I was driving to my friend Daryl’s house in Fountain Valley. He had given me new directions on how to get to his place, claiming them to be easier than the way I usually took. Sometimes not the most brilliant when it comes to directions, I ended up getting very lost (not helped by the fact that I was discussing lesbian matters with my dear friend Jenna on the phone and being distracted). So, I hung up with Jenna, after I told her I was lost, and helplessly watched as I crossed street after street of names I absolutely did not recognize. Being lost sucks. And my handy GPS was back at my apartment in LA, unable to help me here in Orange County no matter how much it wanted to.
Suddenly, I saw on my right-hand side a shop I recognized. Amusingly enough, this was the shop where Avi and I went to get the nitrous tank filled when we felt like getting goofy. We were in there so much, we were regulars, the owners knew our names and always offered us beer, tequila, chips, and good conversation whenever we went in. So, I pulled onto a side street, parked, and entered the little shop.
It was Friday evening, at about 7:30pm, the place was filled to the brim with Westminster cholos waiting to get their tanks filled so they could get goofy,or more like tonto, necio. There were not very many females in there, as is always the case, and, as usual, I was the only mediahuera in there, everyone else’s blood vessels were brown blood only. It feels strange to be so conscious of one’s ethnicity and usually one only IS aware of it when everyone around them is different. Or I suppose I shouldn’t speak for others, but as for me, that is the case.
One of the workers, Ryan, a thirtysomething broham type with bright blue eyes and dyed brown hair smiled when he saw me. He looked surprised, and then he looked excited. I had never been in the shop without Avi.
“Where is Avi? What are you doing here without him?” Ryan asked, flipping open his Sidekick and looking at a text message or an email or something.
“He’s not here,” I said, “I am lost. Can you please tell me how to get back to the 405?”
Ryan was distracted as a bald man with Sharpie eyebrows and a lip piercing handed him a tank. “About an hour, bro,” he said. The bald man nodded and left. “Um,” he said, “Yes. I think you want to go—hold on let me check google earth.”
He went over to the computer and said, “It has to load.”
Just then a large, Latino-looking man with glasses came in and set a very large yellow nitrous tank on the counter. “Hey!” Ryan said, smiling brightly, “That thing is huge? You want the whole thing filled. Did you get those mushrooms.”
“Yes and yes,” the man replied. “Be careful that tank’s hot.”
Ryan reached out to bring the tank behind the counter and he quickly withdrew his hand. “Fuck!” he said, shaking his hand. “What’s wrong with that thing?”
“It’s been baking in my car,” he said, “And it’s like a hundred degrees out.”
Ryan quickly grabbed the tank and brought in the back at top speed, “Shit,” he said. “That things was fuckin’ hot. Anyway, okay, here’s google earth. So, did you come in here looking for me?” Ryan asked me, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“So are you going to get naked or what?”
Some of the cholo guys looked over like they were suddenly very interested in the conversation.
“Probably not,” I said, graciously smiling.
“Oh well, fuck it,” Ryan said. “Okay, here, you just need to go back this way on this street that you came on, and then make a left at the light. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said.
“Listen,” he said, “You can come in here anytime. You can come in without Avi anytime. But that guy’s a cool cat though, tell him we say hi.”
“I will,” I said, and headed out the door.
On the street there were several cars parked, and I could hear the whooshing sound of nitrous escaping up and down the block. Most of the customers there were younger, still lived with their parents, so it wasn’t like they had the privilege of enjoying the tanks at home. I walked past a blue, older-looking Honda Civic and caught the eyes of a pretty cholita chick with dyed-blonde wet scrunched hair, mid-teens, probably. She was holding a pink balloon up to her mouth. I smiled and she lowered the balloon, smiling back.
As I walked past, I heard a female voice, probably hers, yelling, “Yeah! You good from the back, mama! Shake it!” I had on supershort daisy dukes and I guess she liked what she saw. I gave her a little shake and she whooped with approval.
Goddamn, I thought. When was the last time a sixteen-year-old girl told me to shake my ass? I couldn’t remember. In fact, maybe that was the first time that had ever happened. I got in the car, feeling mighty proud myself and my ass, and I went back down the street the way Ryan had told me.
Some other bald dude in a big black truck and black sunglasses slowed down to let me over into the left turn lane, so I rolled down my window and yelled thank you.
“Hey, where are you going right now?” he said, in a heavy Cheeched-out accent.
“To my friends house,” I shouted, “To do very bad things!”
“Let’s go then,” he shouted back.
“You wouldn’t want to go, it’s going to be a bunch of dudes,” I said, as the light turned, and I started to go.
“Awwww, too bad,” was the last thing I heard the bald dude say. Or at least that’s what I thought he said. And I thought that I really liked the superbrown parts of Orange County. It feels so friendly and so naughty at the same time.