Home by 7:00. Drunk by 9:22
Same ol’ Same ol’
Working class? Middle class? Drinking class?
Poor Ann Marie Moreno
Poor Ann Marie Moreno’s 2001 “driven into the Goddamn ground” VW Beetle - Herby for short.
The tow driver noticed my freckles, he asks if anyone’s ever “held me down and played connect the dots.”
I think “back off of me homes” but I let him talk, he’s harmless. Well, to me he is. Okay, to me right then he was. Actually he’s a little bit of a scary dude.
“Yeah mang, like my daughter mang she’s like you, she has freckles. And she’s tall. She looks old for her age ju know. She knows how to drive this flat bed too, she’s smart mang. She’s tough too. I used to set her up in the front seat with me and she’d fill out the paperwork for people. The customers, they like her. They know she’s my kid, she’s only 13 but she looks like she could be 17. She’s like you I think. She teases me and says she wants ‘back wages’ because I’ve been carrying her around in this truck with me since she was just a little kid. Ju know, like now she needs nails and fills and all that kinda stuff. Yeah mang, she’s like an adult now. Now she needs money.”
“Yeah, man I hear ya.” It takes a lot of fuckin’ scratch to be Anniepants Jack. I’ve got cars to repair and hair dye, booze, yoga, flamenco and gas to pay for. At least I don’t fuckin’ eat anymore - for me that’s a colossal waste of dough for sure.
“Hey mang you mind if we stop by my place I gotta let this guy in so he can fix the furnace. I just got me this new place. It’s NICE!”
“No problem, sure man, whatever you need to do. I’m already late to work, a few minutes ain’t gonna matter” I say.
My poor fuckin’ dead and dying car, with the Virgin of Guadalupe rose-scented air freshener and pink flower just chillin,' lifted up face first on his tow truck. My poor fuckin’ dead and dying carcass with its oversized but chic as Hell (if I do say so myself) sweater and jewelry just sitting, right where his freckle faced little girl usually does - but I can’t even get me no ‘back wages,’ ju know mang.
We pull up to “his place” and it’s a dump - worse than mine. Fuckin’ shit hole in South Long Beach. In the Ghetto, homes.
“This is my new place. One bedroom. It’s just me. My kids only come visit when they need money.”
Dame tu plata Guapo. Dame tu plata Homes. Dame tu plata Daddy.
“Nah, mang, its nice though, yard in the front and the back. Like it works out good for me ju know.”
“Yeah man, it is nice.” I’m a fuckin’ liar, but shit, aren’t we all. The yard he’s so damn high on is yellow and sparse - one step up from fuckin’ weed infested dirt, but I suppose if you have enough cervezas in you, it don’t matter one bit, homes.
Across the street there is a congregation of invalids- crack head lookin’ mother fuckers, sitting on the porch takin’ turns takin’ drags on a cig. All bundled up in their flannel jackets. All lookin’ pretty fuckin’ out of work. All lookin’ pretty fuckin’ unemployable. They sort of waddle like penguins, pock marks, gin blossoms, bum legs, you can see their breath come out frosty in the morning air. “Yeah man. It is a nice place.”
Poor Ann Marie Moreno
Poor Herby “I’ve got a busted fuel line and spark plugs” Love Bug
Poor dudes across the street
Poor tow truck guy
All of us - we’re all a fuckin’ mess.
They all have ways to make you pay. That masterpiece of yours best be damn good homes. That inspired shit you’ve got hangin’ out up your sleeve better be better than immortality. We ain’t got all day homes. Fuck your car, fuck your art. You’ve got people to support - Me and homeboy here. We’ve all gotta bring home the lettuce homes, the lechuga son- fuck you and fuck your inspiration, ju know mang. Get back to work, yo. Day jobs and shit.
Dame tu plata Guapa. Dame tu plata Bebe. Dame tu plata Mama.
“Yeah mang, my kids you know they only come when they want cash. They’ve got my attitude and their mother’s way of fighting, they’re tough.”
Dame la plata Guapo. Dame la plata Homes. Dame la plata Daddy.
I don’t ever think about my kids. All the psychics tell me I’m destined to have two of them - a boy and a girl. But I don’t think about them because I don’t believe I’ll ever meet them. I’m supposed to marry some artist cat, in “LA where all the water is.” I learned the hard way that this prophecy doesn’t mean I’m supposed to fuck the entire (okay, a large portion of, okay more than a few of) Venice's design community, or Santa Monica’s artistic community or Long Beach’s musician community. I don’t see no ring on these fingers yet homes. Yeah man, I’ve learned the hard way.
“Yeah man. Kids. Wow.” I don’t say it, but I think it, and I think about the ones I’m suppose to have but probably never will. Fuck immortality. I’ve got parents to raise - what the Hell do I need kids for? What the Hell do I need to write for?
Maybe I don’t want to make no stinkin’ masterpiece like the psychics predict, maybe I just want to be a “nobody” all my life and just nuzzle my face into a man’s warm neck that smells of soap, or my babies littler warm necks that smells of baby powder and sour milk - my milk. Maybe that’s immortality enough. But what do I fuckin’ know. I don’t think I’ll ever see any of it anyway. Fuckin’ psychics. Fuckin’ gullible Ann.
“Here’s a picture, that one there, that’s her, she was only 10 in this picture, she’s bigger now.” He pulls out his wallet and dusts off the plastic cover the picture is in. It’s her and 5 other young girls. It’s the kind of pic that looks all soft and starry, like JC Penny takes in a packaged set. For lack of better words, it’s the kind that Cholas and F.O.B.s take (no offense). She’s a pretty girl. But if she’s tall she sure as Hell don’t get that from her dad. This poor cat, with his penthouse of a dump apartment in glorious South Long Beach, he’s 5' 6" on his best day. Big “LA” tat on his neck like the kind scenester Hollywood chicks get on the inside of their wrists - but even more ghetto.“Yeah, I’ve been workin’ 15 hour days ju know. Like I drive a lot, so this place is good for me, I’m never home anyway.”Don’t have to tell me homes. Story of my life. Story of my Goddamn life. Why do you think my fuckin’ car gave out on me? Driving - practically my middle name.
Poor Ann “Driving” Moreno
Poor tow truck guy
“Yeah, its good to work a lot with the holidays and stuff man,” I say.
“Yeah, well, like, ju know, I told my kids they get $100 for Christmas and I’ll get them a present too. So they know. But you know kids mang- they always want more."
Sure I fuckin’ know kids - and everyone else too. We all fuckin’ want more. It dawns on me how lucky I am to come from a middle class family, how spoiled I am by my working class mother, how warped my drinking class view of the world is and how out of touch my understanding of finances are. But I pretend not to be a frivolous idiot about it.
Dame tu plata Guapa. Dame tu plata Bebe. Dame tu plata Mama.
“Yeah man, but you know things are so expensive now a days.” I say.
“Yeah, but shit, a 100 bucks! I could buy 2 pairs of Levis for $50 you know mang. Like, but I’ve got connections. I mean you can’t do that if you shop in no stinkin’ mall.”
He’s got “connections” - holy shit! Poverty sucks. Middle class, working class - what? Can someone please get that asshole Bush out of office all ready? Maybe we could stop fighting the wars of old men 10,000 miles away from home and start taking care of the needs of neglected kids in our own communities. Like just a thought, ju know mang.
“Yeah man, connections are good. Always good to know people.” I say.
“Sure I know all kinds a people. Like my brother mang, he’s a cop - good people to know mang. Like cops are really good to know”
“Yeah man. Always good to know cops man.” I reply and want to shoot myself as the words fall bitter and nasty from my tongue.
AnnMoreno 