I drive around all-day drinking and driving. I
have my punk rock music turned up as loud as I can get it. I wear combat boots
and a black trench coat over my torn jeans and plain black t-shirt. My hair is
spiked up high with white glue. My car is a 1974 Chevy Impala with a V8. It’s
built for comfort and speed, which is great because not only is it my
transportation, but also my bed at times.
Today I woke up from the backseat and greeted
the brilliant dawn of a typical high-desert morning. I can hear quail cooing
and all I can see out of my car windows is desert around me: Juniper bushes,
Joshua trees, dirt, rocks, and the rest of the things that make up a desert
landscape. I also see the trailers in the not too far distance. That’s where
last night’s party was. I drank a lot. I got in a fight. I drove off. to here.
Now I sit looking at the sun advancing over the horizon. It’s cold, but I’m
warm enough in my enclosed car with my trench coat firmly wrapped around me.
I get out of the car and stretch in the morning
glow. I ache. I have bruises and there are small spots of blood on my shirt.
The blood spots are not mine, I quickly discover to my delight. Must have been
from the guy I beat to a pulp last night. Other than being sore and a little
hung-over, I’m fine. I fish my red beret out of the front seat and I’m about to
put it on, but then I remember that I still have the glue in my hair that makes
my hair as stiff as sticks. I throw it back in the car and decide that it’s
time to get going. I get back in and start the car. It fires up nicely. Before
I go, I put my hand under the seat and feel for my hidden knife. Good. I feel
it and it gives me a sense of security. I drive into town.
The closest place to stop is a 7-Eleven. I go in
and buy a 32 ounce Sprite with no ice. I take it to my car and pour half of it
out and fill up the other half with some vodka that I keep in my trunk. I
always start my day with the fifty-fifty mixture. When the Sprite mixture runs
out, I fill the cup with straight vodka. I drive around like this and sometimes
pop some Darvocet, or other pain killers, too. I noticed that I am almost out
of vodka, so with some of the money that I have left from selling things at the
swap meet, I head to the liquor store to stock up. There is one close by that
opens early since it sells other convenience store items too.
I park my car in front of The Spirit Shop liquor
store and walk in with confidence. I am only seventeen, but this store has
always sold to me and has never asked me for ID. Inside I find the cheap stuff.
The ‘rot gut’ as I call it. I notice a guy walk in and make a beeline for some
expensive packs of beer that are sitting on a nearby display. He looks
determined and not at all laid back like the other early-morning drunks. I can
tell that something is not right. The guy grabs two 12-packs and runs out to
his truck. He jumps in, beer and all, as the owner of the store starts yelling
after him carrying a baseball bat that he has emerged from behind the counter
with.
I don’t know what comes over me. I love
violence. I almost seem predispositioned to seek it out. Without hesitating, I
leave my bottle on the counter and run out too. I jump on the guys truck as he
is turning over the engine. I bring my steel-toed boot back, like cocking a
gun, and I let my inner beast out as I start kicking in his windshield. I can
feel my blood surge and I feel like I can take his car apart with my hands. I’m
a whirlwind of fury and rage. I manage to grab and tear off his windshield
wipers and kick in half of his windshield by the time he starts backing up. I’m
sweating hard by this point. I jump off the hood just as he is about to put it
drive and get away. Meanwhile, the owner was successful in breaking off his
side-view mirror and busting out his driver side window. My adrenaline is on
overdrive and I feel as alive as I have ever felt. This was just the rush I
needed to start my day.
The owner of the liquor store and I exchange a
few words as some of the other drunks look on. We go back inside and he rings
me up and throws in a few clove cigarettes for free for helping him out. We
didn’t get the beer back, but the owner muses how that guy will probably not
try that again at his store. I grab up my goods and head out. I have no
immediate plans except to hook up with some friends. My mother and father are
both still alive, but I try to avoid both of them as much as possible. They got
divorced when I was seven and they have both been my burdens in their own
respective ways.
I drive over to Cindy’s house. I know that she
will be up by now. She is. I go into her room with her and we talk and listen
to music for a couple of hours. We also share some wine that she has hidden in
her room. I start getting really buzzed off the mix of the vodka already in my
system and now the wine on top of it. I had also popped two Darvocet pills and
I was really feeling out of it when Tracy shows up. Tracy is the guitar player
for my band and although he dresses like a damn long-haired hippy, he can
really play that guitar and make it howl like a wolf out for blood.
Tracy wasn’t too happy to see me at Cindy’s. I
didn’t know that they had been getting together. I was just Cindy’s friend and
acted like a brother to her at times. Tracy wanted to some action. I had almost
completely passed out when they started shaking me and telling me to leave so
they could be alone. I told them to leave me alone, that I was too fucked up to
drive anywhere. They carried me to my car anyway and helped me to start it and
told me again to go home. What could I do? I drove off.
I don’t know if you know what the high-desert is
like, but I managed to drive from deep in Apple Valley all the way to Oro
Grande. I only remember my mind being alert for a very short stretch of the way
home, when I had reached 7th street by the tracks and freeway. I don’t remember anything else.
I must have travelled by sheer memory of the bumps in the road, like braille. I
covered over twenty miles by sheer dumb luck.
Somehow I must have gotten home because the next
thing I remember is waking up on the floor of the living room of my dank shack.
When I got up, I looked around, my head was spinning, and I saw that my front
door was wide open. I got up to shut it and noticed that my front gate was also
wide open so I went out to shut that. When I got to the front gate, I noticed
that the driver’s side door to my car was also wide open and that two of my
wheels were up on the curb! I quickly righted everything and went inside and
sat down on my couch to reflect when the police showed up. Typical.
***
Greg McWhorter is a pop-culture historian and teacher who resides in
Southern California. Since the 1980s, he has worked for newspapers, radio,
television, and film. He has been a guest speaker at several universities and
the San Diego Comic-Con. Today, McWhorter owns a highly acclaimed record label
that specializes in vintage punk rock. He is also the host of a cable TV show
titled Rock ‘n’ Roll High School 101. Greg grew up in an abusive broken
home and is half-Hispanic, which may account for some of his cross-wiring.
