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Previous Page Inset: Going up. A downhill
machine laying in wait for the sermon to begin
on the 8th floor. Worshippers pour out of an
elevator en masse. Spread: Go baby go! Olson
scoots to the front of the pack in a lay-down
squat. Photo: Basia
arrested on the sidewalk by his brother, the
cop."
"TOOPID!"
"Too-pid."
"Right, so what's the gig?".
"It's religion dude. The clock strikes
twelve midnight, the Brotherhood appears
out of the elevators on the top floor of the
garage, ceremonial quarts are imbibed and
the sermon begins. The service lasts 'til the
final turn at the bottom, then it's into the
elevator and back to the top where the
sermon repeats itself."
"Sounds like a plan. When can you pick
me up?"
"At eleven-thirty."
"Til then."
He hangs up the receiver and begins to
twirl the Q-tip inside one of his ears. Once
he figures he's accumulated enough ear-
wax on the end, he retracts the tip, pulls and
spins some of the wax-covered cotton into
a lengthy, soft, flexible point, reinserts it
back into his ear canal and gently, ever so
gently, rotates it lightly against the surface
of the eardrum. No feeling like it in the world.
A subliminal, rare, self-abusive experience.
Finished, he breaks the swab in half, gets
up, walks over to the kitchen wastebasket
and plops it in. Buddy Holly's band splits
up, so Buddy gets a cap for his tooth and
goes solo.
The bottle of Tres Generaciones is
ceremoniously violated once more. Within
moments there is a triple blast from a car
horn out on the street. He tosses his glass
and bolts out the front door with his skate
like a wounded leopard.
Only thirty minutes 'til the reverie and the
thrills that men experience, together, in the
middle of the night. Commencement, at the
strike of twelve.
The echoing, multi-leveled, vault-like
chambers reflect the stillness of the warm
midnight air. Dimly glowing fluorescent
strips cast their spray of gloom across the
grease and oil-slimed surface of what is to
become the altar.
Max and Ray Bones Rodriquez, straight arrow
approach to a downhill situation.
family. Old Chucks, new Chucks, two-week-
old Chucks, ready to be laid to rest.
Scott Oster and Carparts Jimbo lean mean into a left-hander
Then, twelve strokes of the bell, the signal
to begin. It belches forth through some
mechanical wisdom, at the top of the
ritualistic temple, blessed not in the name
for which it is to now be served. Through
the opening doors the Brotherhood march,
charging up steps. Another flight to the
ceiling of the shrine of the stars.
The Brotherhood face the gaping ramped
driveway that leads downward into the
abyss. Muttering almost silently, they gather
They know the abyss leads not to eternal
damnation. Nor are they the steps down to
hell. No. This is a whole new conscious-
ness. A new twist on the concept of religion.
To throw yourself...yes, your soul, your
guts, your balls...throw it all out on the line
and go for what you know. At the bottom is
not the end. At the bottom is a giant
mechanical mouth, waiting to swallow you
and your brothers up, bring you back up its
throat and spit you out at the top so you can
start all over again.
Once gathered, and confident, the
Brotherhood glance about. They nod, and
the sermon begins.
"Go! Baby Go!"
Many are baptized in the grit and grime
as they tumble on turn number one. One
Brother hits a large cement column, gets
up laughing, then throws his board at the
disappearing Brother who's caused his fate.
Downward the clergy descend. Another
sweeping turn, wheels whining, grabbing.
for anything they can.
There are many Chuck Taylors in this
Dead man's turn. The pack whirls
through, casting aside a member, then two.
Backwards through the air goes one
Brother, slamming the small of his back in-
to one of the two giant metal plates which
stand as a deterent to large mechanized.
vehicles, keeping them from destroying the
walls. He stalks away in wretchedness, and
after a few steps regains his steed and
descends further into the bowels.
Within the pack, loosely worded prayers
are uttered:
"Follow my dust!"
"Go, baby! Go!"
"You're using up all the oxygen!"
"Cummin' thru."
"On yer left."
"The point is, the point of no return. And
here we go!"
"Go baby! Go!"
Like a pack of wild, hungry dogs they
assault the turns, down, down, one after the
other, chasing the unseen elusive prey.
The prey?
The unseen prey?
The prey is within each and every one of
them. They are their own prey. They are out
to ride the wild force of gravity, seeing
themselves screaming back at them,
"Catch me if you can."
You see, you've just accepted an
invitation to the thrills that men do when the
clock strikes twelve.
79