Stoner & Spaz by Ron Koertge

Author:Ron Koertge
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Young Adult, Adult
ISBN: 9780763616083
Publisher: Turtleback Books
Published: 2002-10-06T04:00:00+00:00

Half an hour later we make our way up a dark street somewhere in Hollywood. Motorcycles leak oil onto a couple of patchy lawns. Every telephone post blooms with posters for bands and clubs.

I’m half-scared, half-stoked. I’m usually in bed by this time. “Do you think your car will be all right?”

“Unless there’s a clever band of thieves who target old, rusted-out convertibles.”

Just then two people get out of a VW van. He sports a Mohawk, unlaced boots, army fatigues; she settles for chains from her nose to both ears and a mini-shroud. As the couple angles across the street, I feel myself tense. I pin Marcie’s camera to my side with my bad arm; that way the thief will be too disgusted to steal it.

Then the guy waves. “Hey, Colleen!”

“Hey, Ricky.”

We stop and let them intercept us.

“Where’s Ed?”

“Who knows.”

Ricky looks me up and down. “Who’s this?”

“Filmmaker.”

“No shit! What are you doin’ down here, man?”

“I, uh, you know. Scouting for locations.”

“All right.” He holds out his clenched fist and, thanks to MTV, I know enough to tap it with mine. “What happened to your leg?”

Before I can answer Colleen says, “He laid his Harley down on the freeway.”

Ricky grimaces. “Ouch. At least you were wearin’ a helmet.” Then he motions to Colleen and they drift away.

I smile at his girlfriend, who has her gravedigger’s makeup on. Nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I see Colleen shake her head and shrug. I hear her say, “Sorry.”

Ricky trudges toward me. “Put me in your film, man. Make me feel like I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

I lift the camera. “Say something.”

“Uh.” He appeals to Miss Mortal Coil, but she’s no help. Finally he waves and says, “Hi, Mom.”

When they’re far enough ahead so they can’t hear I repeat, “‘He laid his Harley down on the freeway?’”

“Why be a spaz when you can be a wounded warrior?”

“Well, there’s always the truth, that quaint concept.”

“You are what you say you are.”

“What does Ricky say he is?”

“Ricky? He likes to be the first on his block.”

“First on his block to what?”

“You name it. Some new drug: he’ll take it. Some new club: he’s been there. He’ll, like, drive to San Diego to hear a band that might turn out to be the new Hole or some guy who might be the next Gavin Rossdale. He likes to be able to say, ‘Oh, yeah. I saw him at Jugular when he was just starting.’”

“What about her?”

“Cindy? She’s with Ricky.”

We turn down an alley that’s a gauntlet of people smoking cigarettes. I feel their eyes on me. On my bad leg. And on my camera. Colleen nods to some black guys, and I slow down to watch a couple of riot girls giggling and wrapping their wallet chains around each other’s wrists.

“Hey,” one says, “what’s up?”

Colleen waves them away. “Not tonight.”

I read the names on the posters: Skanic, Wet, Polar Goldie Cats, Cea Jacuzzi. I like the bright colors and the way new posters have been half stripped away so the old ones underneath show.

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