A Gathering of Forces

A steady bass-riff, duh-duh-duh-duh-doom-muh-doom, growled through the ground in seismic waves under her feet as she approached the far end of the walkway past several apartments. She didn’t have to check the address, it had to be Ralph’s place. Anna pounded hard on the door… shouting answered her from inside, “One-Two… One-Two-Three-Four, … I wanna be X-Rated!” da-pa-papa da-pa-papa… the grumbling ceased… Clang! Clank! Followed by ear-splitting screeching feedback! The door opened a crack, smoke billowed out. Anna leaned into it and filled her lungs with the pungent fumes the best she could.

Ralph’s jet-black disheveled hair cascaded into his face and mid-back over his black leather jacket. He looked like a curly-haired Latino Ramone and younger than his age because he never had to shave. He spoke loud, as though the amps were still booming, “What do you want?” she held her hands over her ears. He stopped and took off his gun-range muffs. He poked his head out and peered from the door past Anna to the parking lot of the complex and then back into her dark eyes, “Woah, who are you, sweetheart?”

 She stepped back enough for him to appraise her, “I’m Anna. You must be Ralph, right?”

Ralph’s deep resonate voice, and smile just short of a leer, told her that he never had to go so far as to seduce women. To his advantage, women liked Ralph’s Latin good looks even though it was obvious to them he wasn’t interested in much more than bong hits, beer, sex, a few laughs, more beer, and more sex. They needed little or no persuading to fall into his bed. He turned on the charm, “Oh now, what can I do for you?”

 “Is Max around? Roy, at the bike shop, said he might be here.”

“Max, Naw. Max. Shit no. He ain’t around. What are you, a cop?” he eyed her clothes and opened the door wide enough for her to see inside through the apartment’s thick atmosphere. Standing back to look her over he was pleased at what he saw, or imagined, under the hoodie and oversized coveralls.

“You’d be busted if I was.” She turned as if to leave, “Tell Max a friend needs his help… a friend of Crash, if you hear from him?”

“Just kidding. Crash, wow. Come on in and have a hit.”

 Egg-flat squares were stapled to the walls and taped to the windows for sound proofing but made for a claustrophobic space. It would be damned dark in there during day-light hours.

Ralph was stoned. When he was stoned he talked to hear himself talk. After all, he was a singer and, as any singer should, he liked the sound of his own voice, “I ain’t seen him in a year and, Max? Last I heard, shit, Max bailed with an Indian Chick to like Nicaragua or something.”

A card table with folding chairs was in the middle of the room and everything was damned near in reach of it… a stack of speakers, amps, and bass guitar at one side on a stand nearest to the door and a thread-worn couch and beat up dresser against the inner wall that separated the kitchenette from the living room. The center-piece of the table was a bong and an open bag of buds in a tip-tray.

He lit the bong and took a deep hit. After sucking it in and holding, he squeezed out, “Can you fuckin’ believe that? Max in a fuckin’ jungle.” Cough, “Man, I can see why though. Sent me a picture of her. Hot. Not Bianca Jagger hot…” cough again, “you know, but better, in my book. Mix in a little Africa with some Miskito… but not the bug… Miskitos are Indians… More like earth mama hot. Not bad for a white boy. Like I said, more like something Crash would go for.” He pulled out a chair for her, “You want a hit, a beer?”

She set the chair away from the table, at an angle facing the door where she could get out easily if she had to. She gave Ralph the once over as he went into the kitchenette to bring back two long-neck bottles of beer. She asked, “Don’t your neighbors complain?”

“Naw. I gots them egg-flats ta cushion the sound and, ‘sides, I give that one a bud or two and this one a few lines… before I quit the Cola…, uh, you’re not a cop, are you?”

“Would I tell you if I was?”

“Good point. Crash, no shit.” He lit the bowl again and passed the bong to her, “I met Crash… worked out with him when he was here to practice for my brown belt… you know, Ka Ju Kempo… he was drunk but, once he bowed, look out… he’s a bad-assed dude. Seems like he would’ve been the one to go to Nicaragua though, not Max. You know, Max… he got dinged bad… messed his head up… a bike accident… concussion. They say, that Chiquita was a school teacher or something. He’s more of an intellectual, ya know… not the soldier type… he went as a journalist, I think. Crash now, I saw him kick-ass once… tore a new one on some pendejo… a biker, at the Library.”

“In a library?”

"The Library’s a bar… used to be a real Carnegie Library, though," he spaced, "It's in the basement where the children’s section used to be," and laughed a stoner's laugh, “Hah, we played there in kindergarten. Why you lookin’ for Crash? You a cop?”

“That’s three times you asked. Again, what makes you think I’d tell you if I was?” she lit the bong and let the bubbling of it affirm that she wasn’t likely a cop.

They sat at the card table while Ralph served up a couple more bottles of beer. He liked her but still wasn’t sure of her.

“I need to stay out of sight for just one night. I can use your floor.”

 “Sure, you kin stay here tonight?”

“Really? thanks Ralph.”

“It’s Ralph to Gringos. You can call me Rafael.” He flipped a Trojan in its wrapper out from his jacket pocket onto the table next to the bong, “Don’t worry, I gots protection.”

She wasn’t sure whether this was a clumsy come-on, trying to test her… piss her off, or, all the above.

Ralph reached behind the speaker stack next to the door “I gots this kind too,” and pulled out a pistol grip, sawed-off, twelve-gauge.

Anna was on it. In a swift turn-about, she was off the chair, had the shot-gun out of his hands and into hers with the naughty end of it on Ralph’s throat, “I doubt if you have the kind of protection I need, Rafael.”

After a few pregnant moments, he grinned and asked, “foreplay?” Not a wicked grin… she knew it came from the innocence of play. She laughed, to laugh-off the tension of the past week and handed the gun back.

Ralph’s confidence was comforting as was his sense of humor. They talked a few hours in which he explained, “I was a guard you know? Uh, a Corrections Officer at the prison ‘til I got busted. The DEA, and every other law enforcement agency, kicked in the door but it was a bogus bust… beat it in court. I only had caffeine pills. But I’m suspended without pay. When I get reinstated I’ll have back pay coming… gonna throw a party and then I’ll quit. I’m gonna have David Letterman host it and invite all the big stars like Joan Jett, Iggy Pop, Joey Ramone, Stevie Nicks, and, you know, Hunter Thompson and Joe Bob Briggs… Some might even come. You never know.”

Anna thought it was clear that Ralph was hemp-delusional but she humored him and explained an abridged version of what had gone down… before she asked, “Damn, I haven’t had a shower in a longer time than I can recall. They wouldn’t let me take one before the fuckin’ rape test. I was out of Dodge before that was ever going to happen.”

“Who? What happened. It wasn’t Crash, was it? Who did it?”

“Who said I was raped?”

“Why’d you run for it? They don’t do those tests unless they thought somethin’ happened, do they?”

“It’s hard to explain. A fuckin doctor doped me with somethin’ I don’t know what…”

“Who?”

“Dr. Coxcomb. Are you gonna let me use your shower or what?” She pulled the hoodie off up and over her head.

 “Shit, that was Max’s doctor. What a con!” Ralph appraised her bare breasts peeking half over the bib and under the straps of the coveralls. “Hey, you have some nice ta-ta’s, small ones. I like ‘em bigger but them’s nice,” he said.

“Thanks, I grew ‘em myself,” she shrugged off the straps, let the coveralls fall to the floor, and kicked them to the side, cupped her breasts and stood proud in front of him, “Two for the price of one.” When it wasn’t about selling it, sex came to her as a gesture as natural as a handshake. She knew sex bought loyalty better than talk or cash.

Poor Ralph, punk rocker that he was, was a sucker for love and sure that there was no other reason but sex for a girl to be naked. At first, he didn’t notice her body was bruised, especially her inner thighs. His libido was stemmed … not entirely but enough, “Yea, sure. Shower’s back in the bedroom, first door on the left. I think there’s a clean towel already in there.”

She showered, and afterwards, checked the mirror for bruises, wondering what happened to her, asking her image, “Was I raped? Wouldn’t I remember something like that no matter how doped up. Maybe beaten to look like rape?” She came out of the bathroom to find Ralph laying naked on top the covers on the bed. She crawled up next to him. Anna was in no mood for sex but was willing to pay the price for his loyalty. Her experience with young men was that the best way to a man’s heart wasn’t his stomach at all… at least not a man Ralph’s age.

What started out as an obligatory nuzzle… a ploy… her way of paying for room and board, became more than that to her. He held her… spooned up from behind. It was a comfort like the way Crash held her on Santa Cruz Island that first night. He was kind and gentle in one moment and then, at times, a beast… just enough of a beast. It turned into a passionate night and, if she was ever in the habit of rating men, this one would be at the top of her long list.

She was out of bed at sunrise. Ralph’s jacket and black jeans were draped over the back of a chair. His wallet hung on a chain from a belt loop. She found that it contained a couple hundred bucks in twenties, tens, and smaller bills. She would’ve taken all of it but she took only what she needed… a couple twenties.  He wouldn’t miss it unless he counted it right away. He snored peacefully while she rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen to find a few cans of refried beans that she opened and a bag of chips and salsa.

Ralph awoke to the rattle-crinkle of the bag of tortilla chips and saw her sitting naked at the table scarfing down the refried beans scooped onto a chip. “Oh shit, you’re hungry, I’m sorry. We kin go to the store.”

 “No, I have to get out of here. I can’t be seen in public.”

“Yeh, you need clothes.” He opened a drawer from the small dresser next to the table and lit the bong, “My ex left some of her clothes. There’s some jeans and tees and some tennies in here, help yourself.”

“Yes, that too. But I have to get out of Vacaville.”

“Where? What can I do?”

She liked that he didn't hesitate or ask why, “I need to get to a place near Rio Vista?”

“Sure, I’ll take you.”

“I need to go near there. You ever hear of the Island Mansion?”

“Yeh, lived here all my life. Born and bred…. Island Mansion? Shit, I tried to check it out a few times. Something weird about it though. It looks abandoned, you’d think. But, I been there several times, and every time, some bad-assed lookin’ dudes with dogs… German Shepherds and one guy had a big dog, a Mastiff! They chased us off. I didn’t never see no tats on ‘em but I know ex-cons when I see ‘em.”

While the bong gurgled, she checked the clothes for anything that might fit and pulled on a pair of very tight jeans, “You mean, you didn’t ever see any tats on them.”

He passed the bong to her. She held up a hand and declined, “No thanks, Raphael, not today. I have business to attend.”

 “That’s what I said… didn’t see no tats. Ain’t goin’ up that driveway, though. No way. I figured it ain’t healthy t’ git too near it.”

She tried the gym shoes. They fit better than the jeans, “I’m good. You ready? That’s all I need you to do, Rafael, get near it, just get me near it.”