CHAPTER 37 Comic Relief, Part I

South Central Avenue became something of a homestead for me. The Chicanos (Mexicans) began building some really beautiful cars and calling them "Low-Riders". They were rolling works of art, which they took great pride in. They would often steal hydraulic lifts from large delivery trucks and add the mechanism to their suspension systems to make the low riders high enough temporarily, to traverse bumpy roads. As a show of novelty, they would use the hydraulic boosts to "hop" their cars up and down the street. Often on Saturday nights, they would line up in mile-long rows, completely blocking up at least one lane. Sometimes they would block both lanes, wreaking total havoc with the local traffic. We didn't have much to do with one another, but my motorcycle was modified with "tiller" handlebars, making the entire width of bike and rider, less than two feet. On rare occasions, I would find myself urged to "shoot the tube", driving between the two lines of cars. It was too dangerous but it would have been fun. You could never tell when a car door would open so someone could share a beer. In a real jam, I used the yellow line and even the sidewalk, to get from point A to point B. It bothered the Chicanos that I could "cheat" on their game. One day my musical lunchbox bounced out of the carrier on my motorcycle and one of the Chicanos took great pleasure in running over it. I let it be.

From time to time on South Mountain, I would ride to the top, stand up on the pegs of the motorcycle and coast down the mountain with the bike in third gear. I controlled the bike by leaning, with my arms spread and not touching the handlebars. It gave the feeling of flying and the illusion to oncoming traffic of someone standing up on a motorcycle and "surfing" the mountain. I heard years later of a few people being hurt and even killed attempting it. I find it amazing that a person can do a simple stunt for personal fun, Then have some of the rest of the world kill themselves over it. Jesus, what fools we are.

"Kathy" appeared, walking directly in front of my bike one hot afternoon at the park. I stopped, she climbed on, and we rode the mountain together. Later, I took her to my place for iced tea. A couple of weeks later, she appeared at my front door again, this time to demonstrate a very lovely dance called; "The Salute To The Sun". I had heard of a similar dance performed before cultist Aliester Crowley many years before, and that it was an irresistible turn-on. So it was. We retired to the bedroom. However, my interruption of her artistic presentation must have upset her. I visited her once in Tucson, and we never saw each other again.

My other friendship with a lady had begun the year before. Just out for a ride, there was a lovely little "island" in one of the citrus plantations near 19th Avenue where someone had planted grapefruit, oranges, figs and date palms in a small triangular patch of groundless than a hakf-acre, framed on all sides by small irrigation canals. It was a great place to cool off. One canal was small enough to ride through, which is where I met Sherry. Sherry was very nice looking, married, not necessarily happily. We became platonic friends and met there several times. Once or twice, she visited at my place. After a few months of this, she told me she was pregnant and going back home to L.A. to have the baby. She and her husband weren't getting along all that well. For about a year, I didn't see her again.

Then suddenly, one day she showed up. She had had the baby, it was with her mother-in-law, and she just wanted to visit. She must have wanted to visit a lot, because she kept showing up almost every other day. Something was strange about all this. I felt as though she was there to occupy my time and keep me busy while something else happened. I decided for the pure hell of it, to try to seduce her. To my own surprise, she seemed surprised at me for doing so. But heck, we were two seemingly ordinary people with ordinary urges and I could not see that she held any sanctity towards her marriage, husband or family. In short, we simply did it. She, with passive acceptance. Me, with unenthusiastic curiosity.

The next day her car pulled in the driveway again, a good deal faster than usual. The door slammed and I could tell it was not her doing the driving. I pulled on my boots just before a rather thin, wiry blonde-headed fireball burst in, asked my name and started pounding on my face with his fists. He looked to be about ten years younger than I, about 25 or so. He got in about four good hits before I could push him off me and stand myself up. I got him on the right side of his face with a backhand, then slapped him open-handed with my right hand as hard as I could. It was over. He tried to raise his right to strike again, but he could barely stand. I reached down to stay his hand from raising. He said "I'll be back - with a gun. Be gone". I couldn't help but wonder why he would want me to be gone if he were serious about coming back to use a gun on me.

Later, I called him at the trucking company where he worked, and apologized. Sherry called and apologized to my answering service. I told the answering service that it was OK, but not to call me again. The answering service beeped its obedient agreement. I wondered what the guy's face must have looked like, and if he was paying more attention to his wife now. That same week the landlord that I had been paying the rent to, popped in to ask me to move. He and his family needed the place. I asked him to help me negotiate a move to a place that I had always admired. The Hill House on 35th Avenue, near Starbright Ranch. It took a a little doing, but the couple that occupied the place were rarely there. The deal was done, and I moved almost right away.

The Hill House was once an old mining shack that had been poured out of concrete, tin cans and rocks. It was absolutely solid, built probably in the 1920's. The construction method was simple. Pour a slab. build the walls by separating two sheets of plywood with tin cans here and there. Wire the sheets of plywood together, gather up a bunch of rocks and fill the whole space between the plywood sheets with them. Pour in very wet cement. The tin cans made great access points later, for wiring and plumbing. However at the time the place was built, wiring and plumbing were not available or planned. The hill provided a wonderful view of Phoenix and anyone approaching for hundreds of yards in any direction.

I had not forgotten the beating I had gotten, and given in return. I had not forgotten the threat, nor had I forgotten that the very house I had chosen had been in very recent years, a haven for drug dealers and a popular party spot in the area. I could in other words, be biting off more than I could chew of my own problems, plus those of many others who had lived there before. I decided it was worth it. With that in mind, I created a couple of prison-style weapons to reinforce my safety. I could not afford a real gun. I call them fist pistols. They are made from a short length of 3/4" plumbing pipe with a 12-gauge shotgun shell shoved in one end. By drilling a small hole in the center of a pipe cap, you can position a small nail directly over the firing cap of the shotgun shell. With the cap screwed on, it is possible to slam the nail against a wall or piece of furniture, firing the shell. You have to hit it really quickly and had better damn well hope the other end is aimed directly at your target. It is a desperate weapon and you take the chance that the entire contraption might blow up in your hand. The same device can be fired electrically, by simply inserting a frayed wire into the side of the shotgun shell and plugging it in a wall socket or battery. I takes practice and some engineering skills. Good booby traps can be made that way.

I was awakened around 3 AM just a few nights after I had moved to the hill house, by footsteps at the bottom of the driveway. I had not heard a car at all, so I knew these people were trying to be very quiet. That was next to impossible on the caliche' gravel. I listened carefully, counting about eight to ten pairs of footsteps. From what I could hear they were light, wiry guys with small movements, all about 150 to 175 pounds or so. By the sound of their strides I got the impression they were all sort of short, like five-seven or five-eight, about the size of the guy who had beat me up on Central Avenue. Probably wearing cowboy boots. There was no talking. None. This was serious business. They definitely were not Federal Agents. They were getting closer.

I knew they would have to come in from the back. They would probably bust in through the back door just a few feet away, which I had not locked. Damn! Why didn't I lock it? I began to panic. I reached for two fist pistols and laid the third one on the bed on my right. I was propped against the wall and as ready as I could ever be. This was it. I hoped the weapons worked.

I listened carefully to the footsteps. Four of the guys stopped at the back door. Two were coming around the corner and I would be able to see them through the screened windows in just a moment. I figured they would start shooting as soon as they saw me. I had the advantage of the dark though. They were in bright moonlight and would have trouble spotting me through the screen. I took a slow, quiet breath and held my position. A split second before I could see my target - he stopped. Right at the damn corner, right where I couldn't get a shot, not even through the glass. This guy really knew his shit. Then, there were two more steps. He was right outside the window, less than two feet away. My mind screamed out a prayer for Jesus to come be by me for this.

I tried not to forget how vulnerable I was on my left side, from the back door. I had to chance leaving that area uncovered though, while I maneuvered myself to the edge of the window to see my closest target. My head pounded. My fists were trembling but with Ninja-like stealth, I moved myself within the realm of the shadows to the very edge of the window.

His left eye and my right eye met at the edge of the window, not four inches apart. We both held steady there eye-to-eye unflinching, for what seemed like forever.

As we tried to hypnotize one another, I wondered if I could get off a shot by banging the fist pistol against the side of the bed frame. If I missed, it would force his hand and I would be among the quick and the dead. If I got him first, the others would probably nail me from the side. I would have maybe three seconds after they flung the door open before they could see me well enough to shoot, depending on how they were armed. At least I could take one, maybe two with me.

I was about to make my move. I could see I had him in my power. I would be able to move first. He could not release his stare. It was the Moment Of Truth, and I had the element of surprise. I relished the feeling of control but I knew it could last for just a moment more. I marveled for just an instant at how really beautifully BIG his brown eye(s) were. How feminine the eyelash. How remarkably long his eyelashes were, how smooth and light his skin was........ and hairy?

It was a wild burro. One of several gathered outside my bedroom. I had just outstalked, faced off and almost killed........ an Arizona jackass.