Washington House which was this low-income place for loners and street kids. There were some maniacs there too like this one guy everyone was afraid of called Fifty Watt Dave whose head was shaped like a lightbulb. He would hang out in the fourth-floor hallway with a remote-control car and drive it up to you and try and drive it over your feet and sometimes park it in front of you and talk to you like the car had a voice and say “Wanna race kid? I’m clockin’ zero to sixty in four-point-four” and weird shit like that.
The way me and Branson met was he was standing around in this parking lot outside of this bar on Burnside Street called the Crystal Ballroom. He was huffing glue out of a brown paper bag and trying to call this junior-high girl called Easy Elise on a cell phone he’d just stolen. Apparently Easy Elise used to go around bragging that she’s on a milk carton back in Iowa or Illinois or someplace. She was majorly into giving head to anyone especially if you drank Bombay gin. In that parking lot Branson was dialing her number and then huffing glue. He would dial and huff dial and huff. I was just sort of minding my own business near the sidewalk because that’s almost exactly where Carson Block dropped me off and I was holding on to my gym bag and trying to figure out what I was going to do next.
After Easy Elise didn’t answer for like the fifth time Branson threw the cell phone against a brick wall and it smashed into a thousand pieces. I was just trying to play it cool and not get too nervous when Branson asked me if I wanted to fight him. I said no and then he asked me for ten dollars but I told him I didn’t have ten dollars even though I still had about thirty bucks from Alan Skymer and then Branson just stood there sort of looking at me and started smoking a Camel Red and said “Why won’t you fight me you a little bitch?” I told him that I would fight him but I didn’t feel like it because I was tired. Then he asked me where I was from and I told him about how I hitchhiked from Missouri and about Alan Skymer and Carson Block and what their cars were like and what sort of music they listened to and the whole time Branson kept nodding but he was looking towards the entrance of the Crystal Ballroom like that little junior-high girl was going to appear. He wore this old-school Chicago Cubs hat cocked to the side and these baggy jeans and low-cut black patent leather Adidas shell toes and a white puffy ski vest with a hoodie underneath.
I asked him who he was waiting for and he said “Just this little ho. She frontin’ though. Skanky-ass juice-box.” Then he sucked hard on his cigarette and said “How old are you?”
I told him I was fourteen. I know I probably should have lied and told him I was older but I was too tired. Then I asked him how old he was and he said he was seventeen which didn’t seem right. A few months later when I saw his birth certificate I realized we were almost exactly the same age. Branson was born six days before me. In fact his birthday is the day after tomorrow and that’s partly why I gave him my iPod.
He asked me if I was in school and I said no and asked him if he was and he said “Fuck no. School’s for the future of America” and then he pulled out a pair of nunchucks from the small of his back. They were black with silver diamonds on the handles and he started doing figure eights and all these kung fu combinations. Then he put the chucks away and said “Let’s break north” and we walked across Vista Avenue over by where all these other punks and homeboys and runaway girls were hanging out and smoking blunts and listening to music. It was lots of street kids with bad acne talking about where the cops were roaming and where they slept the night before and where they could score good meth and heroine and poppers and who had learned how to cook crank down on a hot plate with Sudafed and Benadryl and Arm and Hammer baking soda and on and on. I
The way me and Branson met was he was standing around in this parking lot outside of this bar on Burnside Street called the Crystal Ballroom. He was huffing glue out of a brown paper bag and trying to call this junior-high girl called Easy Elise on a cell phone he’d just stolen. Apparently Easy Elise used to go around bragging that she’s on a milk carton back in Iowa or Illinois or someplace. She was majorly into giving head to anyone especially if you drank Bombay gin. In that parking lot Branson was dialing her number and then huffing glue. He would dial and huff dial and huff. I was just sort of minding my own business near the sidewalk because that’s almost exactly where Carson Block dropped me off and I was holding on to my gym bag and trying to figure out what I was going to do next.
After Easy Elise didn’t answer for like the fifth time Branson threw the cell phone against a brick wall and it smashed into a thousand pieces. I was just trying to play it cool and not get too nervous when Branson asked me if I wanted to fight him. I said no and then he asked me for ten dollars but I told him I didn’t have ten dollars even though I still had about thirty bucks from Alan Skymer and then Branson just stood there sort of looking at me and started smoking a Camel Red and said “Why won’t you fight me you a little bitch?” I told him that I would fight him but I didn’t feel like it because I was tired. Then he asked me where I was from and I told him about how I hitchhiked from Missouri and about Alan Skymer and Carson Block and what their cars were like and what sort of music they listened to and the whole time Branson kept nodding but he was looking towards the entrance of the Crystal Ballroom like that little junior-high girl was going to appear. He wore this old-school Chicago Cubs hat cocked to the side and these baggy jeans and low-cut black patent leather Adidas shell toes and a white puffy ski vest with a hoodie underneath.
I asked him who he was waiting for and he said “Just this little ho. She frontin’ though. Skanky-ass juice-box.” Then he sucked hard on his cigarette and said “How old are you?”
I told him I was fourteen. I know I probably should have lied and told him I was older but I was too tired. Then I asked him how old he was and he said he was seventeen which didn’t seem right. A few months later when I saw his birth certificate I realized we were almost exactly the same age. Branson was born six days before me. In fact his birthday is the day after tomorrow and that’s partly why I gave him my iPod.
He asked me if I was in school and I said no and asked him if he was and he said “Fuck no. School’s for the future of America” and then he pulled out a pair of nunchucks from the small of his back. They were black with silver diamonds on the handles and he started doing figure eights and all these kung fu combinations. Then he put the chucks away and said “Let’s break north” and we walked across Vista Avenue over by where all these other punks and homeboys and runaway girls were hanging out and smoking blunts and listening to music. It was lots of street kids with bad acne talking about where the cops were roaming and where they slept the night before and where they could score good meth and heroine and poppers and who had learned how to cook crank down on a hot plate with Sudafed and Benadryl and Arm and Hammer baking soda and on and on. I
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