The Crew

Untitled Part 15

Chapter Fifteen

Cannon gave Bear the eye signal; we glugged the rest of our beers, trudged outside Lorenzo's apartment, jumped in the Jeep, and waited while Bear rammed the ignition, switching the gear into reverse and hammering the gas, splitting our ears open with a god-awful explosion, a scene right out of A Clockwork Orange. As Bear hit the pedal swerving the Jeep forward, Lorenzo emerged out of the front door, spilling curses we'd never heard before. There went Bear's rapport with Lorenzo.

We still had the entire Saturday night ahead of us. The plan was simple: Punk party at the Motel 6 in Oxnard. Bear, this time, was under the gun: He had to filch his dad's credit card.

I'd ended up staying in Oxnard, not returning home like I should've. Sarah had woken me up at five A.M., bleary-eyed, her bed smelling of sweat and the fetid stench of sex; dried cum and the ripe scent of latex.

"Jack, you have to go. My dad will murder us both."

So out I'd gone, hurling my stinky clothes on, still damp from the show, nodding to Beyonce as I left, full of myself, proud that I'd done "it" for the first time. But the final kiss—deep, wet—before silently striding down her hall, her parents on the other side of the wall, still sleeping, had been mind-boggling. She'd run her fingers through my hair, scratched my chin lightly with her fingernail and said, "You and me, babe."

I. Was. Not. A. Virgin. Holy crap. I'd crossed that fabled line in the teenage sand. I'd poked the belly of the beast. I'd swum down to the bottom of the ocean and returned to the surface. Like The Iliad, I'd descended into hell and returned. I was no longer a boy. I was a man. Well, at least I was arrowing that direction. Jesus. And I couldn't even tell Cannon. That burned.

Bear headed south on Victoria Avenue, the long street whittling closer and closer to the ocean, passing Hollywood Beach and Channel Islands harbor, past the sailing boats and private yachts onto Melrose Drive, like all the others in Strand named after famous streets in Los Angeles. Bear's parents were comfortable middleclass folk who lived a block from the ocean. His father was a stock analyst and his mother was a stay-at-home with his five-year-old sister. They were definitely part of "the system."

"I'm gonna sneak in real fast and get it done with, ok?" Bear said.

Cannon sounded skeptical. "Bullshit. We're going in"

"It worked at my place," I said. Cannon glared at me.

We passed through a narrow iron gate and landed at a back door. Bear knocked. A compact, stocky man with a bear-like nose answered. Wearing beige Dockers and a collared shirt, he was the opposite, at least externally, of Bear.

"Forget your key again?" His eyes scrunched, suspicious.

"Dad, these are my friends from school, Cannonball and Dog. These are nicknames of course, but it's the way we operate and we'd appreciate if you stuck to their names as deemed by us." It was stated so formally, as if Bear was meeting this man for the first time.

"Well then, it's nice to meet you Dog, and what was it, Cannonbull?"

"Cannonball, sir, it's Ball, not Bull," Cannon said, embarrassed, eyeing us quickly, making sure we wouldn't laugh.

"Ah, yes, Cannonball, right. It's nice to make both your acquaintances. My name is Carlton. I'm Justin's father, please do come in, won't you, gentlemen?"

Bear had already piled past all three of us and was in the kitchen making a ruckus. With a turn of Carlton's body and an insistent wave of his hand we were inside the house and the front door was securely shut.