Riding with the Big Boys

I took days off, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Yesterday we all went to Bellflower, 9859 Artesia Blvd, to the federal naturalization office for our kids to become U.S. citizens as well. What a date! Waiting for the certificates to be made, we walked down Bellflower Boulevard, in the midday. So that's done now.

'Are we Yugoslav and American, or just plain Americans?' Marina asked.

'Plain Americans. There's no such thing as being Yugoslav and American,' I replied. She seemed to like the answer. Only twelve and a half, P. had to sign for her. Marina didn't like the fact, but had to accept it. Miroslav took the oath for Military duties in case of war, and before that, at the beginning, swore to tell the truth, only truth... I brought the Nikkormat, bought a roll of Kodak 100 ASA 24 film, and took pictures of them outside the building, their certificates in front of them, like mugshots. God bless America!

Rex showed up at our house, in the last ditch effort to make me give up on the conventional truck, after I spoke to K.K. Flommbz on the phone. Why should I budge? We plan to make the payments ASAP, so what's the issue? But he managed to spoil P.'s mood, and our family dinner at Chili's went through crappy. You can't have it all continuously in a fairy tale, it always jumps from hope to stress and back, like a pogo stick. Now I'm sitting in my truck at Ardwin's yard waiting for a load. It's sunny, quiet, and damn dusty. Packed up (with good, home-made food) and ready to go, as the song says (Life During War time, Talking Heads). In my left rear view mirror I spot a horse's ass. The owner of this beauty is the same guy who called the cops some six years ago when Ed and I went to check on the trailers at 10 p.m. They handcuffed us first, then asked questions. Who could blame them? So many trailers got stolen from this yard and the street next to it. Still, they weren't here when the real masters operated around. I guess it's easier to arrest innocent people than criminals – they don't run. There was a brief communication in between Ed and me and the neighbor at the beginning, when we told the fella who we were. He said he would call the cops notwithstanding, we said to go ahead, and he did. Cops talked to him once we explained the rhythm of the story.

There's barbwire on top of the chicken fence that surrounds this dirt lot, so many plastic bags hanging on it, like oversized condoms. Wind cries Mary! Six drivers' cars parked facing the street, waiting for the owners to return and jump in. One pretty new Ford Thunderbird among them collecting dust too, making the observer feel pity for it. Across the street is the Valley Manufacturing and Engineering (Precision intersection molding), one neat, new building, white with a few light gray tiles on it's face. A small church is next to it. I remember Saturday nights when they had pretty loud mass music over there. Sun Valley is a poor, industrial area, where hookers walk the walk and homeless talk the talk. Nevertheless, there's a magnet school two blocks away. I-5 runs next to it, I-170 too, I-118 isn't far away. I unwrap a sandwich and eat, like a schoolboy on a field trip. Two slices of French bread (I've never seen bread like this in Paris), cream cheese and Monterey Jack. A tasty little sucker! Number two is its cloned twin. Will they be able to clone our emotions one day, so everybody walks around hyped, drugged alike, harmless and obedient? Oh, Dante, where are you when we need you the most?! Come down, Alighieri, help us out!