I couldn’t rouse
Big Dave as the fire spread through the living room. He had been up
for days smoking crystal and drinking cheap beer before falling
asleep. I yelled and punched him, but he remained unconscious as the
flames leapt around us.
Nate and my
girlfriend Tiffany had safely exited the burning house. Tiffany
screamed from the front lawn for us to get out. I tried dragging Big
Dave, but he was too heavy. The smoke was thick, and the heat
unbearable. Begrudgingly, I left my friend and roommate, and crawled
on my hands and knees out the front door as a wall exploded behind me
into red cinders. In the distance, sirens approached.
Nate, Big Dave,
Tiffany and I rented the three-bedroom house near Portola Drive on
the Eastside. Our friends called it the Bro-Hive because we partied
there night and day. When we weren’t partying, we were surfing
Pleasure Point.
Big Dave was an
enforcer, controlling the peak at Sewer’s. He’d dunk or chase
off anybody that dropped in on us, so we always got the best waves.
Nate and I were sponsored, and destined for the pro-circuit. Tiffany
worked at a nearby retail shop, selling over priced t-shirts and
sunglasses to tourists. She had long blonde hair, blue eyes, a
little button nose and just the right amount of curves in all the
right places. During bikini season, I felt like the luckiest man
alive.
Tiffany told the
firefighters Big Dave was still inside. They suited up, and made
their way into the burning Bro-Hive. After several tense moments,
two firefighters appeared through the smoke, carrying Big Dave. We
stood over our friend to see if he was okay, but he wasn’t okay.
Big Dave had burned to death.
“Ryan did this,”
Nate said as I coughed and hugged Tiffany. “He’s as good as
dead.”
We’d been friends
with Ryan since middle school. We grew up together surfing the
Eastside. Ryan was one of the boys in our pack, and we spent
countless nights knocking back beers and burning green bowls with
him. The trouble started when Ryan’s parents bought him a
jacked-up four-runner for his eighteenth birthday.
He pulled up to the
Bro-Hive in his new ride. Nate and I hopped in with a twenty-four
pack of beer, and we headed to Hollister Hills for an off-road
session. Ryan did some donuts, and then he gunned the engine,
launching from a huge dirt mound. He hit the jump off-center, and
less than twenty-four hours after his parents bought him the truck,
Ryan rolled it. Nate wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and was thrown
from the vehicle. The truck narrowly missed crushing his scull by a
few inches, but his right arm wasn’t so lucky. I also wasn’t
wearing a seatbelt, and broke my back. Ryan was strapped in, and
didn’t get a scratch.
Rehabilitation took
almost a year. When I finally paddled into the lineup again, my
skills had diminished. I couldn’t snap off the lip or punt for big
air anymore. Nate never regained full mobility in his damaged arm,
and our surfing dreams evaporated faster than saltwater.
The firefighters
doused the inferno, contained the destruction, and halted the threat
of the flames advancing toward the neighbors’ homes. When the
blaze was extinguished, the Bro-Hive was gone. Like Big Dave, only
the charred frame of what once was remained.
The police and
arson investigators interrogated us for several hours, but it was all
a blur. I was grieving the loss of Big Dave, and coming down from
meth. I wanted to forget everything and sleep for a week. When the
authorities finally let us go, we walked to Nate’s mom’s place.
She lived in the trailer park behind the 7-11 on the Eastside. She
bought us several frozen pizzas for dinner, and went to bed. I
wanted to crash too, but instead we stayed awake, smoking crystal.
We weren’t always
meth-heads. I never touched the stuff before breaking my back. Ryan
introduced us to the drug. I can’t speak for Nate, but a profound
depression rattled me to the core while rehabilitating. We lost our
sponsors, and the lack of physical exertion drove me crazy. The meth
got me through those low points. Before long, Big Dave and Tiffany
were also smoking, and we began selling for Ryan to supplement our
income.
The fallout with
Ryan had escalated over money. Ryan owed Nate for a surfboard, but
Ryan snapped the board on his first session in the water, and refused
to pay. Nate and Big Dave went to Ryan’s mom’s garage where Ryan
lived, and demanded money. When Ryan refused, Big Dave knocked him
out. They went through Ryan’s belongings, and took his cash and
crystal. After their confrontation, Ryan said he’d kill Nate and
Big Dave. Nate wasn’t taking the threat seriously, but he was
laying low.
We stayed up all
night at Nate’s mom’s smoking meth. At dawn Nate pulled out the
hide-a-bed in the couch. I didn’t like the idea of Tiffany lying
next to Nate. At one point I dozed off, and when I woke, I suspected
they were groping under the blanket. Nate’s mom left us a box of
donuts before she went to work. I nibbled at an apple fritter, but
after smoking more meth, I lost my appetite. Nate went into his
mom’s room, and returned with a .38.
“Let’s find
that fucker,” he said. “There’s a swell in the water. I bet
Ryan’s at The Point.”
“What are you
doing?” Tiffany asked.
“Payback for Big
Dave,” Nate said.
“But you’ll go
to jail.”
“It’s him or
me.”
“Severn, please
talk some sense into him,” Tiffany pleaded.
“What is there to
say?” Nate asked. “Dave was your boy too. You just going to
sit there and let Ryan punk us?”
“We should think
about this,” I said. “Before doing something stupid.”
“I’m taking my
mom’s beach cruiser to Pleasure Point,” Nate said. “You can
either get out, or use my sister’s mountain bike, and come with.”
Tiffany should have
taken the pink mountain bike, and Nate should have given me a pump on
the cruiser’s handlebars, but instead, Nate boosted Tiffany, and I
rode the pink mountain bike. We pedaled to Pleasure Point. The tide
was low, and the swell was up. An offshore wind hollowed out the
curls, making for ideal conditions. Sewer’s Peak was beyond
crowded. Back in the day, Big Dave would have managed the herd, and
we’d have feasted on the best waves.
“See him
anywhere?” Nate asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Maybe he’s surfing the Westside.”
“I’m not
rolling over there,” Nate said. “He’ll show up eventually.”
Tommy approached
us, and said he was sorry to hear about Big Dave. Nate wouldn’t
talk to him because Tommy was Ryan’s boy. I asked him if he’d
seen Ryan around, and he said he hadn’t, but there was something in
his response that made me think he was lying.
“Come on guys,”
Tiffany said. “I’m getting cold, and I have to go to work. Do
you think I can borrow some of your mom’s clothes Nate?”
“I don’t see
why not.”
We pedaled back to
Nate’s mom’s trailer. Nate went into the bathroom, and didn’t
come out for a longtime. When he finally reappeared, Tiffany
exchanged a glance with him, and also disappeared into the bathroom.
After Tiffany left
for work, I called my mom. She heard about the fire and Big Dave,
and was concerned because she hadn’t been able to reach me. I
asked her if I could visit. She seemed hesitant, but said Scott
would pick me up in front of the 7-11 in half-an-hour.
“New ride huh?”
I said as my stepfather pulled along side me in a cherry red BMW.
“Don’t slam the
door,” he said when I entered. “We saw the fire on the news. I
hope you don’t think you’re moving back in with us.”
We didn’t talk
much on the drive. It was no secret Scott and I didn’t get along.
He thought I was a lazy bum, living off my mom’s money, and I
thought the same thing about him. Scott was an alcoholic. He had
one of those veiny red noses old people acquire after years of
drinking. I never understood what my mom saw in Scott. As we drove
through the Capitola Village, I thought about the falling out with my
mom.
I had bought a new
surfboard with the money I saved working as a security guard at the
boardwalk. The next day Scott took my new surfboard out of the
garage, and left it on the lawn overnight. In the morning it was
gone. I was furious, and demanded he buy me another board, but Scott
laughed in my face, so I took my skateboard, and smashed out the
windshield and headlights of his truck. He had a conniption fit, and
we came to blows. It was the last straw for my mother, and she
booted me. I hadn’t been back since.
Scott parked in
front of the two-story house my grandfather bought fifty years ago.
The house sat on the edge of a bluff over Soquel Creek. Before my
mom married Scott, she told me that someday the house would be mine.
Scott had other designs. He didn’t want her to leave the place to
me, and was constantly pressuring her to sell.
I went straight to
the refrigerator, and opened one of Scott’s Sierra Nevada’s. I
didn’t see my mom anywhere inside, so I went out back, and found
her working in the garden. She gave me a suspicious look, and then
she took off her gloves, and gave me a hug.
“Sorry to hear
about your friend,” she said. “How are you doing?”
“Still in shock,”
I said. “Fortunately I have a great girl helping me through.”
“Why didn’t she
join us?” My mom asked.
“She’s
working.”
“Is there
anything I can do to help? What do you think of Scott’s new car?”
“I’m all
right,” I said.
“I know you don’t
want to hear this right now,” she said. “But Scott and I have
decided to sell. We found a nice ranch out in Corralitos, and with
the extra money we can retire.”
“But you said
grandpa’s house would be mine someday.”
“I know, but
plans change,” she said with a hurt look in her eye.
“This is
bullshit,” I said. “What about me?”
“I can help you
out with school.”
Scott sat on the
couch, watching a local news channel as I stormed into the house.
“Don’t slam the
door,” he said.
“This beer tastes
like shit,” I said, and hurled the bottle at his head.
He ducked, and it
shattered against the wall.
“Get the fuck
out,” he demanded, standing up.
I slammed the front
door as hard as I could, and walked back to the Eastside in a rage,
snapping parked car’s antennas along the way. When I arrived at
Nate’s mom’s trailer, Nate and Tiffany sat side-by-side, but they
moved apart as I entered.
“Ever heard of
knocking?” Nate asked.
“What’s wrong?”
Tiffany asked.
“I thought you
were working,” I said.
“They felt bad,
and sent me home,” she said.
I told her my mom
was selling the house. Tiffany tried to console me, but the more I
thought about it, the angrier I became. We smoked meth, and Nate
said he had something that would cheer me up. He took a smart phone
out of his pocket, and turned it on.
“Do you remember
this?” He asked.
“You’re old
phone,” I said.
“Yup,” he said.
“The one I got before my I Phone.”
“So?”
“So don’t you
remember?” He said, and turned it on.
He found a video,
and hit play on the screen. I watched the scene unfold on the tiny
monitor. Several years ago when we were still friends with Ryan, we
had beef with a Westsider named Jerry Fields and his buddies. They
thought they could surf wherever they pleased, and tried to muscle in
on our peak, so Big Dave sent them packing. After the incident Ryan
discovered ‘Westside’ spray-painted across the windshield of his
mom’s car. Later that night, Ryan bought a gallon of gas, and we
rolled up to Jerry’s parents’ house. Jerry’s green Cadillac
convertible was parked at the curb. Nate took out his phone and
started filming as Ryan doused the Cadillac’s interior with
gasoline.
“Adios
motherfucker,” Ryan said to the camera, striking a match, and
throwing it over his shoulder into the Cadillac.
The image on the
phone went completely white as the fireball exploded.
“Whoops,” Nate
said when the video ended. “I accidently sent this incriminating
evidence to the police.”
Tiffany was scared
that Ryan would retaliate, but Nate assured her that the best defense
was a proactive offense. He said Ryan’s hands would be full
explaining the video to the police, and that if he went to jail, that
meant he wasn’t on the street trying to kill us. Tiffany wasn’t
buying it, but there was no arguing with Nate, so she dropped the
subject.
Tiffany’s father
was on a business trip for a few days, so we stayed at his apartment
near downtown. This worked in our favor because Nate’s mom was
growing weary of us. Nate scored twelve hits of acid from a UCSC
student, and bought a twenty-four pack of beer. After we each
dropped two hits, the walls in Tiffany’s dad’s living room
rippled in an imaginary breeze as we ploughed through the beer.
Nate gave me twenty
bucks, and told me to buy another twenty-four pack. I didn’t want
to leave the apartment, but after several hits of meth, I felt up to
the challenge. I borrowed Tiffany’s dad’s beach cruiser, and set
out for the liquor store. As I pedaled onto the street, a Honda
Civic sideswiped me. I went down on my head, and when I got up off
the asphalt, I felt half-flattened. Blood dripped down my face. The
Honda pulled over, and a young woman exited from the driver’s side.
“Oh my god,”
she said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. It’s like you
appeared out of nowhere. Are you okay?”
“I think so,” I
said. “The bike seems okay too.”
“Thank god,”
she said. “Here, take this.”
She handed me two
twenty-dollar bills, apologized again, got in her car and drove off
into the twinkling haze. I climbed onto the bike, and continued to
my destination. When I arrived at the liquor store, I felt fuzzy. I
grabbed a twenty-four pack of beer, and stood in line.
“What happened to
you?” Tommy said, tapping me on the shoulder, as I was about to
pay.
“This chick hit
me with her car,” I said. “She gave me forty bucks.”
“No way,” Tommy
said. “What are you all about?”
“Nothing,” I
said. “Just dosing over at Tiff’s dad’s place.”
“For real?”
“Yeah,” I said,
and paid. “See you around.”
Holding the case of
beer with one hand in my lap, I held the handlebars with my other
hand, and pedaled to the apartment.
“What happened?”
Nate asked, popping a beer.
“Are you okay?”
Tiffany asked.
“I’m already
tired of telling it, but some chick hit me with her car. She felt
bad, and gave me forty bucks.”
“Who else did you
tell?” Nate asked.
“I ran into Tommy
at the store.”
“What did you
say?” Nate asked.
“That we’re
tripping at Tiffany’s dad’s apartment.”
“Jesus Severn,”
Tiffany said. “He’s been here before.”
“What the fuck,”
Nate said. “You know he’s Ryan’s boy.”
“I didn’t think
it was a big deal,” I said as Nate grabbed the .38 out of his
backpack.
We spent the night
chugging beer, and arguing about what to do. Nate paced the floor
paranoid that Ryan would find us. At sunrise, the acid was fading,
so we dropped the rest of it, and walked to the park. We lay in the
grass, smoking cigarettes.
Eventually we grew
restless, and returned to Tiffany’s dad’s apartment for more
meth. When we arrived at his second floor landing, the front door
was wide open. Inside, the place was trashed. Tiffany was furious.
She cussed me out, and hit me several times in the chest. I
apologized, but she ignored me, and went out onto the porch to smoke.
It wasn’t safe at
Tiffany’s dad’s place anymore, so we walked back to Nate’s
mom’s trailer on the Eastside. On the way, we passed the remnants
of the Bro-Hive. The sight of the burnt out house angered Nate. He
gritted his teeth, and said he’d get even with Ryan. I wasn’t
thinking about revenge. I was thinking about Big Dave. I missed
him, and felt vulnerable without him.
We stopped at the
7-11 for supplies. Our money was getting low, but I still had the
forty-dollars from the woman who’d hit me with her car. We bought
more beer, cigarettes and some frozen burritos. I was coming down
from the acid, and the left side of my head throbbed.
Screeching tires
flooded our ears as we exited the convenient store. A pickup truck
bore down on us. I grabbed Tiffany, and got out of harm’s way, but
Nate got tagged, and tumbled onto the truck’s hood. The impact
caused the beers under his arm to explode as his body shattered the
windshield. The truck stopped, and Nate crumpled down the hood onto
the asphalt. Tiffany screamed, and tried to run to Nate, but I held
her back as the truck revved its engine. Slowly, Nate sat up. Blood
dripped down his face. He looked confused, but then his eyes
focused. He reached for the .38, and fired several shots through the
busted windshield as the truck peeled out, and crushed Nate under its
tires before climbing the curb onto the street. The truck passed,
and I saw Ryan behind the wheel. Our eyes met, and he pointed at me
before speeding away.
Nate lay crumpled
on the ground, laboring to breath. Blood trickled from his mouth and
ears. Tiffany cradled his head in her arms and sobbed as sirens
approached. The police made Tiffany and me get down on our stomachs
while they searched us. Medics arrived, and Nate disappeared into
the back of an ambulance.
Tiffany and I were
cuffed, taken to the police station, and interrogated separately. I
came clean, and described to the police the events of the last
several days. Nate and Ryan had a dispute over a surfboard. Ryan
wouldn’t pay for the board, so Nate stole Ryan’s drugs. Ryan
retaliated by burning down the Bro-Hive, which killed Big Dave. Nate
returned the favor by texting the police the video of Ryan setting
fire to Jerry’s Cadillac, and Ryan struck back by trashing
Tiffany’s dad’s apartment, and running down Nate in the 7-11
parking lot.
I told them that
Tiffany was my girlfriend, and that we were friends with Nate, but
that we had just been caught up in the dispute, and hadn’t wanted
to get involved. When I was done explaining things, they held me for
most of the day, but didn’t charge me with anything, and eventually
I was released.
I didn’t know
where to go. My mom’s was out of the question, so I walked to
Tiffany’s dad’s apartment, but nobody answered the door, so I
walked to Nate’s mom’s trailer, and found Tiffany packing a bag.
She said Nate was in critical condition, and had been medevaced to
Stanford. His mom would be home from work any minute, and they were
driving to the hospital. I said I’d go with them, but Tiffany said
no. I tried to console her, but she pushed me away.
“Come on Tiffany,
you’re my girl,” I said.
“No I’m not,
and I never was,” she said.
“You’re fucking
him aren’t you?”
“Get out.”
“I’m not
stupid,” I said. “I know what’s going on.”
“I’m not
beholden to you,” she said, trying to get by me.
“Yes you are.
You’re my girl.”
“No I’m not.
Let me go,” she screamed.
I grabbed Tiffany
by the wrists, but she struggled free, so I hit her, and she
collapsed onto the couch. She held her cheek, and kneed me in the
balls, so I wrapped my hands around her neck.
“It should have
been Nate,” I said, looking into her wide eyes as I squeezed. “Not
Big Dave. Had it been Nate, everything would be okay. We’d still
be together.”
Her face turned purple, and spittle dripped from her mouth. I
loosened my grip when she went limp, walked into the kitchen, and
opened the gas on the stove. Returning to the living room, I lit a
smoke, and stuck it between my girl’s lips.
