I've Got Enemies In High Places
My friend Samuel stole a monkey brain that
was in a large jar of formaldehyde or some
kind of clear liquid to preserve the main cir-
cuit. We were on the bus, and I had no idea
what he had hidden beneath his flannel. He
just removed his shirt and, powl, there it was,
a brain in a jar. More than a few bus riders
were shocked. One old man smiled and said,
"Good gag, kid." He winked at Samuel. A lady
who was sitting next to us got up and
moved. I told Samuel he was crazy. This
seemed to pump him up, or, to phrase it bet-
ter, stoked him out. He knew that a majority of
the passengers were paying attention to him.
He took out a roll of white hospital tape to
label the jar. In my mind, I was thinking, "God
only knows what he's gonna do next." He
pulled out a black felt tip marker and wrote
"Property of Fidel Castro." I frowned on his
behavior. A few people hissed. The old man
who said, "Good gag" shook his head. I felt
obliged to do or say something about it, so I
nudged Samuel's shirt to cover up the monkey
brain. This Mexican lady who was sitting
across from us crossed herself twice and whis-
pered a prayer, which I could not make out
clearly. I could feel how uncomfortable the
people on the bus felt, so I opened my mouth.
I asked Samuel how come he doesn't act more
like an adult. He said, "What do you mean?"
And I said, "Well, you're in college now, you
should behave in a more adult-like manner."
He said, "You're right, I should. From here on
out, all my actions will be adult-like!" Samuel
at that instant stood up and rang the bell to
signal a stop. His backpack was slung over
his shoulder loosely. He had the jar con-
cealed in his flannel and held tightly to his side
by his right arm. His left arm was holding
a safety bar to balance himself. His
every move was natural. He
made it look extremely
easy. But for someone.
who was uncoordi-
nated, it would be
disaster after
disaster.
Samuel was
a moving
master-
piece.
He was ideal for a dance choreographer.
After the two of us got off the bus and
walked about fifteen feet, Samuel stopped in
front of a hardware store. He handed me the
jarred monkey brain with his flannel shirt
draped over it. I was hesitant to take it, but
he said, "Come on. I'll just be a second." I
asked, "What are you gonna go in there for?"
"You'll see. Wait right here." So, I waited.
When he came out of the hardware store, he
was rattling a can of black spraypaint. He had
a big smile on his face. I was trying to think of
different ways to ditch him, because I knew
he was only up to more trouble. I said, "Hey,
bro, I'll catch you around. I'm gonna head
home." I started to walk off, but he followed
me. I felt pissed, because I knew I was in for
whatever trouble he was going to get in.
We approached a 7-11. I entered the store
and immediately went for a Big Gulp. I didn't
watch what he was up to, although I should
have. When I was in line waiting to pay for
my drink, he was outside the store just looking
at
me with that same stupid smile. Sometimes
I wondered why God didn't invent some sort
of hyperspace button for humans, you know,
like on the Asteroids and Defender games. So,
as I'm sipping my Big Gulp and walking along-
side the 7-11, he set his monkey brain and
backpack and shirt on the ground. Samuel
then popped the cap off his spraypaint and
shook the can like a wild man. I thought about
just crossing the street and bailing on him, but
now I was kind of curious as to what he was up
to. He unraveled a small, clear squirt gun from
its plastic bag. He
laid it on
PK PUTICKS
its side and painted it black. He flipped it
cautiously so as not to get any paint on his
fingers. He painted the other side. While he
was at work, I could see the hunger growing
in him. "What 'cha gonna do?" I asked.
"We'll have to wait and see, won't we?" He
smiled, and I watched for the paint to dry.
"It's flat black," he said. "Makes it look.
more real." He put the cap back on the paint
and then put the can into his backpack.
As he was doing this, my eyes transferred
from him to my favorite car. It was a Porsche
911 hard top, brand new, with the new body
shape and all. It was white. That wouldn't be
my first choice of color, I thought, but it
looked nice. I watched the man who was
driving it make a smooth U-turn and pull
right up to the side of the 7-11. The man had
kind of long hair. He looked like he was in his
early thirties to mid-forties. As he was starting
to get out, Samuel ran straight up to the
man's door and yelled something to him.
Samuel was practically inside the guy's car. I
was like, "Holy, fuck, what's going on?" Then I
heard what Samuel was telling the man.
"Gimme the keys and take a walk, or you're
gonna get shot!" I've never seen Samuel act
so hostile. And the funny part was the gun
wasn't even real. The man got out of the car,
handed Samuel the keys, and calmly walked
away, not turning his head back once. Samuel
got in. Before he started it, he threw his back-
pack into the rear of the car. I was still stand-
ing like five feet from him in disbelief. I mean,
here was my favorite car, my dream car, and
here was this clown that just demanded it. I
didn't know whether to cry or laugh.
"Come on," he said. I
started to walk towards the car.
"Grab my flannel!" he screamed. I looked
back at his flannel. It was draped over the
jarred monkey brain. I looked back at him,
and the car was started and in action, moving
towards me slowly. "How about the monkey
brain?" I asked. "Leave it," he said, so I
snatched up his shirt and got in the car.
As we pulled away from the curb, I just
looked at the interior of the car. I was in awe.
I looked at my left hand, which was grasped
loosely to my Big Gulp. I looked at my right
hand, and it was grasped tightly to Samuel's
flannel. I looked out the front windshield and
saw the man to whom the car belonged,
walking with his head down. He was scratching
the top of his head. As we passed him, he
screamed out, "You fucker, I get you!" I think
he was French or something, because if he was
American, he would have said, "I'll get you,
you motherfucker!" Or, "You motherfuckers
are gonna get it!" But not, "You fucker, I get
you!" That's broken English, and that pisses
me off. I hate foreigners' choices of words.
They always for example say, "If you like, I call
you later." I know what they mean when they
say that, but I just don't like the way they say
it. Anyhow, it made me happy that the Porsche
Samuel jacked belonged to a foreigner.
As we were driving along. Samuel was
swooping close to the cars parked on the side
of the road. "Damn," he said, "look at how
close I'm getting. This car handles great." He
was having fun. I didn't want to sound overex-
tended, so I just said under my breath, "This is
my favorite car." He didn't hear
me. He was having too much
fun. Then, in my mind, I said,
"Fuck it" and spoke up.
"Hey, man, on
your next sharp
turn, down-
shift, then
accelerate
out of it." "I
know what
I'm doing," he
said. "Watch
this." He picked up
mega speed radical-
ly, and when we got to
the entrance of an alley.
he slid the tail out and
came within an inch from
smacking the back of the car into
an apartment building. "Holy shit!" I
said. My eyes were still fixed on the apartment
building behind us. Dust and dirt were flying
up. The alley was bumpy. Samuel skidded to a
halt. We were stopped all at once. Now I could.
smell the hot engine and the dust that was
catching up to the small car and seeping in
through the sunroof. Samuel put the car in
neutral and kept his foot on the brake. He
reached into the rear of the car and began dig-
ging around in his backpack. I was mainly just
looking around, scoping for cops. I was scared.
He finally got what he was after. He moved
his body back up to the front of the car. He
had the paint can in his hand while his other
hand was held tightly to the wheel. With his
mouth, he bit off the cap. He shook the can
same as before, wildly. Next, he got out of the
car. It started to roll, so I pulled the emergency
break up. Samuel began spraypainting some-
thing on the side of the
ble. So, what I did was slowly turn away from
the 911 and began writing on the wall in large
letters "Up Shit Creek." Before I could write
without a paddle, a teenage boy screamed
out from the apartments, "Hey, stop that!" I
dropped the can and was frightened. I looked
over to Samuel. He grabbed his nuts and
screamed out, "Suck a nut, you punk!" I got
the giggles. Samuel had a dual personality.
One was the college, good boy prankster,
and the other was a wild fuck neck that
should be caged literally for his own safety.
Plus, his behavior was comical. I mean, this
car. At first I was like. was type of entertainment should not be free.
"What's he gonna do, try
and spraypaint the
whole thing?" But I
could tell by his
movements he was
writing something.
After he was fin-
ished, he stepped
back from the car.
I guessed it was
to check his work.
I just watched and
sipped on my Big
Gulp. Not that it
makes too big a
difference or any-
thing, but I'm
having Mountain
Dew. Samuel was
smiling and laugh-
ing to himself.
"Get out," he said,
"and check what I
wrote." I got out. It
was a slight bit dif
ficult. "Damn," I
was thinking to
PROPERTY
of FEDEL CASTRO
Story
As were getting back into the car, I looked
up at the wall and got a good look at what 1
wrote: "Up Shit Creek." Then I realized it
was not free. Once the law came down
on us, that would be my price. We
started up again. This time Samuel
by
was not driving so radical. He was
funny. I think he just loved it.
because people would stare at us,
and sometimes he would smile and
wave. I asked him in a curious
voice, because I was curious,
"Hey..." It was hard to get his
attention. His mind was in a zillion
different places at once. But then
he looked over at me after about
the fifth or six "hey" and asked,
"What?" "I said, why did you
write 'Fuck Politics'?" He tried to
speed up and brush off the ques
tion, but I asked him again and
again. Then here is what Samuel
had to say. He said, "Look around
you." I looked around. "What do you
see?" he asked. I didn't want to
answer his question, so I just said, "I
myself, "did this Mark Gonzales don't know what I see." He knew!
guy have this car lowered, or do they come
this way? When I got around to the other side
where Samuel was, I tripped out. What he
wrote was probably the last thing I would've
expected him to write. Along the side of the
brand new Porsche, it said, in big enough let-
ters for someone who could not read to under-
stand, just plainly, "Fuck Politics." I was like,
"This guy is a riot and a half." Samuel passed
me the can and said, "Go ahead. The other
side's all yours. Write whatever you want." I
walked back around to the other side and
looked at the car, and I loved it. I mean, I
couldn't write anything on the side that would
make me like it more. So, I was like, "Shit, this
car is beautiful. And, to top it off, Samuel was
watching to see what I was going to write. The
pressure was on. Was I going to write some-
thing on a car that meant the world to me?
Would I deface it? God, all I could think about.
is we are for sure going to end up in big trou-
didn't want to get my dick pulled,
so he said it straight: "I feel like a political pris-
oner, and I don't like being a prisoner. So, fuck
it, you know, the whole thing. Fuck politics. It
just means I wanna live how I want to, and I just.
feel like if you take the politics out of life, then
you've got true freedom. And when there's true
freedom, people are frightened. And when
people are frightened, they tend to remain.
within their own boundaries according to which
skills they are given at birth. Do you catch me?"
He made a left turn on a small street and pulled
the car to the curb. I was scared. What he was
saying made some sense to me, but was heavy.
and my mind was lightweight. "You wanna
drive it?" he asked. I looked at the keys in the
ignition, and I was thinking hard. Every bit of
me wanted to drive the car, but something
inside me said, "No." I guess the thought of
getting pulled over and arrested for being
behind the wheel of a stolen car made me tell
him, "I don't know how to drive a stick."
55