Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eighteen): Dropped

Part 18: Dropped

By Armando Ortiz

It was a new truck. White or yellow, I can’t remember, but it was dropped. No more than a foot above the ground. No music was bumping when it pulled up. But they pulled out some things that pumped hard and fast and made things hot. They were unknowns, but most likely were thugs fighting for turf or simply rivals taking revenge.

We were playing with an inflatable beach ball. It was multi-colored; red, white, and yellow. We were in the front lawn of that duplex. But when that Japanese truck pulled up and stopped- everything paused. It might have been the screeches of the black tire rubbing against the asphalt, grinding to a halt that made us turn and watch the momentary drama unfold. The culprits inside pulled out a long black metal thing whose bullets would be piercing the terracotta wall of the Laundromat opposite to our place. The man, who held the machine, had long puffy black hair and fed the bullets on the left side with his left hand. He looked like a crazy head banger going nuts to the sound of Slayer. In fact the dude looked like he was a black haired version of Hanneman holding that piece that rattled on his hands like a guitar. Bullets were literally raining on the guys hanging out in the parking lot- talk about clouds over one’s shoulder.

The place and everything around us seemed to be on pause or at least to be moving in slow motion. The perpetrator aimed his weapon at two guys that were chatting away outside of their 70s Celica. Once they heard the cracking of the metal and the origins of the fire they dropped to the ground. Their bodies touch the dark ground. One of them reached inside the car pulling out a revolver, but did not shoot, from where he was he saw the color of the truck. Whose driver, by that time had stepped on the gas and disappeared north on Berendo and merging with the lights on Olympic that took them somewhere far, maybe to the beach. The apparent targets got into their car and attempted to trail behind. 

I heard my mom call my name. But we were intrigued, but did not dare cross the street to the other side and look around at the damage that had been caused. A line of bullet holes were left behind as raw evidence to what had happened. One of our neighbors, the oldest of the bunch, found a shell casing. It looked like it might have been a short fat lead pencil from a long time ago, but no, it had held a bullet and now we could use the casings as a more sophisticated form of whistle.