An Excerpt From a Novel-In-Progress
Echo Palm Horizon: Jennie Lawless
By Clarke e. Andros
Coop balanced the mug in his left hand, the hot liquid a shifting disc of obsidian against the cream interior sides as he wove through the idling double parked cars on the streets of Boyle Heights. Spinning the wheel with a single palm, he held an unlit cigarette in his cracked lips, his mustache brittle and cutting at all angles from when he’d laid prostrate, paralyzed, face first into his pillow in drunken slumber. It was early, at an hour when God himself was scratching his stomach and shuffling through cloud bank floors. The old women of the neighborhood were pushing carts, filled with styrofoam plates and sheer plastic bags. Orange Igloo water coolers filled with Tamales, still warm and wet with steam, delivered with care from their home kitchens. No more than three hours before the two men had driven off this same street skunked on Mezcal and Modelo after a night of mumbling through Corridos with tios and primos in the backyard of the home belonging to Rosa’s abuela.
Through watery eyes Zeb watched as they passed the long line of scrap steel boys, loading their lunch pails into their cage bed Toyotas lined up along St. Luis Street. In the park below, collected in small roving tribes, homesick Canadian geese picked at the drought thin grass of Hollenbeck Park, their pinheads balanced on elegant down thick bodies. The pooling light touched everything, man made and otherwise, with the heat of a tender, acetylene touch. Zeb watched the moments tease by in still drunk slow motion, each frame passing in front of Coop’s filthy windshield as an Egglestonian moment, a silent parade of the working class, Zeb’s love, humanity pure, welded still in a hazy morning’s soft edge.
Coop hit a speed bump on the road, his eyelids hanging flaccid and inflamed, and the cab jolted, his coffee splashing into the headliner and traveling in all directions, and drips of Columbian roast danced and dropped onto his stunned body, a few drops soaking the paper on his cigarette as he screamed out in shock.
Zeb took it all in, his brain processing through a brine of lime wedge chasers and Mexican Lager. As the bump shifted the interior world of the truck, so did his stomach, it twisted and tugged at the back of his tongue, “stop, pull over.” He shouted, leaning forward clutching himself, his voice muffled from a tense throat anticipating movement. The tires of the pickup screeched and Zeb’s face slammed into the dashboard with a plastic “whack”. All the men waving goodbye to their wives on the porches across the street turned to look as Zeb met the serenity of the Los Angeles morning with an evacuatory greeting, lunging out of the truck onto his hands and knees, far enough to make it to the gutter, retching into the morning quiet.
A pair of worn Red Wings came into sight. He could hear Tio Chucho’s laugh, and looked up to find its origin, the enormous gut that grabbed and poured over the waistline of crisp Wranglers. He was smiling as big as the night before, all silver caps and bright eyes, when he kept grabbing Coop around the neck with the other tios, pouring shots down his throat, hazing him for dating their beautiful sobrina Rosa. He leaned over, his face red with laughter, “Ready to go to Whittier cabron?” He smacked Zeb on the back and stood up catching his wind before disappearing back into the house.
Coop helped him up off the ground and the two of them leaned against Chucho’s truck, the bed empty and ready to collect steel on residential streets. “Rosa said that if Chucho laughs at you then he likes you, looks like you made the cut. Hope the wagon ain’t a lemon cause I’m tired of carting your ass around.”
Coop headed to the house to spend the day watching novellas with Rosa and her abuela while Zeb and Chucho went to work. Chucho came off the porch floating, laughing still, he bumped Coop with his hip as they passed each other and he turned, kicking the back of Coop’s heel so he tripped over himself trying to get away. “Goddamn that was fun last night, looks like you agree.” He pointed to the puddle of vomit, howling loud enough that the geese in the park squawked, spreading out from each other. He slapped a foiled tube into Zeb’s chest and climbed into the cab.
Zeb dropped into the passenger seat and unfolded the buttered tortillas, golden and pulling away from themselves thick and sweet. “Chucho you’re my hero.” The tio laughed as he pulled away from the curb, “I know cabron.”
Daymoon Over Sunset Boulevard: Jennie Lawless
They pulled off the Five, leaving behind ever expanding veins of morning traffic in pursuit of the Orange County Line. The windows stayed rolled down, letting the morning air blow through the cab and each gust made its way into Zeb’s lungs, restoring him particle by particle, the smoggy air fixing filth with filth as they traveled down Washington Boulevard. Chucho whistled along to a Banda song crackling out of his blown speakers. His head shifted side to side, slowly scanning the road, letting busy commuters go around his brick of a vehicle as it creaked along towards the Home Depot parking lot. Zeb had arranged a meeting via Craigslist to purchase a low miles 90’s Corolla wagon. The ride to Whittier was a windfall opportunity he came into while drunkenly talking to Chucho at the party the previous night. He looked over at the saint, the man who agreed to come with him and check out the car in exchange for one day of labor. He’d be helping him lift the discarded metal appliances of suburbia. Chuchos work was a kind of consumer anthropology, grave robbing the middle class of their bygone comfort and he made a fair living at it.
Chucho shot looks in quick succession over at Zeb as if squaring up, “Zeb I know I said it last night but I am sorry about your friend. Cancer’s a bitch.”
“Cancer is a bitch Chucho.” Jenny flashed in his mind, how could the world turn and come to this, and yet still continue at the same speed as any other day – it’s fucked. Zeb checked his phone. “You wanna get donuts, the guy said he’s running late.”
They ate at a molded laminate booth by the window, Chuchos stomach pressed against the table. His coffee would ripple when he laughed picking at his maple bar as they put together the pieces of the night before.
“How’d you boys get home last night?”
“Coop drove, I don’t even remember it but we took side streets all the way. Rosa’s pissed.”
“Yeah man, she loves Coop, of course she’s pissed. Why didn’t you sleep on the couch?” Chucho reached across and liberated a donut hole from the bag in front of Zeb. Zeb fingered the opening towards him, releasing the family of glazed orbs over to Chucho’s care.
“Drunken logic man I don’t know why but Coop gets worried about overstepping.”
“Overstepping right into a telephone pole, get over that self conscious white boy shit. We like you guys,” said Chucho.
Zeb smiled over at him feeling the warmth of the statement. The ties were cut with his own family, the frayed ends twisting under the words exchanged back and forth last year. It felt nice in a city of millions to know there was a floor you could pass out on.
“You need to go to the funeral. It ain’t right to send her off without saying goodbye.” Chucho was serious in the statement, he avoided Zeb’s eyes as he said it, watching the contractors leaving Home Depot, lumber racks filled.
“What are you talking about?” Zeb hadn’t even shared with Coop that he was skipping the funeral, he didn’t want to taint the water, feeling his presence would disturb the wake. His return home would only draw unwanted attention to himself.
“Mijo you were drunk, you don’t remember?” There was no joy in his voice, he was stern and leaned his elbows onto the table. “Last night you told me, when everyone else was dancing. Ay, I thought we had a special moment, but I guess not.” He laughed before taking a long sip of his coffee, “You cannot leave these things untouched. Rosa didn’t give me details but I know you ain’t right with your family, hell, that happens, but there is time yet, but with the dead we have no time, you need to say goodbye.” Chucho tugged at the bill of Zeb’s hat and leaned back. “Think about it Zeb, don’t drop the reins of the horse you’re on.”
A text pinged on Zeb’s phone, the screen lighting up, Zeb looked up and saw the Corolla pull into the parking lot. “I’ll think about it.”
Valleygirl Daymoon: Jennie Lawless
The kid selling the car was alone and he stood back from the vehicle with his arms crossed tight to his chest. He watched Chucho’s every move, as he popped the hood, started the car and revved it. Zeb walked to him in the driver’s seat and leaned in, both of them watching the kid, “How does it look?”
“Seems good so far but don’t say nothin’ yet.” Chucho rolled down the window and shouted over the engine, “hey if I leave my boyfriend here can I take it for a spin around the block.”
The kid turned nervously, “yeah but how far?”
“Far enough to know if it drives well,” Chucho said from the window as he ripped out of the parking lot.
Zeb shook his head and smiled after the car as it headed down the street. If Chucho had known more about Zeb he may not have made the joke but who knows, maybe there was more to learn about Chucho. He stood up on a curb next to the kid, “why are you selling the car?”
“Well my Grandma gave it to me to sell, I’m raising money for a trip.” He picked at his nails, shifting his eyes. His beard was more peach fuzz than stubble and there was a frailty to the way his cheeks sucked in below his eyes, you’d have thought the kid was raising money for treatment not a vacation.
“That’s nice of Grandma, send you out with a little fun money.” Craigslist was always like this, the convenience of unloading your shit muddied by the fact that there would be inevitable conversation with a stranger. The conversation predicated on a transaction that both people want to go more their way than the other, it was an exhausting push and shove. Zeb wondered how much the kid had sold on Craigslist before.
“Well it’s not fun money, I’m going to Guatemala.”
“Guatemala seems legit man, Tikal looks buck.” Zeb watched the kid squirm nervously at the questioning. Zeb was going to buy this car and he was going to entertain himself in the process.
“I’m going on a mission trip, it’s for my senior project.” The kid unrolled his arms and exposed a Biola University t-shirt.
“Oh that makes sense, a bible college kid.” There was a small silence as they looked in opposite directions. “The Bible Institute of Los Angeles.” Zeb spoke slowly unraveling each word in the name out loud as he read the kid’s shirt. “So no fun, just prayer circles and shit huh?” Zeb had been on missions trips of his own. The church his family went to supported missionaries and they would come by once every five or so years and update the church on what their money was going towards. A woman from Burundi updating them on her translation project, a reformed biker reporting back on his well digging in Tanzania, a childless couple in Romania caring for orphans, it was all a tin cup speech. The trips he had been on were more of a bullshit summer camp feel good romp around some tropical destination or the inner city. The church he went to for youth group was different from his parents’ church, it was a cool church and put those trips together. His parents always begrudgingly fronted him the money, curious as to the impact on the Kingdom of God.
“It’s more than that.” The kid was clearly upset, his hand held over his eyes looking for Chucho. “Is your buddy gonna come back with my car?”
“Yeah man, why?”
The kid felt the scathing tone of Zeb’s “why”. This kid was gonna have a fucking heart attack in Guatemala. He stayed quiet.
“You know when I was in high school I took a mission trip to Skid Row. Handed out sandwiches and shit.” The kid perked up, maybe thinking that he’d met a damaged member of the fold. Zeb liked that he winced every time he cursed. This kid was young. “And one of the days on the trip we had this leader who was our chaperone, but he was doing a bad job, on his phone the whole time. Eventually we find out why. Here we are, a group of ten high school kids and a yuppy insurance agent and this guy gets a local dealership to deliver his new BMW to Skid Row. He two birds with one stoned the mission trip and used it as an excuse to pick up his new ride. Swag.”
“Just sounds like a practical thing to do, the Lord doesn’t mind if we have nice things.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure he doesn’t give a shit, anyway my friend Jenny just lays into him for how fucked it was that he did that. A sixteen year old girl calling out his hypocrisy on the streets of Skid Row and after a beat all these hobos start taking her side and they start chucking their sandwiches that we packed for them at the car, and this mother fucker runs. Like gets in the car and splits leaving the ten of us on Skid Row. It was awesome.”
The kid was visibly annoyed, “look, is this some sort of scam?” Zeb could see the sweat forming under his arms. “Where’s your friend?” The kid put friend in air quotes. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Just then Chucho pulled up with the car and tossed the keys to the kid hitting him in the chest before they dropped on the ground. “Zeb, did you ask our friend here why he’s selling the car?” Chucho continued to circle. Talking as he looked under the fenders.
“Our friend, what’s your name?”
“Steven.”
“Steven here is raising money for his mission trip to Guatemala, isn’t that nice Chucho?” Zeb was smug tilting back onto his heels.
“A mission? Like the De Niro flick, god that movie is the tits.” Chucho was on the ground looking up at the engine from the bottom.
“I don’t know that movie. Look, I have class in 30 minutes. Do you want the car?” Chucho stood up and dusted himself off, “Why a mission trip to Guatemala? Didn’t the Catholics already do that? Colonizing pendejos.”
“That doesn’t mean anything for the people of Guatemala; they deserve to know the truth.” Steven puffed his chest, emboldened by the spirit.
“You’re right, Steve…” said Chucho.
“Steven.” The kid was checking his phone during the correction.
“Sorry, Steven, you’re right everyone deserves to know the truth, this car is busted it’s got a cracked head, you can see it all leaking on the bottom. Zeb, I can switch that out for you but it’ll be like 2500 bucks, parts and labor. How much did you want for this thing?”
“Well I was hoping to get 4000.”
Chucho whistled and pulled out a bandana from his pocket, wiping his hands clean, shaking his head as he looked at the car. He looked the part of mechanic all right, the sun illuminating him to look like a greasy angel. “4000 is pretty steep Steven, this car is almost 30 years old, before you were born, and with this cracked head you’re taking a risk anytime you drive it.”
Zeb was bummed to hear the news about the car but knowing that Chucho was offering to fix it seemed like a deal could be worked out, maybe he could trade more days helping him haul scrap to bring it down.
“Did you take it to a mechanic?” asked Chucho.
“No, I’m in a bit of a rush. The deposit for my trip is due this week.” The kid wringed his hands, “I thought you were a mechanic?”
“Well yeah but you don’t know me from Adam, Steven. If you want you can take a look under there it’s a mess.”
The kid abruptly picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Grandma, it’s Steven. Yeah. No, I’m talking with them now. It’s two guys. They said the, um, the,” he covered the phone with his free hand and shouted over to Chucho, “what did you say was cracked?”
“The head.”
“It’s got a cracked head. No, I don’t know what that means either. Ask Grandpa. He’s sleeping? Well wake him up. You’re right, sorry. The one guy is a mechanic.” He paused and looked over his shoulder, mumbling something into the phone. “I don’t know. No, Grandma, I’m not going to ask them that. Yes, Grandma.” He turned to them again, his face washed in a blush, “Are you guys baptized?”
Zeb and Chucho looked at each other and answered in unison, “yes.”
“They said yes. What?” Steven turned, “As babies?”
Zeb spoke up for both of them, “no man, sola scriptura, we’re protestant.” “What denomination?” Steven stared blankly at them, serious in the asking. “Southern Baptist.” said Zeb.
Steven finished his conversation and walked back over to them, “Grandma said she trusts your opinion. Will you do 2000 for the car?”
The car only had 50,000 miles on it. It was clear that it had been Grandma’s car for the grocery store and church all within a mile from home the entire time she owned it. If the repair on the head went well, Zeb would have the car for another 250,000k. “Yeah we can do 2000.”
“You boys have this covered, Zeb I gotta run into Home Depot, I’ll be back in a minute.” Chucho left the two of them standing there while Steven took out the title and placed it onto the hood.
Zeb watched over Steven’s shoulder as he struggled to fill out the boxes, rushing once he looked at his watch and saw that he’d be late for class.
“Hey Steven, what do you think about putting 100 bucks for the sales price, save a little money on taxes?”
Steven backed away like he’d been approached by a leper, “that would be lying.” The pen was frozen in his hand.
“You’re right but you know these tax dollars go towards…” Zeb was slow to think, quickly rattling off reasons in his mind, “abortions in prison.”
Steven paused, carefully considering the prospect of his unknown contribution to abortions behind bars, clearly working through the theology behind the prospect, “I think we should still put 2000, it’s an immoral government, but the authority nonetheless.” He marked the page and signed off on the title.
Zeb shook his hand, “give to Caesar what is Caesar’s.”
They watched Steven slink onto Biola’s campus and left the Corolla behind, the parking pass still stuck on the back window so it would remain safe for the rest of the day while they worked. “Chucho, you think we can trade work days to pay for the head replacement?” Chucho said nothing, Zeb looked over and saw his face was frozen in a silent laugh, tears streaming down his face as he tried catching his breath.
“What?”
“The car’s perfect cabron, I just wanted to fleece that fucking colonizer for mi amigos en Guatemala.” He was screaming with laughter, he turned up the Banda, the music blasting as they exited the campus. The security guard just stood and watched them go as they turned left and headed to Whittier.
Clarke e. Andros is a Los Angeles-based writer, teacher, and editor. He teaches literature at Roosevelt High School in the Boyle Heights neighborhood of Los Angeles while working as the fiction editor for the quarterly print magazine The Dry River. His work can be found in Dream Boy Book Club, The Dry River, and Currant Jam, among others.
Jennie Lawless is an artist based in Los Angeles, California, where they make music, paintings, and poems.
High Horse 
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