Ch. 1 of my literary YA novel...
Ch. 1 of my literary YA novel...
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THE CREW
Chapter One
It was Demon DeLorean—D.D.—who led me to Cannonball.
D.D. and I met up in the parking lot of St. Andy’s after the last bell at 2:30. We got into his busted-up Saturn and drove to my parents’ so I could change clothes before heading south to Oxnard, near Ventura, where D.D. and Cannonball lived. Spiky black hair, tight black Levi’s, pasty white skin and an attitude that bordered on insanity, D.D. was this wild anarchist-punk-rock-rebel who took no prisoners.
Backing out of my driveway on Del Norte Ave—my mother thankfully not home yet—he screeched in reverse and did that balls-to-the-wall, Back to the Future, hair-raising rocket shot down my street. My heart pounced like a baseball bat smacking the ball, ba-boom, ba-boom, and we shot down Del Norte. I was nervous about the neighbors telling my mom but there was no stopping this guy.
My mom had warned me about these kinds of kids. “Trouble with a capital T,” she always said. She just wanted me to be safe and happy, the opposite of her haggard, brutal childhood growing up in Pacific Palisades in LA in the 1960s. Her mom had run off with a Catholic priest, leaving her father and their whole family. The thing with my mom was: She hugged me constantly, told me “I love you” like five times a day. It was oppressive.
“Hey, could we maybe, like, slow down just a bit?”
He smiled, shifting the manual gear, stepping on the gas, speeding down Highway 33 in the direction of the Pacific Ocean. “The first rule of Fight Club is…you don’t talk about Fight Club.”
“What?” I said, confused.
Looking concerned, he eyed me sternly. “You’ve never seen Fight Club?”
Shrugging, I said, “No.”
He shook his head like a madman. “Jesus Christ, kid!” He sighed loudly. “Ok, this is going to be a whole reprogramming. A big project. Starting from Square One. Shit. You probably still think you need parents, that we need cops…you do don’t you... c’mon, Dog, admit it!” He’d already nicknamed me “Dog” due to my last name: Donnigan.
“Um…well…doesn’t everyone need parents? Wouldn’t our society fall apart without police?”
D.D. slammed a palm against his head, swerving, nearly losing his lane completely. “Oh, man, this is gonna be a lot of work. Amateur alert! The first thing you’re gonna do is read ‘1984.’ And then ‘A Brave New World.’ And you need punk education. It all started with a band called The Ramones, in 1974, hailing from Manhattan’s Lower East Side of New York City. Before them were Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison. You’ve heard of them haven’t you?” His tone dripped with caustic sarcasm.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling like a total idiot.
It was sophomore year. The truth was, freshman year, I’d been relegated to hanging out with the terrible, dreaded nerds. That had felt like having a rusty screwdriver jacked into my guts, piercing the viscera, slashing my soul. “You’ll make new friends,” my mom had promised.
“Alright, Dog, shut your mouth and listen to me and you’ll be okay. But don’t tell anyone else how stupid you are.”
We landed in Oxnard, off Highway 101. I was about to meet Mexican Johnny. He lived in a squat house where 16- and 17-year-old kids existed in their own filth and squalor, according to D.D. The city had abandoned the house and there was no landlord. Rent free, these kids were dropout runaways.
My stomach lurched as we closed the gap, getting closer to this new reality. I wanted so badly to impress D.D.—and finally meet Cannonball—but I was terrified, too. I was walking into unknown territory. I was going against my mother’s wishes, which both enthralled and saddened me. I needed this. It was some kind of rebirth. I could still feel the warmth of my mother’s tight bear hug from that morning, her hand running through my hair, saying, “I love you, Jack. Have a good day at school.”
We parked along the curb and D.D. shoved his door open throwing me a harsh glance. “Don’t say shit, Dog. Just follow me, alright?”
I nodded. It felt like ascending on a rollercoaster. The drop would be intense. What was I getting into?
We walked up to the moldy, rotting door. I smelled the mildew. D.D. stuck a Winston in his mouth and lit it. Looking tough and cool and mean in all the ways I wasn’t, he knocked on the door. The knob jostled and I heard voices. A guy with a huge afro opened the door. His eyes were contracted and red circles surrounded them. He was tall and thin, wiry legs that were covered, like D.D., in black ripped jeans. He sported a motorcycle jacket, equally torn and beat-up. He reeked of weed and cigarettes. It was disgusting and my first impulse was to turn around and run.
Inside, the place was falling apart. A few other guys nodded or ignored us and sat around on an L-shaped couch in the living room, staring at nothing. There was a messy, vile kitchen with rust-stains in the sink and dishes stacked, filthy and smelly. A hall led to a series of rooms. On the walls were posters. One was a massive picture of four guys in leather studded jackets, spiky bracelets on their wrists, spiky black hair like D.D., sneers on their faces. They stood holding each other’s shoulders, looking pissed. It said, “THE SEX PISTOLS, 1978: THE WINTERLAND BALLROOM. EVER GET THE FEELING YOU’VE BEEN CHEATED?”
The guy who’d let us in, with the afro, approached with something in his hand. He opened his palm. In it was a hypodermic needle and a bent spoon along with a small baggy with powder.
“Want some?” he said.
Shocked, I said, “What’s that?”
What was this place? My mom would murder me. This represented everything she’d tried to restrict me from, hold me back from, protect me from. It was like when she drove me to school, freshman year, and she’d have to brake suddenly; she’d always hurl her arm across my chest, a mother protecting her child. I hated when she did that. I loved my mom beyond words, but, since I’d been a pre-teen, some pressure, some resentment, some anger had been growing. She’d done things when I was a child, made mistakes.
“No,” D.D. said, breaking in-between us. “He ain’t initiated yet, Johnny.” He swiveled his head, staring at both of us. “Johnny, meet Dog, my newest recruit. Dog, meet Johnny, a veteran of The Crew.” We shook hands; his dirty, slimy paw gripped my clean, manicured one.
“Welcome to The New Church, kid. Your world’s about to explode.” He ripped his hand away then opened his palm fast as if an explosion were occurring.
“C’mon, Dog,” D.D. said, snatching me away from Mexican Johnny.
We walked down that mysterious hallway, bare white walls, past the darkness, arriving at a door. D.D. tried to open it: locked. He pounded a fist. “Cannon, let us in. It’s D.!”
“What’s The Crew?” I asked, innocently.
“Shhh,” he chided. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
And then it happened. Cannonball.
Nodding for us to come in, he eyed me with those intense, steady blue eyes you could almost see through, handed me a Mickey’s 40-ounce bottle, half-drunk, and said, sadistic smile, “Hey kid. I hear you’re ready for The Crew.” He looked over at D.D. and smiled an evil grin. Puckering his lips, he continued, “Is it better to have chosen evil than to have good imposed upon him?”
My heart pattered hard against my chest. I wanted to run and simultaneously stay, stay forever. I was hooked and terrified. This was my last chance. I could simply turn and walk away, down the hall, out the door, up the block. Find a bus. Go home. Be safe. I could even relate the story to Mom. She’d be mad that I’d defied her and gone with D.D. to this squalid house in Oxnard, but she’d be proud that I left, made the “right choice.”
“What does that mean?”
Cannonball grinned deeper. “It’s a quote from a novel called ‘A Clockwork Orange,’ kind of my bible, if you want to know the truth. Words to live by, kid.” D.D. plucked a beer from a mini fridge in the corner and tossed it to Cannonball. He popped it open, never averting his eyes from me for a second. He took a swig, beer dribbling down his chin. “My name’s Cannonball. What’s yours?”
I stepped forward. “Jack Donnigan.” D.D. stared at me brutally. “Dog, I mean.”
“Nice to meet you Dog.” He took another swig. “You know why they call me Cannonball?”
There was a lump the size of Antarctica rising in my tight throat. I wanted to breathe deeply but I knew if I did that I’d look like a pansy. They’d laugh at me. Swallowing that lump back down, I said, meekly, “No.”
He took another hefty chug of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Because if you mess with me I’ll explode like a cannonball.”
Control your breathing, Jack. Calm. I nodded. Or at least I think I nodded. I felt so nervous I wasn’t sure what I did.
“Drink that forty, kid.”
I stared down at the giant green bottle in my hand. I was an alcohol virgin. I was a virgin in every way. Innocent. But, I sensed, that innocence was about to be obliterated. That feeling returned, from earlier: I need this. My mom was so lovely and bubbly and warm, but her strict, incessant rules were killing me. It hurt that I was going to do this, stick the knife into her torso and twist. Defy her regulations, her rules. But I couldn’t help it. The days of bouncing on her thighs in the Jacuzzi in our massive backyard, asking my father questions about the Milky Way; those days were over. This was about revolution. It was about change. It was about embracing the chaos.
Action. This was the only way. These guys were a portal: They would lead me through.
With a quick intake of air, a slow release, and a pleading internal prayer, I lifted the bottle, nodded at Cannonball, and drank.
Soon I started to feel the buzz.
I was ready for the initiation.
Glad you liked my cover idea! Looking good.
*and done it..
gone and done it!
So good I started reading, got into it, got distracted, got back to it,and all the while was so engaged I couldn’t, wouldn’t take the time to find my damn spectacles!
THAT is the mark of a banging read.