Punching Nazis

I was sixteen years old when I learned firsthand that it’s not easy to fall asleep in a parking lot with a cement block for a pillow and bright incandescent lightbulbs keeping out the dark. We could have found a darker parking lot, I’m sure, but then it would’ve been harder to sleep for reasons of fear rather than petty annoyance. This parking lot would do.

We’d come to San Francisco, my friend Ryan and I, with our friend Ben and his girlfriend of the week, Sheryl, to see one of our favorite bands, the Violent Femmes, play The Warfield.

Sheryl’s constant complaining, and Ben’s kowtowing to her presence, had me eager to ditch the two of them, so after the concert Ryan and I left with two cute girls who’d invited us back to their place.

We left the concert with our new friends and were in line at Burger King when a homeless man wearing infinite layers of clothing, creating the illusion of immense size, pushed his way to the front of the line.

“Give me some water,” he demanded, slamming his cup down on the counter. “I’m Mr. A! Don’t touch me! I’m dirty!”

As evidence to his proclaimed dirtiness, he used the corner of the counter to squeegee his palms, leaving a puddle of what looked like Crisco behind. I realized he was coated, every inch of him, clothing and all, in this thick, white grease. For two suburban teens on an adventure in the city, this was intoxicatingly urban.

After getting our burgers and fries we followed our dates onto the BART train toward Richmond. I scored some smooches as we sped through the night. Ryan didn’t do as well, as he never stopped talking long enough to make a move or be moved on. The train stopped and the girls said good-night.

This was not, we were informed, their problem. The two girls disappeared into a minivan, leaving behind the lingering taste of fast-food kisses and phone numbers scribbled on a BK napkin.

We found a Denny’s, figuring we’d spend the night there, but sitting at the bar drinking really bad coffee under the hateful glare of a tweeker waitress got old quick.

Ryan applied for a job. In his flannel shirt, plaid trench coat with tears and patches, foot-long Mohawk, and combat boots, at one o’clock in the morning, Ryan applied for a job.

Then we made our way to the parking lot. My army jacket could serve as a pillow for my head or warmth for my body. I went back and forth. We were relieved when a man walked by and asked if we’d seen any cars parked in the lot.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s closed,” I answered, noticing the gas can and length of hose he carried.

“We can help you find some cars, though,” Ryan offered, and we hopped up and started walking alongside this stranger who was sure to be more entertaining than trying to sleep in a parking lot.

“I just gotta siphon a bit of gas. I’m trying to get to Fresno and I got a damn hole in my gas tank. I siphon some gas, it gets me a few miles and I stop and siphon more gas. Hell of a way to travel. Some asshole put a hole in my goddamn gas tank. Son of a bitch.” As he spoke rapidly he undid a gas cap on an old truck, slid the hose in, paused to suck up some gas, spit, coughed, and as his can filled he continued right where he’d left off. “Son of a bitch. I got a beautiful old Saab on the back of my truck. Gonna scrap it in Fresno. Then I’ll have some money. God damn, I’ve been doing this all night. If only I could drive the fuckin’ Saab. But she ain’t safe on the road. Oh no.”

We reached his truck and his Saab. I’m not normally much of a car person, but I do admire a few vehicles. Old Volvos, old VWs, and old Saabs.

“Why the hell are you gonna scrap this awesome car?” I asked, seeing a good-looking vehicle hiked up on the back of a truck that looked like it had only recently met with some manner of violence that transformed it into a flatbed. Leaving my question unanswered, our jittery friend drove off toward Fresno and we went back to Denny’s.

We had enough money to split a side order of one pancake. We asked if we could have coffee refills, since we’d bought coffee a few hours earlier, and amazingly the waitress poured us a couple of mugs. She was really nice this time around. Maybe we’d gone, in her eyes, from being two annoying kids out late after a show to two homeless kids who couldn’t actually help being annoying. We tried not to be pains in her ass, which I think she appreciated.

I figured it was late enough in the morning to call the two girls who’d gotten us in this mess to begin with. From the pay phone outside I called them collect, since we’d spent the last of our change on a pancake.

“I sure do. Nothing like sleeping in a parking lot to let you know just how early it is.”

We got directions and slowly made our way toward an idyllic suburban neighborhood full of big cars and big homes. We found the right house and were greeted by two girls who looked much younger in daylight, especially when surrounded by a mess of siblings and friends of siblings. I recognized this house. This was the house in every neighborhood with mostly absent parents and lots of girls hanging out all the time. I loved this house.

We were no longer interested in kisses, but we felt they owed us money and food and, what’s that? Would we like some wine coolers? Why, sure.

“No. My mom is an idiot. She buys them for our school lunches. She doesn’t realize that they have alcohol in them.”

They were anxious to give us anything we wanted if we’d just leave. While the daylight and squeaky-clean environment served to make them look more youthful, I’m sure we looked worse, dirtier, and, to our delight, much more punk rock.

Their father was a gynecologist. Of course he was. It was too perfect. We left the house full of cute rich girls, realizing that if we came back in two years it would be heaven on earth, but for now it was mostly annoying. Our bellies were full of sliced deli meat sandwiches made on French bread, and real fruit Popsicles.

We had a few bucks now so we caught the BART train toward Oakland, where Ryan’s brother hung out at a guy named Screamer’s house. Ryan thought he remembered where Screamer lived but we ended up lost, wandering around Oakland until we ran into a local punk who went by the name Phlegm.

“Yeah, you stupid shit. It’s one block up that way. See you little shits later, I’m going to work.”

We found Screamer’s place, which was a converted garage behind his mom’s house. It was filthy. One futon faced a TV that never went off. A scum-coated bathroom was the only other room.

Screamer’s girlfriend worked, while Screamer and a rotating cast of punks hung out in front of the TV all day drinking and doing whatever drugs were available. Screamer was happy to see us.

This was great news. Jason was coming into town, most likely to score some drugs, and we could then get a ride back to Sacramento with him. I used Screamer’s phone to call my mom, who thought I was a few blocks away at Ben’s house and was pretty pissed to find out I was still in the Bay Area. I told her we’d be home the next day and that unless she wanted to come get us there was nothing I could do about it.

We passed the next few hours watching Black Entertainment Television while Screamer shouted all kinds of racist shit at the screen. “Ha ha! Another chicken commercial. Goddamn, how can you say them [n-words] don’t love chicken when every other fuckin’ ad is for fried chicken ON THEIR CHANNEL?!”

Ryan and I found a corner to sit and talk and we tried to stay out of Screamer and company’s way. Then Phlegm showed up again.

“Oh fuck, these little shits are here? You sniveling cunts should go home. Who the fuck wants little brats around? This ain’t a fuckin’ day care.” He was especially proud of the day care line. It would be repeated incessantly for the duration of our visit. I ignored him but Ryan couldn’t resist a fight.

“And you look pretty pathetic picking on the two youngest guys in the room. It shows that you’re on the bottom of the pecking order around here, just desperate to put someone beneath you.” Ryan, who was the scrawniest person I knew, loved to run his mouth, seemingly had no fear of getting his ass kicked, and somehow usually managed to come out unscathed.

As Phlegm walked toward Ryan, I gave him a quick reminder. “Dude, you might want to remember that he’s Jason’s brother, and Jason’s on his way here.” I followed by giving him a way out. “Hey, I thought you were going to work.”

“Oh yeah, shit, work!” Phlegm became very excited now. “My boss cut off his fucking thumb. I couldn’t fucking believe it. He cut it all the way off. I picked it up and handed it to him. He told me to take the day off and he drove off in his car with his fucking thumb in his lunch box. IN HIS FUCKING LUNCH BOX! It was so crazy.”

Phlegm forgot about Ryan and joined the other punks spewing racist hate at the BET. Not calling them out on their racism made me feel like a real chump, but I decided I just needed to get through the day and get back home. Just as the n-word comments were reaching a fever pitch, the door opened and a huge black man in white Doc Martens boots with black laces and a Malcolm X t-shirt stood in the doorway.

Screamer jumped to his feet and I prepared to run as they walked toward each other. My heart pounded rapidly in my chest. Then they gave each other a bear hug. They went into the bathroom together to do some buying and selling and then the guy actually sat in front of the TV for a spell to join the rest in laughing at the “crazy [n-words].” We’d found a strange world.

Jason showed up soon after and Ryan and I begged him to take us to get something to eat. He said he’d take us on a run in an hour. I wasn’t sure what a run was, but it seemed to involve eating and that was a good thing.

Sixty minutes later we went out to the recycling place to empty Jason’s car of many bags full of cans and bottles. He got a few bucks for this and then we went to a taco spot where I had the best food I’d ever eaten in my life. Then came “the run.” We rolled up to the recycling plant, now closed, and parked in the alley. Jason instructed Ryan to wait with the car and had me follow him. A couple large sheets of cardboard over the barbed wire made clearing the fence a breeze. We hurled full bags of cans over the fence and Ryan loaded them into the station wagon. Once the car was full we crowded in with the bags and sped off.

We stopped at a 7-11 to stockpile Home Run Pies, Twinkies, Cokes, and other essentials to get us through the night. Back at Screamer’s I called my mom again and told her I would have to spend at least one more night in The Bay. She wasn’t too happy, but when I told her we were with Ryan’s brother she felt better. If she’d really known Jason, she would have jumped in her minivan right that second and come after me.

Screamer’s girlfriend, that’s the only name she was given as far as I knew, had come home from work and the punks circled up to smoke. Ryan and I retreated to our corner. Just as the lighter flicked on and flame was touched to crack, a small speaker next to the door crackled to life.

“Craig, what are you doin’ in there? Craig?” It was Screamer’s (a.k.a. Craig’s) mom. Craig was such a pedestrian name for this legendary scum punk. He hollered back, “Nothing, Mom. Leave me alone.” And suddenly he looked more like a little boy playing dress-up than the threatening monster I’d come to think of him as. He took a hit and then stood up.

The following dance was so well choreographed, Ryan and I could scarcely trust our eyes. Screamer’s girlfriend took the pipe and turned her back to the front window just as an old lady’s face appeared in it howling, “Craig!” She took her hit and Screamer slammed the blinds shut. The pipe was passed to Phlegm, whose back was to the side window, just in time to hide it from the old lady as she appeared in this window seconds before Screamer slammed more blinds shut. “Craig? What are you doing, Craig?” The pipe made its way to Jason, hiding it from a third window behind him, and the whole routine repeated. “Crrrraaaiiiggg!” It was crack cocaine slapstick. Ryan and I fell over laughing. Then we ate some Twinkies and drank some Cokes and joined the circle, now that the crack had been put away.

We talked about the girls who had lured us out here. Screamer thought we should go back to their place in the morning and shake them down for more money. Ryan and I actually started to find our place in this insane little scene and we enjoyed swapping jokes and stories, though we had to struggle to ignore Phlegm’s constant references to day care.

Eventually Screamer and his girl went to sleep on the futon. Jason had the mattress that was lying in one corner, and Ryan and I grabbed some floor. We both woke up early the next morning, anxious to get out of there. It tried our patience having to wait for Jason to wake up.

Neither of us was capable of being quiet, and Screamer would yell at us every time we started talking until finally Jason got sick of the noise, got up, and we left for Sacramento at last.

Jason stopped on the way out of town to sell the cans and bottles back to the place we’d stolen them from the night before.

Ryan and I spent the last of our money at Denny’s, this time having a full breakfast that felt like a feast. Jason was angry that we neither bought him breakfast nor paid for gas, but we pointed out that we hadn’t gotten a cut of the recycling money, either. He gave us each a hard punch in the arm.

It was great to get home, have a shower, brush my teeth, put on clean clothes, and eat real food. Ryan and I worked on exaggerating what a good time we’d had so that Ben would feel like an ass for choosing his latest girlfriend over his friends.

“Nazis hate leftists because they think we’re being phony. Leftists hate Nazis because we know they’re being authentic.”

—Cate Gary, Comedian/Trumpslayer