California Dreamin'

1967.

Way in front of the Pontiac’s hood the tarmac of the boulevard shimmers and melts under the pressing heat and excitement of California. A circle of tin can Hobos at the end of Route 15 that inspired a generation of kids to flip off the country and their parents, and to bomb it three sheets to the wind down the freeway until they could smell the marijuana. Streets upon bustling streets of acidic smiles and tobacco-stained teeth, the sweet tantalising promise of the world in your hands, burgers and short shorts that don’t quite fit. Hairy, black-toothed rednecks and shining, suited Yanks, movie stars and models, the re-ignited embers of the American Dream, burning bright enough to compete with the beating sun. I watch the road carry us West towards Brentwood, a sweating, gray, conveyor-belt punctuated with palms, sweet golden girls in the prime of their innocent and promising youth, bedraggled Berkley-type bohemians smoking tea in groups of purposely frayed and stained rags, countless shouting billboards and signs looking to drain my wallet for liquor, girls, Coca-Cola, food…

“Pass us that bag?”

The dense air tickles the hair on my arm resting out the window of the backseat, drying the steady stream of sweat that futilely battles the warmth of the cross-hatched asphalt streets of the West. Taking the final drag of my cigarette, I flick it to the sizzling curb and slide another out of the packet in the breast pocket of my shirt. On the corner of South Mansfield Avenue, a line of police Diplomats are all parked in a row in the parking lot of L.A. Burger, their tubby drivers milling around the turquoise square building, dabbing the sweat that steadily streams from beneath their caps and shoving burgers wrapped in yellow napkins into their dripping mouths.

“Kid…”

What a journey that awaits me. First Sacramento, then Salt Lake City for kicks with Max, and then the world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open! The car soars over the tarmac, slipping between bright, varnished bumpers. Flying through each intersection, I catch winks from the Griffith Observatory, casting its wise old cosmic eye over the crowded debauchery of modern-day Los Angeles, silently frowning its telescopic brow at the sex, rebellion and downright recklessness of the 20th Century– If only they could see us now!

“Kid… Pass me that bag in the back!”

My cigarette falls out of my hand onto the road.

“Sorry.” I fumble the surprisingly heavy duffle bag over to the meaty, ringed fingers that await it, belonging to the guy in the passenger seat.

“Long gone for a moment there, ay kid.” Says the driver, through clouds of smoke. I know neither of their names, but these guys definitely have had the nicest motor since my journey back from the border. I smile and mumble apologetically again, taking another cigarette. These men have lungs like steam trains and the intimidating demeanour of alcoholic silverbacks so in the name of good will I better follow suit. With a scant purple fur coat hanging off her shoulders, a fish-netted woman pulls a drooling dog by his tie through the curtained door of a dilapidated ‘THEATRE’. A preacher shuffles his feet deeper into the dirt and grime of the sidewalk with each prophetic word mumbled from his quivering lips. Now is not the time to be a God-fearing old man. In a city of sinful passions and pleasures one will do best to gratify all of his as immediately as possible before our short fuses fizzle out. The driver turns to me as we slow at the intersection for South Crescent Heights.

“We’re gonna have to make a quick stop in a second but whilst we’re there you can climb into the front and keep her ticking for us.”

I don’t question why, as we turn left at the intersection and follow the road a couple hundred feet, rolling to a stop beside a big white cinema billboard spelling ‘IN COLD BLOOD’ in thick black letters.

“Here we go. Keep her on and jump in front kid.” Says Meathands, grabbing the bag in the footwell by his feet.

Out on the street they mill around the boot of the car for a second then walks towards the entrance. Climbing over into the driver’s seat, just before they walk underneath the shade of the billboard, I see a flash of silver in the waistband of Meathands’ jeans, before he flicks his birds of paradise shirt over his belt and walks into the foyer.

My stomach drops and sweat drips off my brow on to my chest. Breathless, my hands dance over the polished steering wheel. Adrenaline balls up in my stomach and shoots across my body, vibrating my hands and tensing my legs, rooting my heels in the footwell under the pedals. The Mama’s and Papa’s dream their radio dreams of California, cutting through the dread that now streams out of the windows of the car in great plumes, above the cinema and up towards the burning sun.

***

Time passes outside the cinema, six-point-five litres of growling American muscle vibrating beneath my feet. In a delirious fog, I grab the handbrake of the car and push it down, freeing the four wheels on the flat road. Hands on the wheel. Constantly looking over my shoulder towards the caramelized glass doors of the cinema, I’m expecting them to catch me. Before I can put the clutch down, I curse my ability to overthink and pull the brake up – they did not look afraid to use them, presuming they both had one. God knows what else men like Meathands & Co wouldn’t be afraid to do.

Outside the car, two muted bangs permeate the film of my anxiety. Snapping my neck round in nervous anticipation, I see the reflection of the street split in two and give way to the two men sprinting towards the vehicle.

“Let’s go kid, let’s go!” Says the driver, who’s spindly shoulders look so sharp before they give way to his long reedy arms. Like a Mantis.

I slam the clutch down and gun the fucker, as they bowl themselves into the backseat.

Back on the Boulevard. The colours have changed. Riding the highs of adrenaline, the bright sun and fluorescent colours blind me as the humid air whips my face, drying my eyeballs red as we cut through traffic, weaving between more glaring chrome bumpers – a shining, mechanic eel of chaos snaking through this clammy, Californian river of asphalt.

“Mother – fucking – A man!!” I clock Mantis in the rear-view pouring money out of the duffle bag, onto his lap.

Meathands is grinning, sifting through the notes spilled on the backseat with a green gleam of delight across his face. He leans over the front seat, grabbing a black leather purse from the glovebox. Out of the purse he pulls a small glass vial, that he upturns onto the tendon between his thumb and forefinger, spilling flaky white powder all over his lap as the wheels of the Pontiac try their best to ignore the potholes.

“Watch it with that! We’re still in broad fucking daylight.” Mantis warns, snatching the black purse as Meathands loudly snorts the powder into his nose, before licking the surface of his hand clean.

“What are you worried about? We’ve got the money and the kid’s doing good!” he says nasally, winking at me through the rear-view mirror as we continue snaking down the boulevard. “Success so far kid – want some?”

Mantis interjects before I can reply, “You don’t have to do anything kid just get us to Canoga Park, we can’t piss this opportunity away getting pulled because of you.”

“Give him a chance to speak for himself…” Meathands wiggles the vial beside my ear, grinning through the rear view.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

Every few seconds I think I see a flash of blue behind me, plunging me into sweaty fits of anxiety. My hands slip on the varnished wood of the steering wheel, swerving the car way too close to the rear of a rusted, brown Falcon packed up with the lives and memories of a migrating family of four – the corrupted depravity of the botoxed, rehabbed land of palms and promise too much for them, teeth-gritted and white knuckled as they race out of the city. I should know. What the fuck is happening?

Shakily I slide a cigarette out of my breast and into my mouth. Meathands pokes a lighter in front of me and leaning into it, I see a blink of blue pass between cars a few hundred feet back. Pulling the flame into the head of tobacco, thin wisps of smoke escape my mouth and flower in front of me as I see it again, moving up the lanes of traffic, reeling itself towards me like a fish on a line. It’s unmistakable, a great shining, flashing white tooth of authority pushing through the traffic. Shit. I’m sandwiched between two Fords and can only watch as vehicles give way to the screeching wail of urgency that rides up the far lane, closer by the second. They’ve both noticed it too, turning their heads back in fear as we cruise the current of the traffic, unable to escape or hide. My heart is thumping in my ears and my stomach drops, somersaulting onto the pedals in the footwell below. Maybe I can get out of this, absolve myself of responsibility – I didn’t have a clue this was going to happen. Should have bailed when I had the chance. Some aged and ludicrous sense of adolescent hunger, a lust for danger and irresponsibility, was keeping me in front of that steering wheel. How would that save my ass when I go down for driving the getaway car? Three cars behind now and we still can’t budge. The fish has swallowed the worm. I take a big drag of my cigarette, satisfyingly charring my lungs and burning my throat as I exhale, and crane my neck out the window to watch the Diplomat dart past, shooting down the boulevard to some unknown movie producer's out-of-control cocaine fuelled sex party, or who knows.

A space to my right appears and without needing to be told twice, I swerve at the intersection, off the boulevard and onto a relatively quiet side street, pulling the car over and slamming my back into the seat, my hands still tightly gripping the wheel.