Chip Rock and the Fat Old Fart: CHIP ROCK, #1

By MICHAEL DASWICK

    The importance of the Outsider. Chip Rock has just aged out of the pathetic orphanage known as Boys Hall, in the comically doleful little town of No Palms on the SoCal coast. Low on luck and opportunity, Chip sets out to find a meaningful place in the world. It's no ordinary journey. Aimless and quick with bad choices, Chip wanders into a rich tapestry of characters: the grumps at the No Palms Women's Club; the nagging neighbor Rosita right across the street; the Old Town Dog, luckless fishermen, and the pretty new girl at the bank.
    Never shy, Chip meets an outcast butcher named Deacon O'Dell, seemingly the embodiment of all Chip's lousy luck, rolled into one person. Nonetheless, sparks set off an unlikely bond and an adventure of stunning hardships, but with a remote chance for rejuvenation. CHIP ROCK and the FAT OLD FART tells the story of the comic and poignant friendship between 23 year old Chip and 55 year old Deacon, and explores the glue which bind together imperfect families and flawed friendships.
    Author Michael Daswick is the winner of the two greatest literary awards from Columbia University. His inspiring work tackles epic themes of guilt, redemption, loss, struggle, friendship and fatherhood. Rich yet quirky, always mixing humor with drama, Michael writes at the crossroads of sophistication and the idiosyncratic.
     Fat Old Fart constantly mixes striking settings, and noble decisions that lead to unexpected results. It's a coming-of-age saga about Chip -- and a coming-of-old-age awakening for Deacon, who strives to learn the true meaning of fatherhood. A spree of events teaches the orphan Chip how families are born not only by blood, but also through friendship, workplace, and neighborhoods. Families beget entire communities. From No Palms to Mexico, their adventure and struggle brings together a vastly different collection of people, building into a desperate and very emotional ending which none of them expect.
    Fat Old Fart grew out of several linked short stories, always portraying the Underdog, from which author Michael Daswick won both of Columbia's prestigious literary awards: The Bennett Cerf Memorial Prize for Fiction and The Cornell Woolrich Fellowship for Creative Writing. He lives in Scottsdale with his wife Kim and family.
   Fat Old Fart is the first in the Chip Rock Series. The sequel is CHIP ROCK and the CATALINA KID. Chip's early years at Boys Hall are chronicled in the award-winning short story collection, HALLBOYS.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: PLAYA CHICA PRESS
• Release date: Apr 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781513650913

MICHAEL DASWICK

Michael Daswick is the winner of both of Columbia's prestigious literary awards, the Bennett Cerf Memorial Prize for Fiction, and the Cornell Woolrich Fellowship in Creative Writing. He's written the acclaimed ZIN MIGNON series about a 13 year-old phenom Chef. CHIP ROCK and the FAT OLF FART is his literary opus. Michael lives in Scottsdale with his talented wife Kim. He has three wonderful grown children. 

Book preview

CHAPTER 0

Meatland Butcher Shop.

No Palms, California.

May, 1979.

N obody hears you scream when you’re locked inside a freezer.

Locked? Inside?

Exactly. The bastard shoved me in the back. Hard. I tripped over a case of frozen roasting rabbits and went sprawling across the freezer floorboards until I slammed into a box of hog maws. But I wasn’t dazed at all. In fact, my senses remained prickly sharp. I looked up. Frigid icy air poured from the huge blast chiller overhead. I spun backwards towards the door and saw my boning knife on the cement floor, tantalizingly close, just beyond the thief who grinned and waved his gun carelessly.

"This a good place for you, amigo. Here you can take a little…siesta."

Ratshit, I thought. The goon is gonna try to lock me inside. I lunged but the crook blocked the doorway. He raised his dirty boot and kicked me back into the freezer.

No, burro. You staying here. It’s your bedtime.

I charged again but this time he swung the butt of the pistol which cracked against my teeth. I tumbled over a case of jumbo ham hocks and landed back in the center aisle. Blood trickled down my chin.

Adios, amigo. I leaving you now. It is very cold, no? We no have this kind of cold in Mexico. The robber lifted a steel meat hook that hung from a nail on the wall and slammed the heavy door shut, rattling the hardware as he tried to insert the hook through the mechanism. Panic surged through my body. I threw my full weight against the door. It bounced open an inch but he’d expected the move and pressed back, setting the hook into the latch, all in one motion.

Prick! Take all the damn meat you want! I ain’t telling nobody!

Nothing.

Then throw me some aprons! A meat coat! Or shut off the compressor! There’s no switch in here!

Still not a sound.

I looked up above the vault-like door, and felt an odd calmness. After all, the robber didn’t know about the big red emergency fire axe that was bolted above, just in case. Designed for escape. I’ll chop my way out in seconds.

At that instant the freezer door swung open and the man extended his arm.

I’d better take that axe, too.

He leveled the gun at my head and took the axe from its brackets. Then with a rush, he brought the blade down on the arm of the door’s plunger, sheering it clean off. Without the plunger, the freezer door could not possibly open from the inside.

No! Not the axe!

He backed out, holding up a ring of keys. My shop and car keys. Stupid beach boy. Thank you for your keys. Now I locking the door and taking your truck.

Huh? If my truck’s not outside, nobody will look for me in here!

No? Then you have a big problema. But thanks for the box of meat. I always like shopping at Meatland.

*****

CHAPTER ONE

OUR LITTLE TOWN

When I was a five year old kid at Boys Hall, our little town of No Palms was one of the prettiest on the coast. Back then it was really hard for a Hallboy to decide where to go on a Saturday or Sunday: the beach, the pier, or the Park. In those days the beach was so cool; it curved along the coast in a gentle arc as big waves rolled in and ramped up the sand. Families laid out blankets as little kids played games with their footprints. Sandcastles came and went with their moats and spires and fortifications. On a sunny summer day pretty girls in swimsuits worked on their tans while the guys threw the football. Dogs ran free up and down and, as we grew older, our beach became boogey board central, our playground, our field, our baseball diamond. Not to mention bonfires at night with those same pretty girls.

Seaside Park is at the north end of town, touching the beach on one side where it aligns with the pier. Rolling lawns, beds of rose bushes, benches along the bike paths. Our Park was as green as the beach was pretty. Seaside Park was once a favorite spot for moms with baby-buggies, strollers, readers, sunbathers, picnickers, and even painters. The large central fountain splished and splashed as people tossed pennies and dipped their toes.

The floral committee of the No Palms Women’s Club used to plant flowers each spring throughout Seaside Park. The women made quite a name for both themselves and our little town as the flowers were often photographed by the visitors who came from miles around, year after year. Believe it or not, this annual flower planting grew into a pageant which was covered by newspapers and magazines, both locally and nationally. Every spring reporters from the SoCal news channels converged in No Palms to cover the event, and all residents of No Palms warmed with pride. Visitors came from all over the west to see our park, the flowers, the fountain, the beach… it was a sight to behold.

Finally, the No Palms pier was always a good choice. We’d race each other across the Pacific Ocean Parkway, over the boardwalk, and onto the pier to watch seals play beneath the pilings. We stood on that pier for hours watching pelicans skim along, rise up, then drop like bombers into the water. Fishermen lined the pier’s railings, telling us Hallboys their fish stories, chasing away the mooching seagulls, showing off their big bass and fat flounders. The strollers wandered over from the park and watched these fishermen as the bend of every pole brought the anticipation and promise of another big catch. Back in those days, No Palms was a wonderful place. The sun sparkled on the sea, flowers grew in the Park, and there was a smile on every face.

At the north end of town the sand narrows and the beach peters out. Here, our beach disappears altogether and the mighty No Palms cliffs rise up, right out of the surf. The sheer rock faces of these cliffs loom straight up out of the waves and soar to an amazing height, hundreds of feet above the cove. You sure couldn’t walk or even swim in the ocean beneath the No Palms stone cliffs because the ocean waves slammed hard against them at high or low tide, shooting spray high into the air. Even on the calmest day our cliffs were nothing less than dangerous.

These were mysterious cliffs to us Hallboys. We grew up hounded by rumors of caverns and underwater grottos beneath the headlands, and pirate treasure buried on top. None of us knew for sure, but there was an old abandoned lighthouse atop these cliffs. Spooky. The older kids dared us to camp out up there, all night, alone. No way. With the waves pounding below, and the wind whistling through the old bricks and blocks of the lighthouse, no chance. That place was creepy.

The center of No Palms stretches for several blocks along the Pacific Ocean Parkway. Known as the P.O.P., this was the ‘downtown’ of No Palms, the heart of our quaint little beachside community. Throughout those cheerful years -- when No Palms thrived in its zest -- this downtown section held a salty, nautical, artsy flavor which was of course fostered by the merchants and shop owners. Antique shops sold brass compasses, lengths of crusty old sea-rope (great leash for a dog), smelly old diving suits with lead boots, rusty hooks, old glass bottles, floats, sponges, starfish, shells, seahorses, driftwood, weathered trunks, and any old junk that washed ashore over the years. The Codfather served the best seafood anywhere in the whole wide world with fresh fish outside on huge trays of shaved ice. There was a friendly little tavern on the P.O.P. called Sniffy’s (Sniffy owned the largest nose in No Palms), and a bait shop (goldfish, only a nickel; free scraps for your cat).

Further along you found the tropical fish shop and the taffy/candy store, where us kids from Boys Hall earned a free jawbreaker each Saturday if we brought in fifty pieces of trash and scrubbed the salt and seagull poop off the sidewalk. There was a small grocery simply called The Little Store, an ice cream shop, the town bank and of course El Burger Bucket. Weekends were pretty neat in No Palms. Craftsmen spread out their stuff. No Palms became a haven for potters, hippies, gypsies, painters, candle makers, gardeners, artists, and all sort of swap-meeters. And, the ladies from the Women’s Club offered their home-made cookies, cakes, muffins, and pies. Nothing like a fudge brownie after a stroll on the pier.

Lately, I’m sad to report, No Palms has changed. The strollers have gone in another direction. The photographers and painters have taken their cameras and canvasses away in search of that idyllic seaside setting which, just a few years ago, was found in No Palms. Codfather’s is now a shady tattoo parlor. One antique shop is a yarn-mart, where the Women’s Clubbers knit their little hearts out. The other antique store got junky and became a thrift shop, strictly shopworn and second hand stuff. The bait shop is the You Can Do It Home Repair Center (rude salespeople, no cash refunds) while the candy store burned down and stays boarded over (ugly sheets of plywood, When will we re-open? Ask No Palms Insurance Co.). The Little Store remains. The ice cream shop melted away into the fog. The bank and El Burger Bucket survived. The tropical fish store has been replaced by Homer’s Watch and Clock Hospital.

I live on the second floor above Homer’s in the upstairs apartment. I try to keep it clean. Homer is a refugee from Vietnam. He leaves me alone until the rent is late. I can smell the burgers cooking at the Bucket from my bedroom. I can also hear the waves break against the beach.

That’s the worst part. One stormy winter, all the sand was sucked out to sea. In its place we received a horrible conglomeration of cobblestones, pebbles, seaweed, yellow foam and ocean-going flotsam. Once in a while a mattress will wash up. Incredibly, there’s no more sand on the beach of No Palms. No more pretty girls sunbathing. The shoreline is now an awful slope of ugly stones, all the way up to the top of the old walled beach. As kids we had fluffy white sand; now, all you get is black tar stains on your feet that last for weeks unless you wipe it off with gasoline. Nowadays, when a wave lands, No Palms hears the awful grating sound of stone against stone, broken shell against shell. Some people say the sound is more like a cackle, the ocean laughing at our little town. In any case, the sandy beach is gone. People throw trash there now. The gulls pick at it, spreading it around.

The loss of that strip of sand had a striking effect on everything in No Palms. Its personality seemed to drain away as well. Downtown is drab. The maritime mystique has vanished, replaced by a mish-mash of conflicting tastes and clashing themes. There hasn’t been a new store on the P.O.P. for years and I understand that you can’t even give away a lease. At one time No Palms was a favorite spot for weekenders, a romantic hideaway for lovers. On sunny days the seniors used to walk the pier for the fresh air and exercise and the fishing benches were filled by seven in the morning.

Since the sand went out, it’s all changed. It’s now paint-worn and some of the railings are loose. Few people walk the pier alone. Some have developed a keen ear for the pier’s creaking and they’ll tell you the good old pier is just one big storm away from going down altogether. I’ll add that the fishing from the No Palms pier these days is notoriously lousy because the rock crabs have multiplied and chewed up all the kelp. After the old-timers abandoned the pier they needed a new place to meet and talk. They could’ve chosen Seaside Park but they chose Sniffy’s Tavern instead. You can see them most evenings walking in and out of Sniffy’s wearing their bedroom slippers and their bathrobes.

I’ve heard that the Popularity of Sniffy’s is a favorite topic at the No Palms Women’s Club. They are hardly enamored by the thought of their menfolk sipping their time away over at Sniffy’s and that the famous old joke started right here in No Palms: It’s just a friendly little drinking village with a fishing problem.

In any case, by 1979, once-rosy No Palms lay wilting. The Women’s Club decided to save money and stopped planting flowers in the park. The flower pageant was dropped. Deterioration set in, right before our eyes. A lack of leadership, civic neglect, complacency, penny-pinching, and an overall town-wide malaise swept across town. Sightseers left. The crowds of people were long gone. The fountain in the park broke and dried up and its basin became a receptacle for trash. Blame it on the sand running out. At one time kids in No Palms sat on the beach building sandcastles; now they loiter in Seaside Park, acting surly and smoking cigarettes, flicking the butts into the weeds.

You’ll find the No Palms Boys Hall at the other end of town, in the opposite direction from Seaside Park and the pier. It’s been there forever. The Hall has never been considered one of the elite orphanages in the west. In fact, to many it’s always been more appalling than appealing. And given the way No Palms had gotten crapped up, when a Hallboy eventually aged out of the orphanage, most couldn’t get out of town fast enough.

Not me. I could never bring myself to leave. While I’d left Boys Hall some four years before, I chose to remain in No Palms, despite its drawbacks. After all, No Palms was where I’d grown up. It was the only home I’d ever known.

I’d lived at the Hall since I was five years old. I didn’t have a particularly distinguished career at the Hall, but not many of the other lads did either. I was Hall Historian during my final three years at the Hall. I didn’t volunteer for this position. It was assigned to me by The Head of the Hall (a tired, beleaguered old man) as a punishment after he caught me feeding seagulls one day. Feeding seagulls at the Hall was, of course, strictly forbidden. The more they were fed, the more they flocked together, and the more they pooped. The birds are filthy and to this day feeding seagulls is prohibited by town ordinance. In any case, the Head of the Hall made me be the Historian. I’d have rather mowed the lawns or scrubbed the showers.

My job was to chronicle and record events at the Hall. I became the reluctant Historian not because I’m a skilled writer or narrator or master of syntax; nor do I claim to be able to stitch together words or form phrases with any kind of grammatical eloquence. The Head of the Hall sat me down in his cluttered office and told me, Chip, you don’t have to write very well. Just be accurate and truthful. Grammar and sentence structure are less important than honesty.

I’m happy to hear that.

"Readers want interesting content! They’ll forgive crappy punctuation."

I took my job seriously. At the Hall I tried to write my descriptions and reflections carefully and accurately. I chronicled all the important events and occasions and I was free to offer my observations. Those notes survive today in the Hall’s yearbook, The Pirateer. Dusty copies may be found in the library. My last year there was 1975. Four years ago.

There’s a small cannery in No Palms. It’s probably the oldest building in No Palms, standing alongside the foot of the pier next to the old walled beach. As this story begins, I was employed by the No Palms Sardine Canners. I worked the night shift.

Canning stinky little sardines had never been an important industry to the people of No Palms. Nobody has ever been particularly proud of the cannery as they once were of, say, our pier or the flowers in Seaside Park. While many old buildings around No Palms aged gracefully and had a special charm to them, the cannery had none of this. It stood there, the embodiment of industrial decay: broken windows, rusty sheets of metal clanging in a strong wind, a side-yard full of rejected tin sardine cans, trash, barrels, old cooling machinery, stacks of warping pallets and the hull of an old dinghy, covered and coated white with seagull crap.

Growing up in the Hall, required reading for each and every school kid was, of course, Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. We read and reread about the canneries around Monterey and Steinbeck’s assembly of oddballs and goof-offs. And yes, many of the Hallboys certainly identified with a few of these literary misfits. But I can tell you with exact accuracy that there is nothing romantic about working in a sardine cannery, unless of course your idea of dreamy romanticism is an outfit of moody Mexican migrants who cut off tails and heads and threw fish guts into big barrels, and crammed tiny fish into flat little cans.

Years ago, people across the country ate gobs and gobs of sardines. All the time. Once, sardines were actually little herring; but as sardines grew in Popularity, the herring became scarce and eventually many different types of teenie little fish could be classified as sardines. Almost anything was called a sardine and could be put into a can. We saw at least 10 or 15 different types of fish that came through the cannery, all classified as sardines. Well, as tastes changed across the country, the canned sardine craze ebbed and dropped. Sardine canneries like those in Monterey closed, and in 1979, the No Palms Sardine Canners was in fact the last remaining sardine cannery on the west coast.

Our sardines were nothing special. The delicacy which we turned out was a product soaking in a puddle of oil (shipped in enormous 200 gallon drums) flavored with tomatoes or chilies or capers or mustard. I didn’t know anybody in No Palms who was crazy about sardines. Case after case of sardines were donated to Boys Hall each month as a gesture of good-will. Our creative cafeteria cook used these as a substitute for tunafish. Hence, our ragged cafeteria trays were filled with all sorts of sardine casseroles, sardine salads, sardine sandwiches, sardine burgers and sardine melts. Hall rules required us to eat until the last bite was gone, but not even the German army could enforce this rule on sardine nights. We all grew accustomed to cannery jokes. That’s where I worked: the old eyesore alongside the pier.

From time to time the cannery served as home for a colony of rats. This was something of an irritant to the ladies of the Women’s Club as the rats would scamper back and forth from the cannery to the pier, fighting the gulls for the fish scraps. I still remember my very first chore at the cannery. My boss instructed me to Get rid of the rats. They’re as big as footballs. I clearly recall poking through the old storage rooms, sweeping a dim flashlight side to side, searching for their nests. I found two fat ones huddled beneath the warmth of the compressors, the compressors which drove the powerful refrigeration system. They looked at me, nestled there in the dark, squeaking softly.

Of course I felt sorry for them. I threw them a hunk of cheese and my sandwich and the apple I’d brought for break. I never set the traps nor laid out the poison. I dumped all that into a trash can on the pier. The rats multiplied. My boss, Mr. Pangborn, was a tired guy who hated his job like all the rest of us. He couldn’t understand it and analyzed the situation to us sleepy workers: "It’s a special kind of rat, damn hard to kill. A whole new breed of rat. These are sardine rats. They pour off the boats and run for the canneries. Dammit." The rats lived on, probably to this day. And the canned sardines became worse and worse. Often they had the consistency of toothpaste. Mr. Pangborn told me the story of the giant sardine rat he saw, chewing clean through a metal sardine can to get its meal. I never believed the story. Nothing as smart as a rat would go to such trouble just to eat a No Palms sardine.

On the night shift, Mr. Pangborn and myself were the only ones who spoke the English language. My co-workers were all poor Mexicans who had somehow found their way to the No Palms Sardine Canners. We were paid by the hour, the minimum wage plus 25 cents. That’s what everyone in No Palms was paid because, as any Hallboy knew, there weren’t any jobs. This made it a struggle for me to pay Homer his rent each month.

Like Hallboys, all of us on the night shift had much in common: nobody had any money, we hated our jobs, we hated our boss, and we hated the very thought of that cannery. Perhaps worst of all, when we finished work and punched out, our bodies carried the awful fishy smell of sardines wherever we went.

*****

Rosita was my neighbor and friend. Her little bungalow was the best-kept cottage on the P.O.P. She’d lived there for 40 years, even after her husband died. Rosita reused her brown paper bags. Laying one flat on her kitchen table she smoothed the wrinkles and then carefully placed six or seven fresh pan dulce inside. She shut her door and went down the pretty cottage steps, careful to avoid the chalky splats of sea-gull poop that fell overnight. Looking up at the sky she said to herself, I hope the fog burns away today.

Rosita walked a block and a half to the No Palms Women’s Club, stepped through the picket gate, paused to admire the flowers along the pathway, then climbed the steps and turned the handle of the big front door. The big pink front door.

Homemade rebanadas, Rosita greeted everybody cheerfully. The soft click of knitting needles and tea cups stopped as a dozen ladies looked up. All were dressed in varied shades of mint and mauve. They sat in the great living room on satiny sofas which smelled slightly of sea salt and Glade. A round area rug in the center of the wood floor matched the tasteful floral wallpaper. Once the largest private house in No Palms, the Women’s Club was the grand dame of the P.O.P. Oh, how yummy, one woman said. Rosita, it’s no wonder you have dessert duty for the meeting tonight. Five o’clock sharp. Ah, but you would never forget.

Don’t worry, she said. I’ll bring a special dessert tonight. Rosita spread her pastries on a plate and folded the empty bag neatly and put it inside her purse. Betty Battle surveyed the treats and selected the plumpest one.

Maybe I’ll make extra dessert, Rosita mused, and take a batch down to Boys Hall.

Betty Battle stopped chewing her first bite. Her eyes narrowed. Extra dessert? Betty spat. "Down to Boys Hall? I hate those Hallboys."

Seven or eight hours later Rosita sat at a bus stop on the Pacific Ocean Parkway, her desserts and needlepoint in hand. She frowned as she noticed me and a bunch of young Hallboys messing around with firecrackers and matches.

*****

CHAPTER TWO

Ilit the fuse and stepped back.

Down the street, elderly Rosita sat on the bus bench. Knitting. And scowling. The old stink eye. It wasn’t the first time an old woman in No Palms had given the stink eye to a Hallboy.

The firecracker lay in the middle of the sidewalk. Silver sparks hissed as the fuse flashed and fizzed bit by bit. There was a spat of smoke and a sputter.

It wasn’t the biggest firecracker around, just a typical Tijuana cheapie. But to the young Hallboys gathered around me, it might as well have been a nuclear warhead. Young Hallboys didn’t see firecrackers very often and whenever I brought some over it was a real treat. Each boy had measured a safe distance away and braced himself. One pressed his hands over his ears while another steadied himself behind a street pole. The boys, of course, were easily identified by their purple caps, which all Hallboys were required to wear whenever they were off property. I wore one a well, even though I’d aged out four years before. Down the sidewalk, Rosita set down her knitting, draped in a frown of disapproval.

The fuse almost spent, the boys tensed. Then, from out of the sky, a big seagull banked down, flapped twice, and landed next to the firecracker. It turned its head back and forth, bent down and snatched the burning firecracker in its beak. A kid shouted, Whoa! The bird took off and flew about 20 feet down the street where it landed on the lip of a sidewalk trash can. The fuse continued to burn.

Yo! Hey stupid bird! yelled a boy.

Chip! Do something!

The bird turned its head this way and that as smoke and sparks sprayed out.

That bird is done!

Bird brains are gonna go everywhere!

They’re so dumb!

Chip!

The bird re-gripped the firecracker in its beak, turning it straight, as if it was eating a small fish head first. Nobody hated filthy seagulls more than me; yet I tore off my sneaker, took aim, and threw. The shoe flew end over end, boomerang style. It wasn’t a bad shot. But I missed. It sailed right over the seagull’s head and splashed into a puddle off the curb. Holy crap! says a kid.

However, I’d frightened it. The bird released the firecracker – dropping it into the trash can -- where it exploded like a gunshot a millisecond later, mere inches from the bird. We all heard Rosita gasp. Hundreds of feathers burst into the air. The gull flipped backwards and flopped to the sidewalk where it lay, motionless. Feathers floated to the ground. Wow! That was awesome!

The bird was only stunned. It righted itself, stumbled against the trash can, thrashed about, stood up, and flapped off into the evening air, stupid but lucky.

Holy shit!

Chip! That was so cool!

We almost had seagull guts all over the P.O.P.

I retrieved my shoe. That was a close one.

Light us another one! C’mon, Chip.

That was my last one. Make sure there’s no fire in that trash can.

Yeah, says one of the kids. We sure wouldn’t want to burn down this stinkin’ town.

Run along you little terrorists. I gotta get to work. You don’t wanna miss the dinner bell back at the Hall.

Barf.

Get going. Friday. It’s spaghetti night.

Oh God. Triple barf.

The boys turned without a goodbye and headed down the P.O.P. I went the other way, towards dear Rosita sat. She eyed me with her crabby frown. I knew that look a mile away.

Make no mistake about it. I liked Rosita. She was the closest thing I had to a favorite aunt. Not a crazy one, but one who bakes cookies and brings treats. Rosita’s bungalow was directly across the street from my apartment. I pulled the weeds in her flower beds and nabbed the snails. In turn, Rosita made me tamales and carnitas and I sat at her kitchen table several times each week. Years before, Rosita and her late husband ran a small Mexican restaurant in No Palms. People say the food was wonderful. When her husband dropped dead from a heart attack Rosita shut down the restaurant and removed the old cast-iron stove to her cottage kitchen. She also took their neon sign which flashed LONCH and put that in her front window, for posterity. I can see it from my window above Homer’s. She can still cook. And yes, at times she could be a nosy old widow with her nagging and meddling. But despite some routine bickering that we both seemed to enjoy, I held a certain affection for 70 year-old Rosita. She’d been my neighbor for four years.

Sitting on the bus-stop having just watched my firecracker give the seagull a headache, Rosita shook her head as I walked up. Chip Rock. Firecrackers. Honestly. You’ll grow up one of these days. And nobody will be happier for it than me.

Rosie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope you haven’t chosen this particular moment to be a pain in the ass. I don’t have the time. I’ve gotta catch the bus and get to work.

Well, at least you saved that seagull’s life.

Exactly. Now it can rejoin its pals and keep pooping on your front porch.

But you can’t play with firecrackers in the middle of town. That’s bad judgment.

Oh no. Here it comes. Lecture number 642.

Rosita adjusted her knitting and grocery bags. You have no business showing those boys tricks like that. We almost had a disaster! Right here on main street. If you’re gonna play with matches, at least have the sense to go onto the beach!

Take it easy. Those boys need a little excitement. And I was supervising the entire thing. It was just a little firecracker. Your knitting needles are a bigger danger.

It’s lovely you spend time with them each week. But you could do a million better things. Throw a football. Take them fishing. Get some exercise. With the likes of you, those poor Hallboys don’t stand a chance. Rosita shook her head and waved away the conversation. She leaned out over the curb and said, Darn. Where’s that bus? I’m gonna be late for my meeting at the Club.

Oh! A meeting at the Women’s Club? Has a dandelion sprung up on the front lawn?

Hush.

Is it time to buy new rocking chairs for the porch?

Chip, you need some new jokes. Rosita was annoyed. She checked her watch and gazed down the street. DAMMIT these busses run late nowadays!

Take it easy, Rosita. Don’t give yourself a heart attack. She looked up at me and I smiled back. May I sit down? Move over so I don’t have to sit in the sea gull poop. She slid down a foot. Thanks. So, whatcha sewing?

Shawl.

What’s in the bags?

Dessert. For the meeting. At the Club. Rosita, of course, was referring to the No Palms Women’s’ Club, that great local bastion of thick ankles, tapioca complexions and scented soap.

In No Palms, the never-ending feud between Boys Hall and the Women’s Club unified every Hallboy no matter what age or generation.

Whoa. Dessert? Must be a big meeting. Ya’ll gonna sit around and dust?

It’s a planning meeting. And thank God for my Women’s Club. We do a lot of good in our little town. As you well know.

They sit around that dopey clubhouse and sew and trade muffin recipes and watch as this town falls apart.

Three new ladies joined last month.

Big deal. When are they gonna paint the pier?

That costs a lot of money.

They promised to paint it years ago.

We’ve been saving the money.

And our park! They abandoned it and let the flowers die! Now it’s dead as a desert.

Don’t you start up again against the Women’s Club. You boys love to make fun of us. We’re the only thing that holds this town together. But never mind. Where is that bus? And by the way, you gotta get to work, Chip. You’re a long way from the cannery. You’re gonna be late. Again!

I know, I know. Jeez, Rosita.

She fidgeted with her knitting. Kidding one another was part of our relationship. Don’t sit so close. Those teenie little fish make you smell awful! Don’t you ever wash those pants?

Quiet, please. I can’t hear the seagulls scream.

Ah. Here’s the bus. Now help me with my bundles. I think we’re gonna make it.

The bus coasted to a stop as a fresh blanket of fog was forming just off the coast. I checked the time: exactly 4:50 p.m. Crap. It’d be pretty tight. My shift at the cannery began at five. I’d work ‘til one a.m. Not the greatest Friday night in Southern California, but at least I was punching a clock.

As we boarded I followed Rosita’s little cha-cha steps up the stairs and saw that the bus was packed with rush-hour riders from front to back. Every last seat was taken and more riders were standing. Our hands full of parcels, we pressed inside, nodded hello to Diana the driver and moved best we could down the center aisle. When the bus lurched ahead, Rosita reeled and almost fell. Once again we scanned the bus for a free seat. Alas, nothing. We were resigned to standing until two uniformed sailors noticed Rosita. These navy-men jumped to their feet and offered Rosie their seat.

Rosita lit up like a blue sky. Oh, thank you so much, boys, she beamed, moving forward. Chip, did you see how gentlemen act?

She thanked them again but suddenly, just as she was about to sit down, an enormous man came out of nowhere, vaulted past me and Rosita and literally leapt into the empty seat. He waggled a bit, settling in, then folded his arms and gazed happily out the window towards the shining sea.

The bus braked hard and poor Rosita staggered, dropping her desserts. At a loss for words she clutched her knitting, staring helplessly at the monster who’d so rudely burst past her.

Hey there! someone cried out.

I didn’t recognize the guy. I’d never seen this giant in No Palms. He was built like a cigarette machine, as wide as the seat itself so there was no room for anybody else. Black hair, a neck like a range cattle. Dark complexion, blue shirt half soaked with sweat. Huge farmer’s overalls hanging loose, fat fleshy fingers resting on his knees, tapping lightly. The most surprising thing was his seeming attitude of complete nonchalance, as if he had absolutely no idea he may have offended anybody. He merely blinked cheerfully at the sights outside.

I, of course, had seen such convenient detachment a million times before. One of the sailors pointed and said Hold it, there, but I was on duty as well. After all, Rosita’s honor was at stake. I stepped up first and fastest and tapped the big dude on his shoulder. I was very gentle.

He turned his huge head towards me and up went his eyebrows.

Sir, I said, remaining polite, you stole this lady’s seat.

He merely blinked at me. I calmly explained the situation to the fellow, pointing out that the sailors had stood up so that the woman could sit down; after all, she was elderly, with an armful of packages. I cheerfully pointed at Rosita, who smiled back behind her floral apron. I shrugged and allowed that even though he’d not seen Rosita standing there, my gosh, could ya please stand up. She’s old. Let’s be gentlemen here. Don’tcha wanna let the woman have the chair?

The big fellow rotated his great wide head side to side, blinked again, nodded, and returned his gaze to the sights outside the window. He ignored me. He didn’t move.

Now listen, pal. You just took this lady’s seat. She’s got some heavy bags so why don’tcha let her sit? I heard myself winding up, sounding a little angry, a little too strong. So I added cheerfully, She’s just gonna ride for a mile or so. Not very far. What do you say, pal?

He stared at me with big dark eyes. He glanced at Rosita, and back at me. Then he shook his head from side to side. No. It’s my seat.

This was surprising. His statement had a simple permanence. Now look, I said, impulsively. This lady needs to sit down! It’s her seat! I ain’t gonna stand here forever. You’re a big strong guy. Get up!

I stopped. Everybody stared at me. I took a calming breath. Be polite. Okay, says I, pushing my anger aside. You’ll get the next seat, bub, but right now, please let the lady sit. Let’s just have a nice little evening bus ride for one and all. What do you say?

The giant merely shook his head. He was simply not about to move. Period. A true stubborn rebel, this big boy. Then he raised the fleshy middle finger of his right hand to a spot four inches from my nose and says to me, loud and clear, I don’t care about no little old lady. Or you. So shut up, you stupid Boys Hall brat.

Rosita gasped in shock. This was not the type of conversation one generally heard in our little town. I don’t know if he was a city school kid, or if he merely saw my Hallboy cap.

No, fatso, I said firmly. It ain’t gonna be that way. Get your ass up outa that seat this second, dammit, ‘cause I’ve had enough of this shit. You rude slob, it’s up to you. You’re either outa that seat or you’re gonna have a world of problems on your hands. Take your pick.

The giant reached up and tried to slap me but I was too quick. I ducked back but bumped Rosita, knocking her knitting bundle to the floor. Diana the bus driver steered the bus to the curb. Cool it back there!

I wondered, should I grab the guy and yank him out? If I tried, I knew the sailors would back me up. Guys in uniforms love a chance for a little rumble.

I crept closer and the guy yelled, You can all go to hell. Then he tried to punch me in the face. I slipped it, but he gathered his arm to strike again. I couldn’t trade blows with this brute. He had me outweighed and out-muscled.

So I jumped him. The creature swore and lashed back with everything he had. Seats cleared and the entire bus rocked. The sailors piled on. I grabbed his hair and shoved his head into the side of the bus. He roared as passengers shrieked. I took hold of his jowls and pressed him downward with all I had. He swung a fist, I punched him back. The sailors wrapped their arms around his middle and legs to hold him down. The prick was trying to bite me! I knew if I let go, I was dead, so I kept his huge head pinned into the side of the bus. He slid down, his sweat all over me.

We got him now, roars one of the sailors. Watch his legs! Whoa! Grab that arm, good! Nice one! Again! YEAH BOY!

He kicked like wild, frantic to push free. Suddenly he paused and stared me straight in the eye, hissing: The bitch can stand. But you, Hallboy bastard, I’m gonna kill you.

That crack really sent me off. I lost it. Beneath me on the floor lay Rosita’s knitting. If this beast wanted to sit so badly, I could fix that. I reached for Rosita’s knitting needles. The man’s ear was flat against the bus seat. Without any thought I took aim and stabbed the needle like an ice pick straight into the ear, piercing it clean through. I felt a little Pop. Then I sunk the needle all the way into the cushion. I think you could hear him scream all the way to the pier. I took the other needle and plunged it through his other ear. It sunk down ‘til I felt it hit the springs.

Both ears were stuck tight. Those leatherette cushions refused to tear.

Holy shit, says one of the sailors. That’s sick! We loosened our grip just a bit. His kicking rocked the entire bus, his hands clutched at his bleeding ears. The needles looked like antennae. They held.

Riders screamed. Rosita was flustered to say the least, but she turned and placed her hand on my arm and says to me softly, Chip, thank you. But I think you defended me a little too much. You should have seen the look on your face. Nonetheless she gave the giant a stiff kick in the pants and said, Stay outa our town, fatso.

Diana the driver had made her way down the aisle and assessed the sorry scene. Oh, Chip, look what you did! What will I tell the company? My goodness!

That’s when one of the sailors yells COPS! Run for it, Jake! and they both raced out the front door and ran down the sidewalk towards the pier, right past a No Palms police car parked just ahead of the bus. Crap, I thought, I can’t get involved in this, I’ll be really late for work.

Rosita, I whispered. I gotta get out of here.

I moved fast for the rear door. I flew down the steps and leapt to the sidewalk. I took two strides and ran right into the waiting arms of my old friend and little league coach, No Palms Police Sergeant Bernie Butterbar.

*****

CHAPTER THREE

H e insulted the Hall! And I was defending Rosita’s honor! Ask her yourself.

Did you see all that blood? Sergeant Butterbar fired back. You completely ruined my appetite.

Coach! I gotta get to work! I’ll lose my job! Will you take off these handcuffs? Let’s be civilized!

You weren’t civilized on that bus. I call it brutality! Butterbar sighed and removed the cuffs but remained irate. On a crowded bus no less. Unbelievable. Now stand in front of this cell, empty your pockets and shut up.

There are exactly two cells in the little jail in No Palms. Facing one of them, I saw two bunks, two sinks, and two salty mattresses. Two police cars were parked outside. There are two buses and two stoplights on the P.O.P. Years ago No Palms had two antique stores and two barbers. There are exactly two exits leading out of town. Old men used to fish on the pier in pairs; old women sat in Seaside Park two-at-a-time and sewed. We have two high tides and two low tides each day. An enraged Sergeant Butterbar pointed to a spot on the cold cement and said, Stand right there. And he stormed off down the hall towards his office.

I followed right behind. You can’t lock me up. I’m late for work!

Coach or Sergeant, Bernie Butterbar was normally a bright happy fellow, blue tie loose in a khaki short sleeve shirt, Bermuda’s in the summer, a walkie-talkie radio on his hip. Any kid who ever lived at No Palms Boys Hall kept an eye out for Sergeant Butterbar when mischief was afoot on the pier or P.O.P. Our fondest memories of Bernie Butterbar, however, were as our Little League Coach. He pitched endless batting practice, hit a million ground balls, and taught us a thing or two about sportsmanship. He coached us to win together, lose together, fight together, hustle, cheat, cuss, and spit seeds. He was our father figure who fought alongside each of us, from first pitch to the last. While on patrol in No Palms he was never too busy to buy a kid in a purple cap a shake at El Burger Bucket. Given all this plus our longstanding personal friendship, it shocked me to watch Butterbar search so hard for the keys to the lock-up in the No Palms jail.

Get your ass back to those cells. I ordered you to stand still!

Seriously?

He shuffled around on his desk. Deputy, where the hell is that key?

Coach, I’m already late! And the slob swung first…

No, Chip. You went too damn far.

He insulted Rosita. And the Hall. He went after me! I stood up for the Hall! And Rosita’s honor. The bastard was asking for it! You shoulda heard him cuss.

Gimme a break with the rationale. You were savage.

Butterbar, I’ll lose my job!

My old baseball coach slammed some drawers. I’d never