it.”
“I meant something of mine. Like a leg.”
“Tell everybody you laid it down, lucky to get out alive. Chicks love war stories. Show ’em your scars.”
He slows down and pulls up to a stoplight. We’re first when the light changes, and he keeps revving the engine.
“Hey!”
I glance to my right, where a white standard poodle, groomed like he’s up for Best in Show, has his head out the window.
I reply, “Hey, yourself.”
He nods toward the driver, a woman with too much Botox in her lips. He says, “All I do is cruise up and down this street with Ms. Fancy Pants, so I know what I’m talking about. Watch out for a cop parked behind that Shell station up ahead.”
“Thanks. Are you all right?”
“So-so. I wasn’t bred just to ride around in a Lexus, but I can’t complain. How about you and your boyfriend?”
“Hey, it’s not like that.”
“Sorry. I got a look at myself in the mirror this morning. Do you believe this haircut?”
On the green, I lean forward and tell Astin to take it easy for a block or so.
“Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
Sure enough, not thirty seconds later there’s the snout of a black-and-white cruiser peeking out, then the driver holding a radar gun.
“Too cool, Teddy!” says Astin. “You can ride with me anytime.”
We pull into the parking lot of Blue’s Burgers, which pretty much straddles the dividing line between San Marino and Pasadena.
I think of those chimp wars Mom told me about because guys from Alhambra and Santa Mira and Pasadena and Arcadia mill around in their letterman’s jackets. It’s like a watering hole in Africa, too. There’s a lot of sniffing and snorting and jostling for position.
I’ve heard about Blue’s, but I’ve never been here. My parents didn’t eat out, and, anyway, all I needed was to show up somewhere cool with my mommy and daddy. I guess I could have ridden down on my bicycle, but why? People who go to Blue’s want to see and be seen. I wanted to be invisible.
Astin squats down beside the motorcycle, takes a handkerchief out, and wipes the chrome. He talks without looking at me. “Pretty soon, Bob’s going to take you off KP and give you the garbage detail.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Nope. It’s a promotion.” He glances up at me. “You know why Bob’s always out in that workshop, don’t you?” Astin doesn’t wait for me to answer. “She wants to adopt, but he doesn’t. She gets pretend kids and he gets a check every month, but she won’t let it go. So he’s just like,
‘Adios.’
” He wipes his hands carefully. “I’d pity any baby she ever got her hands on. She’s more screwed up than my mom, and that’s saying something.”
I ask, “What’d your mom do?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Drugs, booze, any guy in a leather jacket.”
“Do you ever see her?”
“I think she’s dead.”
“I know mine is.”
“Lucky us. Let’s eat.”
I follow him at top speed. He pushes past everybody. Slips in between two customers leaning on the grimy-looking counter. “Billy! Two of everything.”
A man in a sport coat says, “I beg your pardon.”
Astin doesn’t bother with him. He’s grinning at the guy on his right, who has a shaved head and one of those beard-and-mustache combinations that looks like a toilet brush.
“Do you,” he asks, “beg my pardon too?”
“Get lost.”
“And,” says somebody from the back of the pack, “get in line like everybody else.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Astin turns, puts both elbows on the counter, and leans back. Standing like that makes his chest stick out. Male prairie chickens do this during mating season. I don’t think I’ll tell him that.
“And it’s not going to happen,” he says, “because I’ve been coming here forever. I look out over you guys, and I don’t know any of you. So don’t tell me to get in line at my own place. Okay?” He meets one set of eyes after another. Then he says, “Good.”
“I meant something of mine. Like a leg.”
“Tell everybody you laid it down, lucky to get out alive. Chicks love war stories. Show ’em your scars.”
He slows down and pulls up to a stoplight. We’re first when the light changes, and he keeps revving the engine.
“Hey!”
I glance to my right, where a white standard poodle, groomed like he’s up for Best in Show, has his head out the window.
I reply, “Hey, yourself.”
He nods toward the driver, a woman with too much Botox in her lips. He says, “All I do is cruise up and down this street with Ms. Fancy Pants, so I know what I’m talking about. Watch out for a cop parked behind that Shell station up ahead.”
“Thanks. Are you all right?”
“So-so. I wasn’t bred just to ride around in a Lexus, but I can’t complain. How about you and your boyfriend?”
“Hey, it’s not like that.”
“Sorry. I got a look at myself in the mirror this morning. Do you believe this haircut?”
On the green, I lean forward and tell Astin to take it easy for a block or so.
“Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
Sure enough, not thirty seconds later there’s the snout of a black-and-white cruiser peeking out, then the driver holding a radar gun.
“Too cool, Teddy!” says Astin. “You can ride with me anytime.”
We pull into the parking lot of Blue’s Burgers, which pretty much straddles the dividing line between San Marino and Pasadena.
I think of those chimp wars Mom told me about because guys from Alhambra and Santa Mira and Pasadena and Arcadia mill around in their letterman’s jackets. It’s like a watering hole in Africa, too. There’s a lot of sniffing and snorting and jostling for position.
I’ve heard about Blue’s, but I’ve never been here. My parents didn’t eat out, and, anyway, all I needed was to show up somewhere cool with my mommy and daddy. I guess I could have ridden down on my bicycle, but why? People who go to Blue’s want to see and be seen. I wanted to be invisible.
Astin squats down beside the motorcycle, takes a handkerchief out, and wipes the chrome. He talks without looking at me. “Pretty soon, Bob’s going to take you off KP and give you the garbage detail.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Nope. It’s a promotion.” He glances up at me. “You know why Bob’s always out in that workshop, don’t you?” Astin doesn’t wait for me to answer. “She wants to adopt, but he doesn’t. She gets pretend kids and he gets a check every month, but she won’t let it go. So he’s just like,
‘Adios.’
” He wipes his hands carefully. “I’d pity any baby she ever got her hands on. She’s more screwed up than my mom, and that’s saying something.”
I ask, “What’d your mom do?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Drugs, booze, any guy in a leather jacket.”
“Do you ever see her?”
“I think she’s dead.”
“I know mine is.”
“Lucky us. Let’s eat.”
I follow him at top speed. He pushes past everybody. Slips in between two customers leaning on the grimy-looking counter. “Billy! Two of everything.”
A man in a sport coat says, “I beg your pardon.”
Astin doesn’t bother with him. He’s grinning at the guy on his right, who has a shaved head and one of those beard-and-mustache combinations that looks like a toilet brush.
“Do you,” he asks, “beg my pardon too?”
“Get lost.”
“And,” says somebody from the back of the pack, “get in line like everybody else.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Astin turns, puts both elbows on the counter, and leans back. Standing like that makes his chest stick out. Male prairie chickens do this during mating season. I don’t think I’ll tell him that.
“And it’s not going to happen,” he says, “because I’ve been coming here forever. I look out over you guys, and I don’t know any of you. So don’t tell me to get in line at my own place. Okay?” He meets one set of eyes after another. Then he says, “Good.”
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