’s SAAB up in L.A. somewhere with Ish and Ryan Smith.
To view previous entries please click on #punker-notes
Photo by Adam Sherez