The Crew

Untitled Part 16

Chapter Sixteen

A few more people from Oxnard that Bone and Johnny knew from the punk underworld showed up, one I recognized from the Ventura Theatre U.S. show, a bright green Mohawk. Sophia invited more of her girlfriends, cramming nearly 20 people into the room. Smoke filled the air, bottles and beer cans were everywhere. A thrum of voices wafted through the place, a constant chatter that sounded like nothing if you stopped trying to listen.

Still by the bed in the corner, Bone seemed demonic, and next to him, Johnny. Two of Johnny and Bone's Port Hueneme buddies challenged Laura and her friend to some kind of drinking game. Cannon and Sophia still sat on the floor Indian style, flirting, talking incessantly, Sophia gesturing frenetically with her hands, seeming fully immersed.

I pushed my way through, stepping over people and moving toward the big window. In a way, it reminded me of pushing through the "wall of assholes" as Cannon called it, on my path toward the stage at Ventura Theatre. At the window, I saw the pool and Jacuzzi and all the guests moving about in their leisure down below, complacent, as if in slow motion. Bone and Johnny sat in almost complete darkness.

"Hey, Dog, glad we wooed you over here," Johnny said, his eyes drifting creepily up to me.

I could barely hear him over the hubbub. His voice was a low hum, with a subtle twinge of melancholy, distorted sound waves rippling across the air without anyone else hearing, as if no one else were here, just Bone and Johnny and me.

At last, as if it was meant to be, I was alone for the first time with Bone and Johnny. Johnny's tousled hair fell all over his face and he smelled like he hadn't showered or changed his clothes in days. His thin, chiseled face was translucent, the drugs zapping his features of all life. His sharp nose gave way to hollow eyes. He reeked of booze and weed and I knew he was on something else.

Bone, his equal counterpart and partner in crime, was bearing witness to the ancient shaman's exchange of teacher to pupil: the first time. A sense of ceremony began. Johnny scanned around, his dark eyes searching the room for lurkers, anyone who might be attempting to spy on our arrangement.

Assured of privacy—as much as he could be in a motel room crammed with people—Johnny towed out a baggy with white powder and began smiling at me with that menacing gape of his.

"Dog, the time has come my boy. Tonight we consecrate your manhood. Remember when I first met you at The Squat? You came in more innocent than a boy scout, but tonight," he smiled, eyeing Bone, "that all ends, my dear lad."

"Eh huhgh," I coughed. "What's in the baggy?"

"The question isn't what's in the bag but rather what isn't. This, my brother, is heaven. Paradise. Sanctuary. Refuge. Perfection." He paused for drama. "Salvation." An even bigger grin emerged. "Right here Dog, we got some good old fashion scag. China White baby, the best in the west. This stuff's gonna knock your ass sideways then pick ya right back up and let you slide down till 5 A.M., and believe me, by then you'll only be ready for more."

Here it was. We weren't talking alcohol. Or pot. This wasn't stealing some booze from my folks, or a credit card from Bear's. We were talking dope. Junk. Heroin. It was a coming full circle experience. I'd walked into The Squat that day like some little girl, confused, disgusted, scared. Now? I was in a different position. I'd seen some things. Done some things.

"Oh, wow, heroin, I mean—"

"Hey, shhhhhh, c'mon man, don't use that word. I dunno who's who here ya know. Keep it cool, cat, keep it slang. Scag, man. Scag."