Chapter 7: Present Tense

Chapter 7Present Tense

It was supposed to have been a usual Tuesday. A casual exchange. He needed bike parts, a fence on the Fig had them. That was Justino’s entire modus operandi ever since he was first jumped into Big Hazard, or Hazard Grande, when dealing in enemy territory. At that moment, he was deep in the belly of the beast. He looked around him with only his eyes, cruising his motorcycle Eydie down the street looking for a pawn shop called “Diddy’s”. He had a good wad of hundreds stuffed in his pants, a snub nose .44 with the serial number filed off hanging from his hip to hopefully deter any would-be muggers. Yet he began feeling a certain dread he couldn’t shake. Like a cry for help twisted into a scream calling for everything to burn. Where was it coming from? Sweat began to drip down his neck. And there, by the front of a motel, he saw her. “The perfect dynamite gal” someone might say. She looked perfect. Almost… too perfect. Seemingly just above average height, not too perky, not too slim, not too slouched, not too upright. She looked young, but not too young. It was like someone tailor engineered her to be the least offensive option here on the Fig. Somehow, the matching purple and blue wig they put on her was also not objectionable. There was a logo stamped on her, something Justino couldn’t quite make out. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t, not while ensnared in this young woman’s presence. Yet there was no light behind those violet-bluish eyes. He couldn’t look away, despite how unsettled he felt looking at her.
Fuck, he thought. He was supposed to be there strictly for a new muffler and gear system, supposed to help the bike run smoother. What the hell is he doing?
He parked Eydie, adjusted his gait, and approached her pimp.
“500,” he said. “In unmarked bills.”
“You buyin’, high roller?”
“Take it or leave it,” he said, mimicking the sounds of biker gangsters he’d met out on the road.
“500 gets you a few nights with her. You’d better bring her back to me or–”
“Or what?” said Justino, flashing his revolver. Definitely not a gun you want in your face. “You can’t threaten me. I’m already dead. If I’m buyin’ a ho for my set, I’m buyin’ it. You either sayin’ no or you takin’ my money. What’s it gon’ be Mac Daddy?”
The pimp relented, seeing a very distinct Mi Vida Loca tattoo on Justino’s hand likely inked with street tools. He could tell this dude wasn’t playing. Little did he know, he just sold someone to a high schooler.
“Fine, keep her,” said the pimp. “I got a hundred more just like her, waiting on me for everything.”
Without looking back, Justino grabbed her by the arm, strapped her to the back of his bike, and drove off. Must’ve passed by who knows how many strange faces? All the while, he couldn’t shake that sense of dread.
After a good long while, they finally reached his flat in Corona. He took her in and locked the door, though realistically who was coming all the way out there?
Immediately, she began undressing. In a soft, rehearsed voice she spoke: “I may not be a real girl but I’m special. I can be special to you.”
Justino, snapping out of it, takes off his riding jacket and throws it around her, trying not to notice that she has a penis. He realises he was wrong. She is too young. The mark on her neck is at last legible—“Property of Violandus Medi-sol, Inc.”
What the fuck did I do?
“…Look. I know you think it might be smart makin’ a break for it. Just… hold on. What’s your name?”l
“Wendy,” she answered, as if on autoplay, still seemingly attempting to initiate a sexual encounter.
“Stop, stop, you don’t gotta do that!”
“You’re gonna kill me if I don’t please you,” she answered.
“No!”
She broke, fell to her knees, and for the first time in who knows how long snapped back into reality.
“Hey hey, it’s… it’s gon be ok… Do you remember your actual name?”
She doesn’t answer for a while, just cries.
After an hour of sitting up against the wall sharing a cigarette, she answers.
“Irina. Irina Poole.”
“…Is your family lookin’ for you?”
“Probably not. They’re the ones who put me in this situation.”
“Oh… That’s fucked up.”
“Is it weird to say I think I know you?”
“Shit man… who knows.”
“I think I went to school with you.”
“What, at Jefferson Middle—“
“Weston Academy.”
Justino went silent. That was a part of his life he kept strictly segregated from the rest of it.
“You called Ruby Casanova a barbie bitch to her face, man,” she said. “You think everyone forgot about that?”
“…Didn’t care,” he said. “To be honest I hate Weston. You go?”
“Went. I hated it too. Hated Ruby most of all. She kept spreading rumours I was trans and eventually my parents found out. They’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, so… Here we are. Three months later. I look nothing like how I did back then.”
The implications of what that meant sit uncomfortably in Justino’s head.
“You’re a good man in a cruel world, Justino.”
“So you remember my name?”
“I didn’t wanna be like everyone else. They called you El Chapo.”
“Pfft. Not even the biggest narco, but of course that’s the one they go for… I’m not a good man.”
“I’ve seen literally every kind of person since…”
The words die in her mouth.
“I know you’re better than most of them. You actually did something.”
“This ain’t freedom. I won’t keep you here but like… where you gonna go? And… truth be told, I dunno why I did what I did. Sure as hell wasn’t cause I thought you needed rescuing. I just… I dunno. I think if it wasn’t you, I wouldn’t have done that. I almost didn’t. I was out there for bike parts from a fence. I hate Fig Street. Well… the water works here, just takes a bit to heat up. Y’know, if… you wanna wash up.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I… I don’t mean to pry, but… what’s your story?”
“It ain’t worth talkin’ ‘bout. It’s nothin’. This… whole rental here, is just a testament to my own isolation. I sucked a guy’s dick for it, if you can believe it.”
Irina had no idea how to respond. She simply took a shower and tried not to mind that she’d been given a serial number tattoo by an actual pharmaceuticals corporation. Justino sat on his mildewy couch and imagined that fresh(ish) water must have felt good to Irina. After so long in a living nightmare. Yet the sensation faded as he began his own dirty ritual. Two acetaminophens and a bit of cough syrup to take the edge off. Watching the room spin felt good after how stressful life had been. He felt bad about what he was doing. Then… he was there. Nodding off. Chasing the dragon. A youth well spent. At least he wasn’t wasting Laura’s money to do it. It was the one thing he prided himself on. He never wasted anyone’s money but his own that he earned from working part time gigs at various mechanic shops around LA. He didn’t mind being paid only under the table. It was familiar. Expected, even.
Then Irina came out wearing his clothes. Camo jeans, an old beat up pair of combat boots, one of his band tank tops–in this case Sleater-Kinney.
“Didn’t peg you for a Sleater-Kinney fan,” she said.
“Yeah… me neither. Here we are,” he replied with his mind in a haze.
“You… You mind if I get some?”
Of course. Of course she was like him. How else do you survive the streets without picking it up?
“I should say no. But I’m a piece of shit. I can’t stop you. Sure,” he says.
She sits down on the couch and gazes up at the wall, awaiting release.
“How old are you, Irina?”
“About two years your junior. You do the math.”
“I don’t think I want to.”
He felt like he should end himself for what was going on in the discomfort of his own glorified isolation chamber.
“Don’t feel bad. It feels better that way. It feels better this way,” she replies, the youth and hint of a male voice coming through somehow a bit clearer.