Hummingbird Read online

She locks the dead bolt and I get a bump of adrenaline. I’m staring at the lock thinking ’bout getting kidnapped by meth heads, tied up in the tub, and being burnt with cigarettes.

  My heart starts pounding.

  I say, “Excuse me a sec…I just gotta do this one thing…”

  I undo the bolt and leave.

  She says, “Come back.”

  I walk down the hall in a controlled march, I hit the steps and try to calm down. I mean that was weird but I shouldn’t be freaking out this much.

  I get outside and take a deep breath of the night air. My face is flushed and my head’s throbbing. My stomach feels like I’ve been drinking battery acid.

  What the fuck is going on? I feel heat between my legs and it hits me, the bootleg Viagra’s kicked in. It’s not mixing well with the GHB. I prolly shouldn’t have taken both pills. I shuffle down the hill towards Sunset with half a hard-on.

  The more I walk, the more my dick rubs against my khakis and the more it rubs, the harder it gets. I’m full-blown erect by the time I pass a couple on their evening stroll.

  I see ’em under the street light, they’re Silver Lake’s finest. He’s a weak-chinned, bearded guy with a big-brimmed hat, she’s wearing paint-splattered jeans, proof she’s an artist. He’s got her walking on the outside, like a bitch. I’m coming down the hill at ’em from the dark, in a red-faced stagger. I’m hunchbacked trying to hide this boner in my pants.

  I see ’em tense up.

  So I speak, “How you doing tonight?”

  They pretend not to hear me.

  I pretend not to be offended and continue on my way.

  I make it to the main strip. Cars are whizzing by. I’m burping up Mexican food thinking about how that white chick with a dolphin was too good to be true.

  Them OC bitches ain’t gonna call me for a hookup. I’m leaning on a tree, puking up tacos in front of Intelligentsia. Not the sober ones, at least.

  happy endings

  Deon’s boxing my head. Donnie’s hyping him up, Yata’s laughing with the rest of ’em.

  We’re in the grass on the side of my building. I’m swinging back. But I’m younger and smaller, it ain’t doing much. I’m surrounded and eating punches.

  He’s bouncing around catching me. He’s toying with me now.

  I was just hanging out with these kids. They’re my friends. But now we’re fighting and I don’t know why.

  I thought we were friends.

  At seven you don’t notice, but we’re a lot alike. We’re all poor from broken homes.

  Deon’s dad’s a drunk; so is Yata’s.

  Donnie’s dad’s in prison. He’s never been around. All he has is one picture of him, from visitation. Donnie’s next to him sitting at a metal picnic table, wearing a ball cap, smiling.

  The first time I saw the pic, I got sad for him. His mom doesn’t work. She’s always doing her makeup but ain’t never going nowhere. She just chain-smokes her Moores and waits for the check to come.

  Deon’s tired. I am too. There’s a lull in my beating. It doesn’t even hurt. I just feel left out and confused. I’m trying to talk to them, figure out how we even got here.

  My hippie mom’s got me living here, but she didn’t tell me about not letting no one punk you, that “whys” don’t matter when someone’s punching you in the head, you just gotta make ’em stop.

  They don’t talk about that in my Free to Be…You and Me book. They just tell you to be nice. They don’t tell you what to do when the other guy isn’t.

  I’m twirling my hair. My voice is high, it’s squeaky, I sound like a girl. What’d I do? Why don’t they like me? Can’t we go back to fifteen minutes ago and be friends again?

  I’m trying to reason with them, but kids don’t understand reason. All they understand is force and candy.

  They’re letting me speak and I’m the center of attention, the way a calf surrounded by lions is.

  Donnie’s tired of hearing me talk. He tells Deon to hit me. So he does. And we’re back at it.

  What do I do?

  My mom’s people never taught me to fight. They’re civil. They discourage violence. They have pleasant parties with good conversation and spinach dip. They never raise their voices. They don’t disagree.

  When I fight with my cousin or get loud at the dinner table and they see my dad in me, they don’t get mad. They just avert their eyes and change the subject. And I finish my supper next to them, alone.

  The kids are yelling, Deon’s peppering my face, and my punches aren’t working.

  How would my dad handle this? He’s wild. He can fight. He can whoop all their daddies.

  It comes to me what he told me.

  He squatted down in front of me and said, “If anyone fucks witcha, punch ’em in the fuckin’ dick. Ya grab ’em by their balls and yank ’em.”

  In the moment this seems like sound advice. So that’s what I do. I bend down and start swinging at his dick.

  Deon’s like, “What the fuck you doing?!”

  I don’t answer, I stay charging him. He backpeddles and punches my head.

  I’m socking where his dick’s s’posed to be, but it’s not slowing this guy down. I’ma have to turn it up a notch. I’ma have to crush his balls.

  He’s lighting up the top of my head. I grab at his Lee jeans. They’re tight. It’s hard to grip. There’s nothing there.

  I guess ten-year-olds don’t have a lot of dick.

  The kids are yelling, “Ewwww, he gay!!”

  “Jude a faggot!”

  I won’t quit. I just keep eating punches. He’s hammer-fisting my back, the kids are yelling “fag” and I’m still grasping at his jeans. It looks like I lost a contact in his crotch and I’m trying to find it.

  Frustrated, I finally let go of his Lees and Deon stops punching me.

  I’m tired. I’m bent over breathing hard, looking down at his shoes. They’re the Pumas with fat laces. Man, those are cool.

  Donnie yells, “Jude, you gay as fuck!”

  I look up, “No I ain’t!”

  Yata cracks, “Aaaaah you like dick, nigga.”

  They all laugh.

  Deon’s stuttering, “He wah-was all on my nutsack. Like a la-li’l fag.”

  Now I’m copping pleas. “No I wasn’t! I was just trying to crush your balls.”

  “What?! Crush his balls?! Yeah riiight!”

  They’re howling. I’m embarrassed.

  I’m still trying to explain myself when Deon steps up and pushes me in my chest. I flip backwards, over a kid bent down behind me, and land on my back.

  Ooof!

  I’m lying in the grass. My eyes tear up. Oldest trick in the book.

  They leave me there and ramble off.

  I crawl to my feet and look to see who snuck up and tripped me.

  I shake my head. It was Trevor, the dirty-ass heavy metal kid.

  Man, I forgot he was even there.

  night moves

  Craig didn’t wanna party, he just wanted something low-key. And that’s what it looked like when we got there; seven people sitting in a semicircle, having quiet conversation, no music, CNN on with the sound off. They’re covering Trump.

  It’s hot in here; it’s cool outside. I go outside. I’m on my phone texting people not to show.

  I’m coming down off the GHB, I take another pull from the bottle in my pocket.

  I’ve been high all day. Me and Eddie, getting fried taking G walking down Sunset. Just a couple old dudes, checking out young chicks in their high-waisted short shorts, asses hanging out. They tug ’em down when we look at ’em.

  I say under my breath, “You better. I’m a wolf, I’ll eat you.”

  We hit some English pub in Echo Park for fish and chips. The food’s mediocre. The prices are high.

 
The hipster Asian waitress asks us how we like it. I tell her I don’t. She nods and smiles and walks away.

  I’m chewing on this dry-ass Yorkshire pudding, I say, “Fuck she ask me for? She don’t want the truth, she just wants a tip.”

  Eddie pops a fry. “They never do.”

  This little Mexican chick clears the table. We’ve been talking to her all night. She’s a neighborhood girl with a chola accent and a can-do attitude, been bussing here since they opened and still ain’t got bumped up to waitress.

  That’s how they do. Move in, take your shit, and hire the natives to do the grunt work.

  It’s got me thinking of this old-ass picture I saw today. Some spot gets colonized and this British motherfucker has this little brown lady carry him around in a basket strapped to her back. He’s got on a safari hat, smoking a pipe, and she’s happy to do it.

  That’s life. I slide the chola a ten and we leave.

  I’m at the party on the deck waiting for the G to kick in. Eddie comes out with Craig and says he wants a hit. I hand him the bottle. I’m trying to think what we can use to measure it. This batch is strong; he probably only needs a half a teaspoon.

  Before I can say anything, Craig opens the bottle and takes a monster swig.

  My eyes go wide. He hands the bottle back. It’s lost some weight. I hold it up to the light; it’s halfway gone.

  I’m like, “Um, Craig, you need to go throw up.”

  He says, “It’s the same amount I did last time.”

  I say, “No, it’s not. You did a bunch man, go ’url.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Dude, I’m fine.”

  I give him a look. When the druggy of the party is telling you to go puke, you should listen.

  Eddie shrugs.

  I’m like, “Don’t say nothing when you wake up with a bloody asshole and a crumpled twenty in your hand.”

  I remind myself to leave early before the shit hits the fan.

  Then the pizza shows up and my buzz kicks in.

  Rob turns on some music. It’s U2. Bono gets on my nerves, smug as fuck with his indoor sunglasses, but Rob’s from Ireland so he’s gotta like ’em the same way I gotta like Bob Seger.

  I take a bite out my pizza and drink some Coke. I’m thinking, This party’s turning out pretty good. Craig prolly didn’t drink that much G. I’ve been going hard all week. I’m prolly just trippin’. New Order’s playing. It’s like being back at the roller rink.

  I’m talking to Rob’s girl about animal rights. I tell her, “They got the right to be my food.”

  She don’t wanna hear that, but I’m an upper-middle-class American, I’m okay with being the top of the food chain.

  She changes the subject to something we can both agree on: now we’re talking about how much we hate vegans.

  I look over and see Craig on the couch, leaning to the side, chin resting in his palm, mouth open. He’s got a flop sweat going. I stay talking to her but I’m watching him. Now we’re talking about gluten-free diets.

  I’m halfway listening. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

  Then Craig’s head drops forward like he’s been shot, his chin hits his chest and his hand’s still pointing up. I excuse myself.

  I walk to the couch and bend over in front of him. “Craig, what up man? You good?”

  Nothing.

  I shake him a bit. He flops around. Weekend at Bernie’s. I smack his cheek. Nothing.

  Rob’s girl comes over. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, he just had too much GHB.”

  “What’s that?”

  I say, “The date-rape drug.”

  She says, “Oh.”

  She looks worried.

  I’m trying to downplay it, “We could probably rape the shit out of him right now.”

  She doesn’t laugh. She touches his forehead. “He’s burning up.”

  “He’ll be good,” I tell her. “Prolly just sleep for an hour or two and wake up real horny.”

  It’s happened to me a few times and that’s how it ended, but I don’t know about Craig. I don’t know how much he did or how much booze he drank already. I’m thumbing the bottle in my pocket; goddamn it feels light.

  I start thinking about this shit I read, some forty-year-old broad in Venice died off the G. Four people sent me the article this morning. She ODed at a beach rave. But I don’t know how much she did, they never tell you how much they do. How you s’posed to not OD if they don’t tell you how much?

  People keep showing up to the party to find the birthday boy wrecked on the couch and I’m having to explain why. I wanna make sure I show concern but distance myself at the same time.

  I’m shaking my head, shrugging, “I told him he drank too much, but he ain’t wanna listen.”

  “Sure, Jude,” they say.

  It’s an hour later, he’s still not moving. We got the icepacks on him. I got a metal ice bucket in front of his face, waiting for him to puke.

  Janet comes in from outside and says, “Is my friend gonna be okay…” she’s holding up her phone, “…or do I need to call an ambulance?”

  That’s the last thing we need is some motherfucker in a uniform showing up.

  I say, “He’s fine.”

  She’s says, “He doesn’t look it.”

  I pretend to check his pulse. “Don’t call nobody. He’s good.”

  She takes a sip of wine and snaps, “Well, he better be.”

  I’m thinking, If this guys dies, she’s gonna be the one who tells on me.

  An hour later and he’s still not up. Strangers are talking in hushed tones, whispering behind Solo cups. I can feel their eyes on me.

  What if he don’t make it?

  I’ma have to find another house to stash my drugs. Rachel won’t do it, Andrea neither. Ross has a kid. I’ll dig a hole somewhere.

  I look down at Craig; now he’s convulsing. I’m really mad at this dude. Messing up the pizza party. He ain’t listen, now we’re here and I’m holding the bucket. This motherfucker better not die.

  He stops moving. We sit in silence for five minutes, watching. Then he leans forward, opens his mouth, and wretches. He fills up the bucket. I empty it in the toilet and he fills it some more.

  I’m holding it in front of his face, patting his back. “That’s right, buddy. Get it out, man. Get it out.”

  He’s puking and mumbling and I ain’t never been this happy to see chewed-up pizza before.

  brain games

  The radio job has me move to New York.

  I get there in ’04; it’s a shadow of itself. Their pussies still hurt off the 9/11 shit and they ain’t do nothing significant since the nineties. Worst part is, they been reading their own press so long, no one noticed the city turned into a fucking shopping mall.

  I feel like a redneck in Manhattan. The cabbies hear my accent and try to take me the long way home. I’m always arguing with ’em.

  I don’t know where the good pizza is.

  I ain’t got no friends. All I have is work acquaintances and chicks I’m about to fuck or chicks I used to fuck.

  New York is hard on me.

  Work’s even tougher.

  I don’t get along with the people at my job—all that keeping-it-real hood shit is bad for you in a corporate environment. I thought you could just check someone in hallway when they’re fucking up. That’s frowned upon, nowadays you need emails and paper trails. Talking nice is more important than being competent and nobody likes me.

  My roommate’s some Jewish broad that wears UGG boots and has Oscar parties with catty gay dudes that talk about celebrities’ evening gowns. They never like ’em.

  The only conversation I remember us having is her trying to sell me on Green Day’s American Idiot album.

  She hits a joint and puts it on. The lead dude’s vocals so
und like he used to get his lunch money took at school, then go home and get fucked by his uncle.

  I’m staring at the stereo, I look up, “Is he always this whiny?”

  She’s got her eyes closed, humming along. “Shhhh. Just listen to the lyrics.”

  I sit quiet for like thirty seconds. Thinking about what I’m gonna do tomorrow.

  I say, “Well, I like that, ‘Hope you have the time of your life’ shit they do, so…you know…”

  I get up and go to my room. She stays and finishes the CD. I can hear it through the wall.

  A few days later I’m out with Jessica, this little white girl I met through Annie. They know each other from rehab. They both liked coke too much and Jess was a cutter.

  Jessica was looking for someone to choke her out, Annie said I could help.

  It’s Sunday night and Jess and I are trying to grab a bottle of pinot, take it home, and chill. Everything’s closed. We walk all over the damn city and come back to my crib empty-handed.

  The Jewish chick’s entertaining in the living room. It’s three couples. They’re playing board games, laughing, and drinking wine. They stop when we walk in.

  Jewish broad’s fake polite and asks, “So, how’s your night so far?”

  I say, “Crazy, we just spent the last hour and a half looking for a bottle of wine. I guess everything closes early on Sundays out here.”

  She’s nodding, glass of red in her hand, “Wow. Crazy.”

  I say, “Yeah…all we wanted was some wine.”

  They got three bottles of Merlot on the coffee table next to the game. The girl on the couch lifts her glass and takes a sip of hers.

  I say, “That looks fun, whachall doing?”

  Jewish chick’s like, “Oh, you know, just hanging out and stuff.”

  I say, “Cool. What game is that?”

  She says, “Cranium.”

  And that’s it. There’s room on the couch, but they don’t scoot over.

  They’re looking up at us like when the waiter tells you what the specials are, nodding and smiling, waiting for us to go.

  We’re nodding now too.

  The Jewish chick shrugs, “Whelp…looks like we better get back to the game.”