a theme emerges

Wreck of the month
As a kid I would build complicated roadways in the sand and dirt under a huge five-trunked Weeping Willow near our house. My collection of HotWheels, Corgi, and Matchbox cars would barely hit the the streets before there'd be a violent pile-up, usually resulting in flames. Imaginary drivers and passengers who occupied cars with functional doors would run off, the others had no escape route and were imaginarily mangled or burned alive, screaming for help!
My friends and I also liked to hang around a gas station that had a new totaled car on display every month. We loved the smell of gas and would get nauseous inhaling the nearby fumes as we inspected the crumpled cars. Usually these cars were set up as warnings against teen drinking and driving. These tableau didn't scare us. We were intrigued by the drama and violence the twisted steel and smashed glass hinted at. The degree of damage and amount of blood and trash inside always told us a story. Aside from underage drinking teen sex was always a key ingredient. (Another one of our pastimes was rousting half-naked teenagers doing whatever they were doing down the beach from our house. The boys would always chase us, pulling up their shorts, threatening our deaths) We'd work up a scenario on the way home from the garage only to come back the next day because one of us would insist they had seen some bit of evidence that the others hadn't noticed. Was that a trace of blood on the tire iron, or just rust?
The hazardous roadways I built under the willow during the day rarely made it through the night, flattened by the passed out bodies of the bums that hung out there after dark and drank. They always left behind wine bottles and small label-less tins that I learned contained Sterno. She told me not to touch them that it was poison. I'd been using them as substructure for my highways and ignored her warning.


Beach House
We had a canvas tent that my brother, sister, and I slept in sometimes. It was set up at the edge of where the grass met sand. Our mother called it The Beach House. One night as we lay on our sleeping bags waiting to sleep, a flashlight beam started darting around the wall that separated us from the lawn that led up to the house, someone was coming. We sat up on our elbows waiting to see what was up. The front flap opened revealing mother in a nightgown. She had a big knife that she waved around, motioning for us to follow her. As we left the beach the driveway filled with cop cars, and the officers took off towards the willow. We tried to malinger and see what was going on but mother hustled us up to the house.
The next day we found out a bum had killed another bum, stabbed him. We were banned from going to the tree, but overwhelmed by curiosity, we went. We hoped for evidence, blood splatter, ripped clothing, we didn't know. We wanted anything that would reveal the details of what happened cause no one was telling us. My streets were trampled of course, but evidence-wise there was nothing, not even the usual discarded Sterno cans. I suppose we expected what the wrecks-of the-month provided, a story. I checked the paper for a few days but there was nothing.

Acton

Marc made us a quartet, not just behind the bush but in the lines too. Meals, meetings, classes, meds, bathroom. We had to wait in line for everything, but if one of us was where we were supposed to be then we all didn't have to wait. He was British and had the requisite rotted teeth. It's funny but there weren't a lot of bad teeth at Acton, probably because most of the residents had done prison time and felons got free dental care.
Marc had been in a band called Sex Gang Children. I’d heard of them, maybe even seen them when I lived in MPLS. I told him that if I'd seen him I'd been drunk and didn't remember it. He said he was pretty sure they'd played there but he would've been fucked up too and so wouldn't remember it either. We had the shared human experience thing. We were both members of the worldwide drunken/drugged brotherhood of man. I asked him if he'd ever heard of the Spahn Ranch, he hadn't, but he had heard of Auschwitz and nodded knowingly when I pointed out the cinder block shower building.
I had a theory in mind that the State of California was using Acton to funnel undesirables off the streets of L.A. and into some netherworld existence further out in the vast desert. Lacking sufficient food and water, we would become dried brown husks, creaking around on stick-like limbs. Our crackly carcasses would be absorbed into the Salton Sea and provide meals for hideous fish mutations. Somehow this vision comforted me, I didn't share it with Marc though, not yet.

Harbor Hall

There were usually a few guys malingering on the porch til lights out. One night I hung out with them and found out it wasn’t only the last drag on their cigarette that was keeping them up late. It was also for the blow-jobs that were offered up by an old native woman who set up camp a few nights a week behind a hedge across the alley. I was being a wet blanket cause none of them wanted me to see what they were up to. At first I thought they were afraid I’d snitch, then I saw her, and understood their shame. She was big—as in wide—and boxy. Short dark hair was tucked behind her ears. Her mouth lacked teeth. Her head was built for blow jobs. She stood still for a moment, hands on hips, then ducked behind the bushes.

harbor hall

Harbor Hall

An old rich guy named Walter was the CEO—or whatever—of the place. He was the money man and when he was around we were supposed to pay attention to him. I spotted him as a predator right off. He liked to hug the better looking and/or younger residents. When he moved in on me the first time I blocked him by extending my hand between us as a rigid barrier. He had no choice but to abandon his intended flesh-press and grab the hand for an awkward shake. The aborted embrace left our faces no more than a couple inches apart. I briefly glimpsed my own reflection in his rheumy eyes then looked over at JD to see if he had caught the maneuver. His smile indicated he had. He’d told me that the old man had blindsided him with a hug that’d quickly turned into a discreet dry hump before he could break it off. I told him about the hand trick and that I’d demonstrate it for him if I got a chance although I wasn’t sure if I was in his target group. Turned out I was.