SAMPSON'S LASTDAY AT THE TRACK
what's coming to DC
- I looked for your
Hi, Male Hores
name in
There! Where
Lur, Sandy
9/14/00
T
The date wasn't important. The time didn't matter. My best friend had just gotten him-
self killed. I know he was asking for it. Anyone who robs banks in the year 1963 with an
unloaded pistol should already be dead or be thoroughly examined by a psychiatrist who's
more qualified than the state-appointed doctors. They don't know anything. According to
them, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is sane, and he ain't even a real person. Or shall I say "isn't"?
Ti-si-pp-u-i-si-dd. Sounds like Mississippi, spelled out for hearing aids, phoenetically cor-
rected tones and hearing frequencies.
My friend Sampson got away with at least 10 different robberies before he got shot in the
ass and in the back of the head and in the heart. But it's not really the heart if it hits you from
the back. It's called something different, like heat stroke. If somebody dies from a bullet
wound in the back, you just call it heat stroke. The last thing I imagine my friend doing is
saying to himself as he's dying, "Thank you, God, thank you for taking me now."
Sampson showed up at our house at like 10:30 two days before he got popped. He pulled
a sweet '66 Mustang fast back up on our lawn. My dad was gone, like most of my friends'
dads too. My mom was too nice to say, "Get that car off our lawn." Besides, a nice car like that
would just make the neighbors jealous, so she liked it parked up on the grass.
A half-hour passed, and the white boys in blue came up in their black-and-white. "Unless
you're washing your car, there is a city policy against having it parked on your grass."
A HORSE
RIDE TO THE
HORSE
TRACK
PONY
00
O
GT350
COBRA JET
1968
106 THRASHER
"Yes, sir."
"Move it, fast."
Sampson took us all to the horse track. I got dropped off at the
skateboard park, which was halfway to where the horse track was.
I paid money, I got my picture taken, and they put a sticky lami-
nate over it. I rode around until dark, then the lights came on. I
rode a little longer. I didn't know anyone there. I had rental pads
on that kept slipping down. A lot of the time, I would watch. A lot
of the guys had the ugliest styles ever. When they would do tricks,
they'd be real stiff. I mean, real stiff, and then they would scream
and throw their boards. I didn't wanna miss the last bus, so I left
at 12:00.
I missed the last bus. I was in Lakewood. I thought about putting
my thumb up and trying to hitchhike, but I was a tiny bit afraid,
because lately on the news this nut's been picking up kids and
killing them. They gave him a name so people will know how to
identify him. He's called the Hillside Strangler. Damn, I guess I
gotta look out.
I walked six blocks and then I found a 24-hour grocery store. I
scoped it out. Things seemed mellow. I walked in and socked the
manager in the face. "Thanks for the money! You oughta get a
raise," I told him as I walked out. I trotted to the bushes where I
hid my board. Good thing no one stole it. I can't stand thieves.
Next I flagged down a cab. The cab driver looked a little bit
funny to me.
"Hey," I said.
"Yeah?" the cab driver asked.
"You're not the Hillside Killer, are you?" The question scared
the cabbie. "I was trying to be funny. You just never know
these days, you know?" The cab driver's stupid beady eyes
kept peeking back at me. "This is a pretty cool ride you
have here. I used to have one just like it." The cab
driver now was entirely scared. "Oh yeah, yeah," I
said, self-assured.
"But you don't look old enough to drive," the
cabbie said.
"You're the kookiest cab driver I've ever
driven with. I am too old enough. My cab had
flames on the side, I had a custom logo put on
the side that said 'Bad Motherfuckers Cab
Company. I mostly drove people up and down
Whittier Blvd."
The cab driver started to laugh. Not much,
though. "So where am I taking you?"
"To Japantown. You know, near First and
Hooper."
"I don't go over to that area. That's out of my
jurisdiction."
This cabbie was a draft-dodging punk. That's all I
could say for him. "Pull over," I demanded. I threw
him a 20-dollar bill and slammed the door. BOOM! My
middle finger was well extended as he drove off. That was four
blocks from my house.
I didn't skate 'cause I didn't wanna wake up any loyal, hard-
working Americans. Most of them are usually at their windows
with guns. The sound of my wheels is the equivalent of a 1760
cavalry. No, but to be honest, this friend of mine, not Sampson
but this other guy Capote, was sneaking up to pay a late-night
visit to his girlfriend, and he was creeping up to her window and
the neighbor blasted on him with a shotgun. I swear I think they
planned it 'cause two years after that the two got married:
"Ladies Love Killers."
Well, OK, back to my friend Sampson. His Mustang was a low-
ered fastback with whitewall tires. The color was black, flat black.
It kind of didn't look that flashy. I mean, before he painted it flat
black it looked cool. Like when it was shiny gray it looked hip,
like a German beetle, but US style. When he had it gray he didn't
have white walls.
"Get that shit off my lawn!" That's the problem with being a
writer or being anything: you gotta follow some kind of stupid
rule. Like you know at first I said the car looked good in front of
the house, and now I'm saying the car didn't look so hot. Shit, it
doesn't matter how his car looked or looks now, 'cause he's dead.
A security guard popped him from behind and his gun was even
unloaded, so just in case he got caught they wouldn't be able to
charge him with armed robbery. RIP Sampson. Life's a beach.
Words and artwork by Mark Gonzales
MG
107