HOT SEAT with WALLY GEORGE

 

 HOT SEAT

WITH WALLY GEORGE

 

 

 

               

 

The entertainment industry in Southern California is huge to say the least. Everyone around the world has heard of Hollywood. Yet, for as big as the industry is, getting into Hollywood is no easy task; unless you are born into the right click. The stories of actors, who happen to be the sons, daughters, nieces and nephews of Hollywood elites, always have a line about how hard they worked (at a restaurant) to get discovered. Those are all lies. Outsiders get into the industry one of two ways: the casting couch, or the one time in a million they just get lucky at an audition or appearing as a background extra. There were a few options available to young people in the 1980’s to showcase some talent and/or looks. One of those was American Bandstand; no professional dancers except for the acts hired by Dick Clark Productions; the rest were kids who got in line early and made it in to the studio. Another option was to get onto local cable access television.

In the early 1980’s, cable television was new and growing exponentially. One of the services offered with the premium/pay channels was the local/public access channel(s). Television studios available to the local population to create original, locally produced programming. It was the podcast and internet programming of its era. A brand new entertainment medium blossoming with the growth of cable television. A few pioneers recognized the value of this burgeoning communications market. Those few went to work carving out their niche in the cable television communications world. Of course, they had aspirations of making it to the major networks. Along with the local/public access programs, came the opportunity for being discovered. Often times the local programming would have a walk on or feature a neighborhood individual with a dream of making it big. Local pageant queens, local garage bands, junior college athletes and the like would be on regularly. Programs that were of the talk show variety would often have on local talent who thought they had a chance of being the next Christie Brinkley, Kelly Le Brock or Heather Thomas. They were sure that they would be seen on local cable television and, just like the stories from Hollywood about young starlets working as waitresses, a producer or director would see them and their potential and whisk them away into the world of stardom. Or at least a very wealthy man would relieve them of the boring life. These aspiring starlets obviously never heard the word nepotism. Or perhaps they thought the casting couch was only a rumor.

This chapter involves a local/public access cable television personality who achieved very limited celebrity status in and around Huntington Beach from 1981 to around 1990. This local attempt at achieving celebrity would collide with the Street Survivors. This would in turn, lead to a minor network, broadcast television show, HOT SEAT.

HOT SEAT was a local television network program that followed a format similar to JOHNNY CARSON and other night time talk shows. The host, in this case Wally George, would have on guests to discuss issues of the day. Wally George was the father of Combat Television. He was a vocal conservative who came from doing conservative commentary on the radio for many years. His stint on UHF KDOC Channel 56, Anaheim, started off with a guest who overturned tables and stormed off of the set at one point. Network news covered the story over and over for a week. From then on, Wally George was a hit. Wally began referring to himself as the Father of Combat Television. Other talk shows, Geraldo for instance, started having controversial guests on and allowed them to act out on stage; most viewers recall when Geraldo had on the Nazis. In order to live up to that very early episode, Wally George had to venture into areas that were untouched by the mainstream talk shows. Johnny Carson, Donahue and Merv Griffin would have on major celebrities and politicians. Wally George would have on Punk Rock and Heavy Metal bands, Satanists, narcotics legalization activists, strippers and the like. His show became one of the highest rated cable television shows for its time slot; 11 PM to 12 AM on Saturday nights. Wally George did so well for KDOC Channel 56, that for a time they gave him a daily call in show. On the call in show, he would do an opening commentary, followed by a video clip from one of his past shows and then field calls from viewers. This would be the extent of his popularity though. His call in viewers would comment that there was little else to watch on television besides Roller Derby, Wrestling and Wally George. He would never make it onto the major networks, but his show HOT SEAT was picked up by some national cable television channels. Getting on to HOT SEAT became a local event for the younger Orange County, California crowd. Getting onto the show, either as a guest or in the audience was something like attending a concert. A little Luck O’ the Irish sent the Street Survivors on yet another adventure.

 

Lunch time, Huntington Beach High School, at the box

 

                “You guys want to get on HOT SEAT next week?” Dreg The Defiler Coyle asked his amassed friends. “Kurt R. Gould can get us in if we do his show next Monday night; then we can go to Anaheim for HOT SEAT taping on Wednesday night.”

                Wilfong’s head tilted over to one side. He asked, “Who the hell is Kurt R. Gould?”

                Brumoscowitz nods at Wilfong. He said, “He is that guy on public access cable television all the time. You know on Channel 6. He tries to do comedy and it always sucks. He does shit like sit in his garage and point out that he is sitting next to his lawnmower. We are supposed to laugh at that crap.”

                “He’s fucking boring,” Patronics said. “He controls all that shit on public access and we can’t get anything on cable around here.”

                “We tried getting a video on cable we shot with Alex Benjamin. Remember that Brumoscowitz? You, me, Paul Benjamin, Kenny Benjamin. Dave Spillberger directed it. Rick Chef was there,” Trayvion told everyone. “We made a Viet Nam War kind of movie. It was a lot of fun. The public access staff were all friendly and said we could get the show on channel 6; but later on they wouldn’t put our show on. We went back and asked them what was up with that in person. The staff said Gould picks and chooses what gets on and it has to compliment or at least not interfere with his programs.”

                “It didn’t have Kurt R. Gould in it,” Patronics said. “Or anyone even remotely related to him. Or his kind!”

                “Kind?” Wilfong said.

                “A douche bag,” Patronics snapped back. “I went there with Alexander Benjamin and we happened to run into Gould there. The staff said we have to talk to Gould. Gould was behind the counter, as if he owned the damned place, and he told us that ‘Since it isn’t mine or approved by me, I am not going to let it run.’ I said to him that it is public access cable, not the Kurt R. Gould network. That little shit sniffed at me and said, ‘Uh…yes, it IS my…station.’ ”

                “Dude, Kurt is my neighbor. He is going to have Commander Clean It on his pilot episode where they hit drive thru restaurants around Huntington Beach and Fountain Valley. They got the cable studio set up with some bleachers. We shoot a segment at the studio, then get into cars and go hit a drive thru. We are supposed to hit Dexy’s. They need seven of us to show up besides Commander Clean It.”

                “Oh. I know, that new place my dad was talking about,” Wilfong surmised. “You know what, Mr. Lesshome (whose alter ego was Commander Clean It) was talking about Dexy’s this morning. He must be all dialed in on Gould’s gig.”

                “Yeah,” Dreg answered, excitement entering voice as the possibility of persuading his friends became a reality. “On HOT SEAT, they only have 80 seats and Kurt said if we can help fill his studio, he will have 10 seats for us to get on HOT SEAT.”

                “DUDE!” Wilfong interrupted, “We don’t want to hear that Gould has 10 seats available. We want 10 tickets for US! We fill up his studio and then he gives his tickets to his fellow douche bags. We get some story like he only had so many tickets and they were there first. We get ALL 10 or we don’t show. AND, I bet you told Gould we have a dune buggy and a convertible that would serve perfect as cars for his camera crew to shoot that segment of his show.” Wilfong stopped to give several slow nods. Each time his head rocked forward, it was like a pick scoring excellent hits against Dreg’s defensive wall. Then he continued by saying, “That doesn’t work for US unless WE get 10 tickets to HOT SEAT!”

                Dreg’s eyes widened and his face began to flush. He felt himself over a barrel now. He had already spoken with his neighbor Kurt R. Gould, the extremely boring public access cable television personality who would use Dreg and his friends and discard them the instant taping was over. Dreg did not share that he already received ONE ticket from Kurt, and the other nine would go to Kurt’s choosing. Dreg craved fame; actually he craved infamy. It would be a ridiculously small audience, but public access television would be a great place to start. I could be a public figure of sorts, and engage in mayhem without ever being suspected OR caught.

                “I got an idea,” Patronics said. The rest of the crew turned to him to hear it. “Wilfong, since Mr. Lesshome is tight with you, persuade him to pressure Gould for the 10 tickets. We get the tickets or no Commander Clean It on his new show; and they have to get their own vehicles. We got them by the balls.”

                Wilfong’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He remembered last Halloween when Mr. Lesshome in his Commander Clean It outfit was walking across campus that morning. He walked by the box and Wilfong asked if he had seen the re-run Saturday Night Live episode over the weekend. It featured the old, retired super heroes and how John Belushi was the incredible Hulk and he was all fat and out of shape. Commander Clean It responded, by pointing to his bright orange spandex costume which barely covered his bulging gut and saying, “You see this and you are jealous. It’s not my belly, it is my dick all rolled up here because it is too big to shove down these tights.” Mr. Lesshome has a great sense of humor. Wilfong said, “I like the sound of that. I will talk to Lesshome and get that shit arranged.”

                Trayvion raised a finger, “We got screwed by Gould once. Make sure we get the tickets when we show up. If he wants to wait until we are done taping, then he already gave them away.”

                Dreg began to speak, then held back when everyone turned to face him. He decided to continue. He said, “Uh…you know what? I don’t think we need to do all that. I think it will be cool if…I mean…

                “You already got your ticket didn’t you,” Patronics interrupted. He was smelling something fishy.

                “So,” Dreg answered with just a tinge of indignation.  

                “When were you going to tell us that?” Patronics demanded.

                “What’s the difference?” Dreg shrugged defensively.

                “Last time we did HOT SEAT,” Wilfong began, “We saw the impeach Ronald Reagan sissy, then came the open marriage crew. It kind of sucked; other than getting on TV for a few seconds on a Saturday night.”

               

On his way to the photography classroom where he would lobby Mr. Lesshome to get the 10 seats for him and the Street Survivors, Wilfong thought back to the spark of an idea he had only moments ago. In a single stride he came up with a prank so profound, it would live on long after his days of hijinks came to an end. He decided to keep it mostly a secret, until that night. The night of the taping for Kurt R. Gould. Mostly meaning he would tell Trayvion, that evening, who would undoubtedly be driving his Thing of Pain to help the video crew out. Like Wile E. Coyote, it was SUPER GENIUS.

               

                Brumoscowitz was about to leave his parent’s home to meet up with his friends for the Kurt R. Gould show, when his Nana, maternal grandmother, came to the end of the hallway. Wearing a black cardigan and some kind of gypsy looking black dress, all 4 feet 10 inches of her came to a crisp halt. She stood at the threshold and asked in her thick Irish brogue, “Brumoscowitz, can you eh…be after fetch’en me one of those, eh…eh…jump-up cookies?” In her mid-80’s, she would never lose her Irish accent. Nor would she stop the use of Irish nomenclature for mundane objects. Between his mom, his Nana, and Grandad all under one roof, learning and re-learning this language all of his life was a daily chore. (The Irish often invent names for things that they should already know. For example: A crosswalk in standard Irish is a Clipping, a sidewalk is a walkway, a glass or cup in Irish is a tumbler, his sister’s boyfriends names were Felipe and Marc---but in Irish they were Arsecandoodrums (Arse-can-due-drums-meaning = unknown) and Amadan (Ama-dan = fool). His dad referred to her boyfriends as: Asshole number one and Asshole number two. His dad was a foreigner too; from Detroit pronounced Dee- troyt- 2 words. Similar to Po-leese for Police.)

                “A what?” he asked her.

                “A jump-up keww-kie. You know? Eh…you put them in the toaster and…eh….

                “Oh,” he got it. “A Pop tart. You want me to toast them for you?”

                “Eh, no just bring me it in the parcel,” she said.

                He went to the cupboard and snagged a Pop tart from the box. The silver-shiny wrapper crinkled in his hand. He used his fingertips to detect all the bumps in the frosting spread over the top of the pastry within. A very sugary snack, and probably not the healthiest thing, he thought. Then he looked at his Nana as he handed her the package which in Irish is parcel. At over eighty years old, she can eat what she wants. Time to go.

                He got into the 1972 Chrysler Imperial Le Baron Dreadnaught and started her up. As he pulled the enormous vessel from the curb, he clicked on the radio.  It’s A Mugs Game by Soft Cell came blaring through the decrepit speakers. For a moment he wondered if this would be another Pavlovian or prophetic moment.

Well even you hate those
Well on second thoughts
I think I'll leave home
And go and live in America
Because they earn more money there
And they can get away with murder
Yeah!

Monday night, the Street Survivors assembled at Dreg Coyle’s house at 7: pm. Some peripheral characters came along to help fill up the bleachers. Ron Gibson, one of the water polo players, came along for his own shits and giggles. Wilson Scott came along just to see what happens at television studio tapings. Don Jake had heard about the taping from other water polo players, but did not make it to Dreg’s house or the studio.  Nearly all of the crew members were water polo players, Brumoscowitz being the exception.

Upon arrival, Brumoscowitz made it clear he had to haggle his way out of work for this one and the Wednesday night taping. Patronics told him to quit his bitching. Wilfong said they all had to give up something to get here tonight.

                Dreg came out in front of his house and joined the group. He had a look on his face that puzzled everyone.

                “What is it Dreg?” Trayvion asked. He could always detect when something was amiss with Dreg the Defiler.

                “Um…uh…we need three cars tonight, not just two,” Dreg answered, his words seemed to tremble as he said them.

                “I got it,” Brumoscowitz said, jingling the keys to the Chrysler Dreadnaught.

                “For what?” Wilfong asked.

                “Kurt says we are going to caravan with him in one open top vehicle, Commander Clean It in another, and both cars have to be on camera the whole time,” Dreg answered apprehensively.

                “Are we doing live feed?” Wilfong asked with tinge of mirth growing with each word.

                “No.”

                “Explain how it is going to work. If you know.”

                “They have students from Golden Waste College who have to have the segments ready by 9:30 PM. We shoot some in studio, the crew cuts that segment while we caravan to Dexy’s where a camera crew is waiting already. The crew at Dexy’s are filming the approach to the drive thru; how easy the access is from the main road to them. Then the camera man in the third car will film the other two cars going through the drive thru. They will switch cameras from time to time to the guys inside showing how efficient they can process an order in the restaurant. Rux Rand from school is going to be working the dump button and the switchboard between the cameras. Kurt told me we CAN NOT USE ANY BAD WORDS TONIGHT! NONE!!” Dreg emphasized with exaggerated shakes of his head. He derived great pleasure in his own use of profanity, so it was a little off-putting to the Street Survivors to be admonished in such a manner.

                “Where are the tickets?” Brumoscowitz asked in a low, even voice. Not as loud as he usually spoke in such situations, but loud enough and he seemed to be controlling something. “If I gotta drive too, we get the tickets now.”

                Dreg looked up at Brumoscowitz and his eyes widened. He was about to answer, then visibly bit his lower lip.

                “Where the FUCK are they?” Trayvion demanded.

                “We don’t get the tickets until taping is over.” Dreg answered.

                “BULL FUCK!” Wilfong exclaimed as Mr. Lesshome, dressed in his bright orange Commander Clean It super hero outfit pulled up and parked his car. Commander Clean It exited his vehicle in a single bound. As the local super hero cleared his driver’s side door, Wilfong said to him, “Hey, Dreg says we have to shoot the show first, then we get the tickets for HOT SEAT.”

                Mr. Lesshome pulled his orange hood over his head; the spandex fabric scowl hugged his balding head and rested in a straight-line halfway down the bridge of his nose. He answered, “That’s not what we agreed on. I told him, we get the 10 tickets and we get them before we do ANYTHING for him. All’s he said was you have to actually have 10 people go to HOT SEAT.” With a dramatic flip of his left arm, he threw his black cape around and off of his shoulder to fill out behind him. The bugling bright orange spandex bodysuit looked like a ridiculous, foreign imitation of a comic book super hero. Many students remarked they found Commander Clean It reminiscent of Benny Hill; a clearly farcical rendition of a crime fighter.

 

                “We can get ten to fill those seats easy,” Wilfong replied, clearly agitated. “I suspect he promised ten tickets to lots of people.”

                “I bet he did too. I already know what an asshole the guy is. I did the 4^th of July parade and a couple other events with him. He’s a tool,” Mr. Lesshome said with a dismissive shrug.

                “DREG!” Wilfong shouted.

                “Yeah,” Dreg answered as he walked up to Wilfong.

                “Tell GOULD we want our tickets now or we will split. You tell him that when we get to the studio. You got that?”

                “Yeah.”

                Wilfong’s face took on a different look as he turned his attention back to Mr. Lesshome. He said, “You still on for our uh…our extra vehicular curriculum?”

                “Oh you know it,” Mr. Lesshome answered with an uncharacteristic smile.

 

                At the studio Kurt R. Gould was standing outside in an oversized, black tuxedo with white basketball sneakers on his feet. He was standing perfectly still until he saw the fearsome asphalt flotilla of jalopies headed straight at him. His beady little eyes widened beneath their thick brows and he shuddered noticeably; his knees and shoulders trembled for a split second. He composed himself and waived for the cars to park in straight line along the curb in front of him. These guys look like a bunch of roughs. They better be able to take orders. He hurriedly swiped up a bunch of orange cones that were saving their parking spots.

                The Bug of Love parked along the curb as directed by Kurt R. Gould. Commander Clean It leapt dramatically from front passenger seat. He assumed a half crouched position, resembling a cat readying to strike. His arms were up in a defensive posture with his fingers extended. He said, “Commander Clean It and his Custodians of Cleanliness have arrived! We are prepared to do battle against litter.” His grin beamed towards Gould, lighting up the darkened scene.

                Kurt R. Gould did not react at all. His eyes remained fixed upon the spandex clad super hero. When the rest of the crew walked up to him and Commander Clean It, he said, “Are all of your cars fueled up and ready to go? We cannot stop for someone to gas up.”

                “We’re ready to start shoo…” Dreg started to speak but was abruptly cut off by Commander Clean It.

                “The cars are fine, we just have one little issue,” Commander Clean It said with a finger in the air. “We need to the tickets first, not after you ditch us back here in the studio. You give those up or we all leave right now.”

                Kurt R. Gould’s lips went from expressionless to a flat line beneath his week old, stubbly beard; then they went to a perfect frown. His beady eyes rolled over to Dreg and took on a coward’s imitation of an assassin’s glare; forced and weak. He wanted to strike out at Dreg, but then backed his emotions up. He grudgingly looked back at Commander Clean It and the rest of the crew. Finally he said, “Ok. Come on inside the studio. They’re in here.”

                Kurt R. Gould marched to the studio door and flung it wide open. He stalked inside, visibly out of patience. He didn’t bother holding the door for the next person following behind him. He marched over to some bleachers where several people had already taken up seats. There he waved over a few girls who were no more than 17 years old at the oldest. This looked a little odd Since Kurt R. Gould was about 35 at the time.

                Brumoscowitz recognized one of the girls from where he went to junior high school. He turned his head to say something to his friends. He saw a mischievous grin creep along Commander Clean It’s face beneath his stretched over scowl. Brumoscowitz turned his eyes to Wilfong.

                Wilfong recognized the girls himself, since he had attended Ocean Zoo high school prior to coming over to Huntington Beach high school. Wilfong spoke up first. He said, “Dude, that’s Taysha.”

                “Taysha Sailer,” Brumoscowitz added. “I went to junior high with her. Damn.”

                Wilfong’s face lit up even further. He said, “I used to sit next to her in first period English. All she would wear was a white, half jacket with nothing else underneath it. She would unzip the top down to between her tits and let me fucking STARE at them all morning. She is so fucking hot it’s ridiculous.”

                “Yeah she is pretty hot. But a RAGING”…Brumoscowitz was abruptly cut off.

                “TOTAL FUCKING BITCH to EVERYONE around her. She definitely believes her shit doesn’t stink,” Wilfong said.

                The group of girls Kurt R. Gould was addressing, were dressed in: tight blue jeans, white tube tops, pumps and had their hair and makeup done as if they were models for a Miller’s Outpost fashion shoot. Kurt said something inaudible to them and they reacted with protest. They even stomped their high heels several times into the bleacher seats. Taysha stood up and shouted, “You promised!”  Kurt shrugged and demanded something of them with his hand out. They all pulled tickets out from their tops and threw them at Kurt. He caught one and gathered the others off of the studio floor. The girls began to voice their opinions of Kurt R. Gould with every epithet their limited minds could come up with.

                Kurt then went to another girl, this one a little older and put out his hand; she produced 3 tickets. She was not happy either. She stood up after a second and stormed from the studio. Taysha and her friends saw this and quickly huddled. This was assuredly a group think meeting about whether or not to stay and get on local access television; or leave in protest and never let Kurt R. Gould gaze upon them again.

                “I told you guys so,” Wilfong said triumphantly. “I knew he would try to fuck us on those tickets.”

                “I think he was counting on fucking someone else over those tickets,” Trayvion answered.

                “Damn right that’s what he was up to,” Commander Clean It said.

                After a moment, Kurt came walking over and produced nine tickets. Since Dreg already had one, this was the correct number. He said, “You guys better have ALL of these seats filled when you go, or they won’t supply tickets to ME ever again.”

                “You’re covered dude,” Wilfong shot back as he snagged the tickets.

                “AND,” Kurt began again, his anger noticeable now in his reddening face and his words coming out through his gritted teeth. He said, “You guys better not fuck up tonight. YOU ALL NEED TO BE in THOSE bleachers and enthusiastic. Then you will drive your fuck-ing cars to Dexy’s without breaking down or getting into any accidents. You GET ME?!”

                Brumoscowitz bent down to where his head hung in the air only a foot from where Kurt R. Gould stood. The top of Kurt’s head reached to Brumoscowitz’s upper abdomen. Brumoscowitz said, “Are there any other orders little fella?”

                Kurt’s eyes never rolled up to look directly at Brumoscowitz. Kurt’s eyes tightened to mere slits and he sucked in a loud breath and held it. After a couple of seconds Kurt said, “I don’t need THIS right now.” He spun on his heel and shuffled away to the production table (Not an actual production booth. Just a six-foot, fold-up style table with several little televisions and switching equipment piled haphazardly upon it. Cables and power lines running about it like a tangle of thousands of dreadlocks.).

                Taysha looked at the Street Survivors getting their tickets. She voiced her protest loud enough for everyone to hear. “Look at that. He gave our tickets to THOSE assholes. I bet they’re all homos!”

                “A slut like you shouldn’t mouth off to her betters!” Commander Clean It shouted back. A middle aged man delivering such a line adds undeniable credence to such an observation. Particularly when countering such pedestrian attempts at insulting another party. Not to mention the ridiculous costume Commander Clean It sported.

                Taysha was not used to hearing someone contradict her. Never mind someone putting her in her place. Her cheeks visibly sank inward and her eyes filled with water. Commander Clean It mouthed, without any sound to back it up, the words Fuck you and turned to her friends. He was preparing to add to his attack when he was interrupted.

                “Alright,” Kurt R. Gould shouted over the studio din. “Everyone take a seat on the bleachers. Nnnowww!”

                “See,” Commander Clean It said. He raised a hand, palm up towards Kurt R. Gould. He said, “The guy is a total dick.”

                Kurt R. Gould continued, “I need everyone to sit down and pay attention. This is Cory,” He pointed to a man to his left. Cory, minus the cheap tuxedo, looked almost exactly like Kurt. “Cory is going to tell you guys when to laugh, and you will laugh loud. He will tell you when to clap and for how long. Don’t ANYONE look at the cameras. You either have your eyes on ME, or on the tele-vis-ion above where I am standing.” He pointed straight up over his head. “You see that, it is alright to look at that tele-vis-ion or at me, but don’t be looking at the cameras. If you look at the cameras we will cut away and remove you from my set. Got it?”

                Everyone nodded and shrugged. Taysha moved her little crew to the opposite end of the bleachers. She was now sitting fifteen feet from the Street Survivors. Commander Clean It took the guest seat up on the stage. Wilfong made it a point to sit next to Brumoscowitz. He asked him about how he knew Taysha. Brumoscowitz told him he would tell him about The Brawl on Talbert Avenue. Wilfong, and Trayvion who was within easy earshot, became engrossed with Brumoscowitz but there was a slight interruption.

                Kurt R. Gould was on stage now and barking at Commander Clean It. He said, “You got this stuff down I hope. I don’t need another guest on my show, being star struck and camera shy,” he bobbled his head from side to side as he spoke to emphasize how inept his average guest acts. He went on to say, “You really need to fully answer everyth…

                “GET OVER YOURSELF!” Commander Clean It laid into Gould. “I do real network news interviews every week about this character of mine.  I don’t need to hear from a cable ACCESS guy about being star struck. You are NOT a star. You are lucky we decided to show up.”

                Kurt R. Gould was obviously displeased. His current mannerisms had never been witnessed on any of his programming: his eyes bulging and narrowing at Commander Clean It over and over. A peculiar curve in his spine becoming more and more pronounced as the seconds tick by, and his fingers rolling up to near a fist while his thumbs appear to scrape the nail of each finger. 

                “The guy is a total hoser,” Patronics announced. Then he turned to Brumoscowitz. “Ok, tell your story about Gould’s hose bag.” Patronics’s words carried all the way to Taysha and her friends.

                Brumoscowitz started off with a whimsical expression on his face. He said, “Well, Taysha was used to getting a lot of attention, of course. That started in the 6^th grade. Come the 8^th grade, when she started filling out, she became MORE than… self-aware. It was like she looked into a mirror and declared, ‘Yeah, I’m hot.’ She took on airs of snobbery around school.”

                “Get to the fight dude!” Wilfong urged. He nudged Brumoscowitz’s elbow.

                “Fine. You know that girl Deticia, not the cheerleader one, the one from Crest View? She was in English with me back in…

                “Deticia , the redhead chick,” Trayvion answered excitedly.

                “Yeah. Her. Anyway, she and her best friend, this Mexican girl Andrea, had gotten into something one day with Taysha. And they were all friends before this. They all ran in the same…you know the popular kids,” Brumoscowitz said.

                “I get that picture,” Wilfong agreed but sounding annoyed.

                “Self-delusional DORKS,” Brumoscowitz said. “They were constantly checking their reflection; you know, always whipping out a mirror or using any reflective surface. Anyways, Andrea decided to get into Tayshsa’s face, at recess. This was on either Tuesday or Wednesday during the parent teacher conference week. You know, when you get half days for a week. Well, they were set to go at it after school, but Taysha left. Then the next day, Andrea got in Taysha’s face between classes, but Taysha walked away and into class. So they were set to fight that day after school, but there were teachers hanging around. So now…

                “Get to the fucking fight, I don’t need your historical details you giant thesaurus,” Patronics demanded.

                “Patronics…when it comes to storytelling, I’m a putter inner, not a taker outter-er-er. Charlie Brown,” Brumoscowitz shot back. “So when I tell a story, you better listen.”

                “No way. I was pissed a second ago. But, I like all the tension, just keep telling it that way,” Wilfong said as he patted Brumoscowitz on the back. “And tell us what they were wearing too.”

                “Where was I?” Brumoscowitz said as he rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling.

                “CONE ON!” Patronics barked.

                From the corner of his right eye, Brumoscowitz could see that Taysha was paying close attention. She had been for a while. She looked terrified of what might be said next.

“Oh yeah. Well it was Friday and they were set to fight again after school. Well, Andrea, and everyone else went looking for Taysha when class got out. Taysha had gotten onto a bus, which she never did, to get home. Andrea stood outside the bus and screamed at her for a few minutes. Taysha finally put the window down and told her they can do it on Monday. Andrea spun and left with Deticia patting her on the back. And, let me tell you, EVERYONE was wondering how that day was going to go. Taysha showed up in this gray mini-skirt outfit. And I mean MINI, it was…

                “Got some of her serious thigh action going did she?” Wilfong asked.

                “Well, she had been dancing for so long that…

                “Dancing?” Wilfong sounded off.

                “Yeah, for years,” Brumoscowitz answered. “Since the fourth grade or so.

                “Wait,” Trayvion said. “You know this how?”

                “Dude, she was normal at one time and had normal friends around the neighborhood. Her mom still talks to me like I am normal person whenever I run into her. Her daughter is all STUCK UP now, but her mom is ok. I imagine they still live in the same little place over by Lake View School,” Brumoscowitz said.

                “Oh fuck, no wonder,” Patronics said. “Total trash neighborhood.”

                Brumoscowitz leaned his enormous head towards his friend Patronics and in a very low voice said, “I resemble that remark.”

                “Except for where you live,” Patronics assured him. “Now get to the fight.”

                “You want a blow by blow?” Brumoscowitz.

                “Tell the fucking story,” Trayvion now losing his patience.

                “Hmmmm, where was I now?” Brumoscowitz started with his own awful Irish Brogue. “Now wait now…Oh yes. So Monday, which was a half day for us every week. At 12:30 or whenever we got out of class, everyone followed the two of them off of the campus. The teachers had gotten word somehow about the fracas and followed us, but the teachers stayed on the campus. We walked off of the campus and turned right on to Talbert Avenue and went east to the first house past the school fence. Everything just stopped right there on the front lawn. Maybe 100 kids standing around. It’s funny because at that house, there was this woman who had hair down to her rear end and she made it a point to do either of two things every day. One, she walked her Dobermans up and down Talbert the full length of the school fence; or two, she did her gardening in her bikini. She only did these things when it was 7^th and 8^th grade lunch time. Never earlier or later…So, everything stops at this house. The usual circle forms around these two and they are standing there facing each other. Andrea is…

                “What the fuck is Taysha wearing? Is it another above the thighs skirt? Or was she a Dolphin shorts girl?” Wilfong asked with a rascally grin.

                Brumoscowitz was about to say so when Patronics, nearly with a shout, grunted, “Well?”

                Brumoscowitz shot Patronics a glance, then he looked at Dreg who had joined them and was leaning towards him. He looked over Dreg’s shoulder and could see Taysha fully enthralled and listening; she was completely ignoring the shallow conversation of her two friends. He said, “Taysha was wearing a white button up sweater; you know the long sleeves kind.”

                “What the fuck else would there be?” Trayvion asked.

                “And,” Brumoscowitz continued, “She was wearing faded blue jeans, not those phony faded, store bought kind like she is wearing right now. I mean they had genuine mileage on them.”

                “Err her her RRRrrrreeeeaaally,” Wilfong said, his words dragging themselves out of his mouth.

                “What the other chick have on?” Trayvion asked. “Jeans and a white shirt?”

                “Jeans, not Levis, but some kind of jeans and I think a white shirt,” Brumoscowitz answered. A little surprised. “Have I told you this be-… anyways, they are standing there exchanging pleasantries like, ‘You said I was a cheap slut and probably got my outfit at Kmart,’ and the predictable responses like, ‘Oh your scaring meeee.’ Back and forth they went on for an eternity.”

                “Wait, did they actually fight? Or are you just dragging this out to fuck with everyone’s head. You are demented! We should call you Brain Damaged Brumoscowitz,” Patronics said with his finger stabbing the air at him.

                “Yes, I am getting to the fight right now,” Brumoscowitz said.

                “FIVE MINUTES until we go LIVE people. If you are going to fix your hair or whatever you do it now and don’t take more than thirty seconds,” Cory the stage hand announced with his hand in the air and all five digits extended and spread apart.

                “Hurry up,” Dreg urged.

                “So Andrea attacks first. Mind you, Taysha is a head taller, I mean she was like 5’7” in the 8^th grade. Andrea was about five foot one.”

                “Vicious little honey, huh?” Wilfong commented.

                Brumoscowitz continued, “Andrea attacked straight on, claws up and trying to get a hold of Taysha and pull her down to her size. Taysha, wasn’t just taller and pretty, she was a lot stronger. She just put up her hands and pushed Andrea off a couple of times. She would catch Andrea’s hands like a game of mercy, and push her off after a second. She really shoved her a couple feet each time. So Andrea came in again and tried delivering kicks. Taysha kicked back and shoved Andrea’s advances off. Each time they stopped, Taysha would fix her sweater; you know, pull it down and fix the sleeves. It was like she had to carry in some groceries and then pull the sleeves down and straighten the cuffs. It looked like she had no concerns over Andrea’s attacks. Finally, at the urging of Deticia, and this one little shitbird, his name was Timmy…Timmy…Patronics, what’s that detective agency name? You know the private detectives that…”

                “Pinkerton!” Patronics answered with the fervor of a game show contestant.

                “Timmy Pinkerton, he was this little suckass. I got another story about him later. Pinkerton and Deticia start taunting Taysha while Andrea is just standing there. Andrea then starts shouting something like, ‘You wanted to fight and now you just push. You’re a bitch! You are scared! You won’t fight.’ Mind you, sure Taysha was scared. Everyone, like my friend Lloyd was saying, Andrea is going to kick her ass, she is way more a jock and Taysha is all into fashion and being the center of attention.’ So, while this new round of insults comes out, Taysha gets pissed and pulls off her sweater.”

                “Tell me what she’s wearing at this point. Tell me it’s just a bra,” Wilfong barks, almost salivating.

                “You remember those alligator shirts? The polo style ones. It is pink…and…and very tight,” Brumoscowitz goes on. “After handing off her sweater to someone, Taysha comes back in, angry looking and with her paws up, ready to scrap. All one hundred moronic kids get several decibels louder. Even the woman who lived in that house, opened her door to watch; she did not bother to intervene. So, Andrea sees this and now she charges in with a renewed anger. I mean kicks, claws at the face, trying to scratch Taysha’s eyes out. Pinkerton and Deticia encroached really close for second with waving arms and screaming where and how Andrea should punch Taysha. Taysha threw a few kicks and used her left hand to lock onto to Andrea’s face. She did it to keep Andrea’s face up as Andrea came in with her wildcat attack. While Taysha was backing up, she made a fist with her right hand and cocked it back by her face and waited as she was back pedaling.  Andrea had her teeth bared and started clawing lower as she forced her way forward.”

                “HERE WE GO,” Wilfong was exuberant. “Did she tear the polo shirt off?”

                “Andrea got ahold of Taysha’s shirt with both hands. She yanked it towards herself and it was wide open on Taysha’s left side; I mean of belt line up to bottom of the bra. While Andrea had ahold of the shirt, and Taysha’s bra straps on Taysha’s left side. Some very violent yanking as Andrea tried to pull Taysha towards her to shorten the distance. It was one of those moments you just never lose ANY visual details of.” He paused with a gleam in his eye as he stared out into nowhere for a moment. He continued, “As Andrea yanked on the shirt and bra and forced herself forward, Taysha perfectly telegraphed this next punch.  Taysha unleashed the fist she had cocked up by her face. There was this loud BWAP, just like on BATMAN. Andrea’s head snapped to her left and her arms dropped. Taysha followed up with another punch to the face and with another kick to Andrea’s belt line. Andrea bent slightly over, then straightened up and just stood still for a second… It was SILENT. After a second, Andrea shuddered and screamed, ‘You weren’t supposed to do that!’” Brumoscowitz imitated the scream and grimace Andrea had at the moment. He continued, “Taysha stood still for a second, then renewed her attack. A punch later, Deticia jumps in between them and forces them apart. Deticia starts telling them they can just walk away and they don’t have to do this. I wondered where Deticia was all last week and 2 minutes ago, but here we are now. So they exchanged some words that none of us could hear and they both turned and were about to walk away. Right then, Pinkerton runs in between them. Remember Pinkerton was over there with Deticia the whole time, taunting and berating Taysha. Well Pinkerton grabs Taysha’s right arm and holds it up like it is the end of prize fight on HBO. He is wearing this big cheesy grin as he looks all around crowd. Some of the crowd laughed, Andrea was visibly shaken and upset; by the punches and the betrayal of Pinkerton. Taysha kind of laughed, but turned and walked away. So, we are slowly fleeing the scene. I walked past Taysha on my way home. Just as soon as I am about even with her, a cop pulls up on Talbert Avenue and parks on the curb next to us. I look at the cop, then I look back at Taysha. I see Taysha turn and run across Talbert Ave and everyone else scattering in all directions. I saw Pinkerton on the curb yelling Taysha’s direction, I could not tell what he was saying; but it must have been something moronic.”

                “Did that get the old blood flowing to the shlongage?” Wilfong asked.

                Brumoscowitz’s head leaned back and the barest rictus of a smile started to crawl across his face. He answered, “You know those ancient Cadillac hood ornaments? The big chrome ones that look like a woman diving forward with her arms stretched back behind her?” He watched the expressions of puzzlement come over his friends faces.

                Wilfong, the true car aficionado of the crew said, “Yeah, like from the nineteen thirties. Sometimes the arms go back and they look more like wings.” He held up his hands several inches apart to demonstrate the size of the hood ornaments in question. Everyone was starting to nod their heads in recognition.

                “Well, me and the rest of the guys were all walking home with one those stuffed down the front of our Levi’s I can tell you,” Brumoscowitz answered.

                Trayvion nearly fell forward as he doubled over with laughter. Wilfong slapped Brumoscowitz on the back to show his appreciation for the visual he created. Ron Gibson leaned over on his side laughing so hard, he did not notice he was almost in some woman’s lap.

                “You went home with a concrete phallic that afternoon, eh?” Wilfong chuckled out his question.

                “Stuffed in a meat sock,” Patronics added between his own chuckles.

                “Anything happen after that?” Trayvion asked when his laughter finally subsided.

                “Well, we all had Home Room together. Taysha, Andrea and the rest of the aforementioned. The first half hour of the day. Andrea and Taysha had pretty much the same friends and there was a little tension for a while. After a week or so, they were sitting and talking together. Bygones” Brumoscowitz answered.

                “Was Taysha still bitch after all that stuff?” Dreg asked, eyeballing Taysha on the opposite end of the bleacher. She was eyeballing him back as she listened.

                “What about Andrea?” Patronics asked before Brumoscowitz could answer.

                “Well, here it is the end of the school year now,” Brumoscowitz went on. “Those two are on friendly terms again, the fight was a few months earlier. Taysha had talked about having a big graduation party for EVERYONE the whole year. Taysha’s mom made sure it was a homeroom announcement for the eighth grade. It would be on the beach and her mom was doing all this cool stuff for her. You know, a barbeque pit, tables of food and sodas… all that. It was set for the Saturday before the last few days of school. Supposedly everyone was invited, at the urging of her mother; and Taysha would be the center of attention of course. I think it was her birthday and graduation all rolled into one. I think the last day of school was on a Wednesday that year. So come the Thursday before that, the Saturday party, Taysha shows up with the party invitations. Not flyers or maps on how to get there. The party for everyone now has invitations. She starts passing them out in Home Room. Now get this, she has a pile of them and is handing them out to selected people and checking off a list. Andrea is actually helping her; following her like Gunga Din. Some people asked Taysha, ‘Where is mine?’ and ‘Am I invited?’ and Taysha stopped and announced, ‘Oh, I don’t have them all here today, I will have the rest of them tomorrow.’ Sometimes she would answer a request with a question of her own like ‘Do you really want one? I can remember yours tomorrow.’ “

                “Are you fucking serious?” Trayvion asked as he shot a killer’s glance over to Taysha. “She bragged about everyone getting to go, then fucked people...out of their tickets no less?” The irony was evident in his voice.

                “Why didn’t she just put them all in a sack and call out the names as she pulled them out?” asked Patronics.

                “Because she is a total SHREW!” Wilfong bellowed. He was looking at Taysha when he said it.

                Brumoscowitz puts up a hand in a halting motion to keep the story going. He said, “I heard what she said, and turned my head to Taysha and Andrea. Mohammed is sitting next to me and he does the exact same thing. You guys know Mohammed? He owns SUNLINE/ELECTRIC CHAIR on Main.” He waited as everyone acknowledged knowing him. Then he continued, “Well we both glance at those two, then roll our eyes to each other just to make sure we actually heard what we just heard. Taysha says to us, ‘Oh I don’t have your guys either, do you really want to go?’ She had this really sour, twisted to all fucked-up expression on her face. I said, ‘Just stick with the popular people.’ Of course it was dripping with sarcasm, and you know what? Taysha just nodded and smiled while Andrea said ‘that’s good.’ Mohammed says, ‘Don’t fucking patronize us with not having it here today, you have no intention of inviting anyone that doesn’t hover around you.’ And she,” Brumoscowitz points at Taysha who is now shooting him a look of disgust. He said, “Taysha answers with, ‘yeah, ok.’ She flicked her fucking hair, double checked her list with Andrea and went on to the next group self-delusional losers.”

                “She’s not a Bitch,” Patronics declared. “I would use the next word in alphabetical order. It starts with a C.”

                Wilfong stands up, wearing a triumphant grin and says, “Now she sluts it up to get onto local cable access television. She wants to be an actress,” his last words carrying a boatload of sarcasm while his hands wave about his face as if reality itself bends around Taysha’s being.

                “Nope,” Trayvion followed up, his voice several octaves higher than necessary. He made sure she could hear him speaking. “This is her commercial. To sell herself.”

                “You think she believes she will get discovered here on public access cable rather than being a waitress in Hollyweird somewhere?” Ron Gibson asked.

                “Discovered, yes,” Wilfong answered. “But not by producers of some TV show. It would mean being discovered by somedude that is LOADED and giving her the golden key to the crapper.”

                “Preferably a really old dude that…

                “GOING LIVE IN FIFTEEN SECONDS PEOPLE,” one of the stage hands shouted.

                All members of the audience dutifully found their seats on the bleachers. The Street Survivors and crew took up the lower front and center of the bleacher to Kurt R. Gould’s right. Taysha seated herself on the upper left corner of the bleacher to the left; making her friends sit beside and in front of her but slightly offset of course. This kind of seating gave her extra space around herself in the center.

                Another stage hand came over and told everyone to be quiet while the first stage hand held up his a hand with his fingers spread out and began counting down from five. Kurt R. Gould was in his seat, turning his head from side to side and winking at the camera man. Gould would check the small tele-vis-ion off stage to see his own image; he preferred the profile shots for some reason. (Later, the Street Survivors surmised he thought of himself as one of those communist dicatators who has their profile pictured on a giant banner over their starving population.)Commander Clean It sat opposite Gould with his left leg over his right knee; giving the cable access talk show host a perfect crotch shot. As the stage hand got down to three fingers up, indicating three seconds until they are on the air, Gould made a waving motion with one hand trying to get Commander Clean It to close up his legs. The Commander merely gave Gould a toothy grin beneath his bushy mustache.

                The stage hand with the busy fingers pointed to Kurt R. Gould. For the first time since arriving at the studio, everyone on hand saw Kurt R. Gould smile. Or, at least his mouth looked like a smile, his eyes never changed. The camera was on and the host imitated a joyful expression. He introduced Commander Clean It, leaning towards him at one point with an ear to ear smile conveying a sense of comradery on the stage. Commander Clean It did not move an inch. Gould went on to announce that he would have some guest staff driving them to Dexy’s to use their drive through for a meal in mid show. Also, while on the road, they would be running some of Gould’s older clips from 1981-82 when he first “locked in his unique broadcast content” on local cable television.

                While Gould was in his opening monolog, as soon as he started talking about the drive across town portion, Commander Clean It threw Wilfong a mischievous wink that Gould missed. After that, and for the first time in his lengthy, primetime broadcast career, Gould introduced his studio audience. He had the cameras turn to the bleachers and do a brief pan from his right to left; halting on Taysha sitting on the top, left bench of the bleacher. Taysha was already sitting up straight and tuned slightly to one side. The camera rested on her for a few seconds. She threw on a smile, winked and turned her head ever so slightly.  Taysha did what she was told not to do, check herself on the television screen far off to one side. As her eyes adjusted on her own video visage, she half smiled and turned herself a little further to show off more of her curves. Kurt R. Gould verbally ordered the camera cut back to himself. Gould said they would revisit the studio audience before they went on their drive thru sojourn, and after they returned from it. Gould went back to talking to Commander Clean It and they had a lengthy, friendly exchange. Mostly over the appearances that Commander Clean It makes during the school year. They also talked about events they did together; and what they will be doing in the future.

                After the interview portion of the program was over, a technician came out waving his hands and pointing to the guys sitting at the table covered with electronics of all sorts. Gould was on his feet and walking to the studio door. He barked at the Street Survivors to get going. Three camera men and two guys with sound gear rushed out the door with Gould. Commander Clean It urged everyone to hurry up.

                Taysha took the opportunity to announce to everyone in the studio, “Yeah we’ll just wait here. We don’t want to ride with those homos!” She and her two toadies laughed.

                Commander Clean It stopped mid stride, turned to Taysha and said, “Next time, point your crotch into the camera instead of going for the semi slutty tease. You’ll get a faster response when you go with what comes natural to you.” He spun on a heel and left without soaking up any of the laughter from the people still sitting in the bleachers.

 

                Brumoscowitz opened his Chrysler behemoth on the front passenger side door and the camera man and sound guy both produced cans of aerosol spray glass cleaning foam. One sprayed the inside of the windshield and the other the outside. Then they produced rags from their hip pockets and went to work making the glass crystal clear. After two treatments on each is, they were ready. They pulled away from the curb while Patronics remarked, “That windshield has never been so clean. Free of both blood and shrapnel.” Only the camera man and sound man did not laugh at Patronic’s comment.

 

                The Bug of Love was out front, like usual with Commander Clean It, Dreg, and a camera man while Wilfong drove. The Thing of Pain contained Kurt R. Gould, a camera man, a sound man and Ron Gibson with Trayvion at the wheel. The Chrysler Imperial Le Baron contained Patronics, Wilson, Brumoscowitz at the wheel and a camera man and sound man in the front seat. They flew throughout the streets, cutting lanes and staying just ahead of schedule. A couple of the younger protégé Street Survivors hung back in the studio.

                As they got in line at the drive thru, The Thing of Pain was first up with Kurt R. Gould ready to do some dialog with the drive thru speaker. The camera man and sound technician got out of the Chrysler and did a side shot of Gould’s antics which were not funny at all. He stood in front of the drive thru speaker/microphone and flapped his arms like a large bird. He laughed at his own antics and beamed his false grin at the camera over and over. The camera in the Thing of Pain stayed on Gould while the other camera went to the drive-up window of the restaurant. There was another camera already inside the restaurant filming the cashier’s point of view. After getting his food, Gould took a single bite and his face lit up like any genuine, satisfied customer in a commercial would. Commander Clean It got burger as well. After a moment, the camera man and sound technician loaded back into the Chrysler and the signal was given by Kurt R. Gould to get back to the studio.

                “So, nothing for you guys or us?” Brumoscowitz asked the Cameraman.

                “Oh, he is a jerk dude,” the cameraman said. “All this equipment and our time, this is for class credit. The equipment, it is all borrowed from our production classes. If we didn’t work for class credit, he wouldn’t have a show.”

                As the cable access convoy was readying to head back to the studio, both Wilfong and Commander Clean It waved their arms and indicated that the Chrysler needs to stay close on the other two vehicles.

                Shortly after leaving the drive through at Dexy’s, the Bug of Love tore out in front and the Thing of Pain followed close behind. Commander Clean It looked back with a grin so big, it reminded the guys in the following cars of Speed Racer’s arch nemesis, Captain Terror!

 

                “You guys should start filming, something totally fucked is gonna happen,” Brumoscowitz said. His two guests in the front seat with him looked at each other, shrugged and started filming. All the while, Patronics and Wilson laughed hysterically from the cavernous back seat. In the back, Patronics readied the ghetto blaster. He had a cassette in it already; the REPO MAN soundtrack. The telltale click of the portable stereo button was followed by the guitar rendition of Ride of the Valkyries. Patronics, Wilson and Brumoscowitz mouthed along with the music. They all envisioned the scene from REPO MAN with Otto’s (Emilio Estevez) three former friends fleeing a crime scene. The Street Survivors were charging into a crime scene.

                Suddenly the Bug of Love, which was northbound on Newland Avenue, cut a sharp right onto Rockfish Circle, the dividing line on Newland Avenue between Huntington Beach and Fountain Valley. They are on the Fountain Valley side.  The Bug of Love’s passenger side rear wheel coming off of the ground with an ear ripping skid. The vehicle appeared to be momentarily top heavy in the diffuse street lights. The Thing of Pain followed closely behind.

                 Kurt R. Gould looked around, terrified to the point of flight or flight! He felt as though he were a young pledge to a fraternity; and about to endure some dehumanizing initiation hazing. He was almost right.

                In this neighborhood supporting the detour while en-route back to the studio, it just happened to be the night before garbage collection. Most of the houses had their garbage cans out already. Mind you, this was back in the days before the city supplied a trash can. (The city trash can is nothing shy of an entrenched graft operation on behalf of the local politicians and their criminal cronies.) There were all sorts of trash receptacles back in the day; some plastic, some aluminum, steel and some were even old oil barrels. There were also plenty of piles of just plastic trash bags and cardboard boxes filled with refuse. Back in those days, the garbage man actually had to get off of the truck and load the garbage into the truck (unlike today where a garbage man merely drives a truck and operates a robotic arm for about $45 an hour; heaven forbid the lid on your city provided trash can does not close all the way.)  One more feature about this neighborhood, which Wilfong happed to scout out only a couple of days earlier, is that it had several houses with mail boxes all the way out on the curb. Not all of the houses, but a fair number of them.

                Mr. Lesshome, the photography teacher who was better known as Commander Clean It, had been regaled with many tales of the Street Survivors activities over the last few years. Time and again, Wilfong had told stories of the previous weekend’s sorties to play mail box baseball and wreak general, mischievous havoc. Wilfong had once offered to take Mr. Lesshome along but the good teacher had declined partaking in any such shenanigans. However, since Dreg the Defiler had created this opportunity to get the Street Survivors on television, the evening would be best enjoyed with the boys engaging in their natural inclinations. Wilfong told only Commander Clean It what he was going to pull; with the exception of warning Trayvion to stay right on my ass no matter what on the trip back to the studio.

                Within seconds of pulling onto the residential streets, the passengers in the Chrysler could see a Louisville Slugger being brandished in a manner that bespoke of serious business about to take place. They witnessed Kurt R. Gould turn his head almost completely around like an owl, his lips trembling, his eyes filled with dread. He shook his head in the negative at the cameraman in the Chrysler, but it was too late. The telltale red light on the top of the camera blazed forth in unparalleled glory. It just so happened the camera in the Thing of Pain was rolling as well.

                The Bug of Love cruised in close to the curb and decelerated. Dreg the Defiler Coyle, who only moments earlier was unaware of the surprise sojourn, was standing up in the front passenger seat. He had the baseball bat in his grip with both arms cocked.

                “Oh YEAH!” the cameraman riding in the 1972 Chrysler Imperial Dreadnaught rejoiced. He and his sound technician elbowed each other in anticipation of tonight’s unscheduled antics.

                Dreg’s hands were twirling the bat in small circles above his head as they closed in on the target. The chosen mail box was a standard tin job. It stood on a weak looking square pole at a meter above the pavement. It was unpainted, just hovering there in its dull gray resplendence. It was old, and even in the dim luminescence of the street lights, its age showed through. This was one of those older models that kind of resembled a Quonset hut. For some reason, the little red flag was standing up on this one; almost as if this mail box was begging to be taken out of its misery.

                Screaming through the air like a kamikaze on his way to the final silence, the Louisville Slugger came around in a viscous arc and collided with the forlorn mail box. The impact procured a THUD of which made all of the uninitiated spectators jump with shock. After their brief moment of disbelief, they finally wrapped their minds around what had just occurred. They had witnessed, with their own eyes, battery upon and inanimate object; which for some inexplicable reason was so fucking cool.

                “DAMN!” The cameraman in the Chrysler exuberantly declared. “Give me a fucken bat!”

                “Don’t have one,” Brumoscowitz replied. He looked over at the cameraman and soundman and could see their disappointment physically manifest itself. He decided to give them a small treat. He aimed the Chrysler at a particularly large pile of garbage that exceeded the curb and gutter by several feet. Amongst the pile of plastic green trash bags, stood a severely injured wooden hobby horse and a piece of abused luggage; a Samsonite no less.

                With the accelerator mashed to the floor, the Chrysler swayed as it inclined towards the small mountain of refuse. The enormous vehicle responded like an ocean liner attempting to avert a collision. All but one onboard, the driver, of the mighty vessel doubted they would connect with the intended targets.

                “DUDE!?!?!?” the cameraman nervously called out. “What are you …?” He went silent once he realized what was about to happen. Once again, he would be witness to a suburban event of apocalyptic proportions.

                Looking out over the enormous expanse of the Chrysler’s front hood, for a brief moment only darkness could be seen above the leading edge of the vehicle. The sound of paper being sucked up by a great vacuum filled the air within the passenger compartment. Flying up like pigeons released from their cages, paper, debris, pieces of a wooden hobby horse, and Campbell’s Soup cans took to the air. Immediately followed by the thunderous report of a suitcase rocketing into orbit. The Samsonite looked particularly fearless as it rose into the dark night sky; reminiscent of a Med Evac chopper flying to the rescue. The suitcase crashed into the asphalt and skidded to a halt near the center of the street. The suitcase landed standing upright, as though it had just been ever so lovingly removed from the luggage carousel at the airport and placed on standby before going home.

                Wilson Scott said, “The horse flew away like Pegasus.”

                The television film crew responded with laughter, as did the other two car loads of troublemakers. The drove past the debris of the collision, including the Samsonite, cackling hysteriacally. Everyone was now caught up in the reverie except for one trembling creature. Kurt R. Gould was visibly shaking. Kurt’s eyes were wide with terror as he gripped at Trayvion’s shoulder, trying to get him so slow down. It was to no avail. The Thing of Pain picked up speed to catch up with the Bug of Love. The malicious motorcade turned around at three quarters the length of the street. They sped back in the same direction from whence they came, The Bug of Love was out front and having to swerve violently. There was an obstacle in the road, a familiar looking, and heavily dented Samsonite suitcase. Brumoscowitz saw the swerve and audibly begged the Deity of Destruction for the hobby horse to be grazing on the pavement. He settled for the grazing Samsonite and hit it again, square on. The durable luggage, famous for enduring handling by a silverback ape in an old television commercial, took the hit like a champ. The suitcase stayed true to its reputation and held together as it flew out past the middle vehicle in the masochists’ motorcade, The Thing of Pain, and nearly smashed into the rear of the Bug of Love. The suitcase came crashing to the pavement and skidding out beyond the front of the dune buggy.

                “Uhhh….Chika-buh chika-buh, that guys following us like BAAAD luggage uh uh chika-buh,” Dreg Coyle said to Wilfong. Even Commander Clean It got the reference to Hanna Barbara’s Speed Buggy.

                After a momentary slowdown, the vehicles picked up speed again and inclined to the right. Dreg was up on his feet and took out another hapless mailbox. This one was a wooden job that looked a little like an elongated barn or rural church. It even had a squatty steeple on the top center of it. The steeple was the only portion to survive the impact of the baseball bat. The sidewall to the right of the mail slot door caved in with a less than satisfying crack. The orange spandex clad arms of Commander Clean It, the eldest of the troublemakers, pumped in the air victoriously.

                Up front in the Bug of Love, Commander Clean It urged Wilfong to pull the vehicle over. Mr. Lesshome demanded he get a shot at mail box. The entire crew responded with encouragement and even urged Kurt R. Gould to take a shot at a mail box himself. Gould refused but Commander Clean It, hopped out of the back of the Bug of Love and into the front with the same dexterity and flair of Adam West’s Caped Crusader hopping into the Batmobile. His black cape billowing about behind him. Wilfong gunned the accelerator just as Commander Clean It situated himself. The malicious motorcade took off again down the very long, straight street. Up ahead, intermittently dispersed along the fronts of houses on both sides of the street were garbage cans and other assorted rubbish. There were some mail boxes at the curb, but not many for the length of the street before intersecting with Newland Avenue. It being time for trash collection added a considerable layer difficulty for a beginner to score a direct hit.  

                The vehicles now slowed as Commander Clean It, middle aged and conducting his personal battle of the bulge around his mid-section, struggled to stand up in the dune buggy. To the occupants of the vehicles, Commander Clean It looked like and orange Weeble-Wobble, which was wobbling and about to fall down. He held up the Louisville Slugger with one hand and gripped the front windshield with the other. Wilfong slowed and guided the dune buggy closer to the curb, hugging the outer perimeter of a small mountain of junk. Commander Clean It gripped the bat with both hands, but was choking too far up to deliver an effective blow. Dreg gave Commander Clean It’s hands a quick tap to indicate the proper grip on the bat. Commander Clean It followed the advice and wound up his swing as they inched closer to the target mail box. Everyone, including the camera crew members collectively shouted NOW. Commander Clean It swung for all that he was worth on this, his first time at bat in the sacred game of mail box baseball. The swing was sufficiently violent, yet came in at a downward angle. The mailbox itself was a standard tin, white in color, standing on a double pole that had some ornate floral design meant to resemble wrought iron metal work. The blow struck the top and slightly to the right side in a downward angle on the right edge of the mail box. A damaging blow, but in no way fatal.

                From the perspective of the other two vehicles, a startling metamorphosis occurred. The cape which Commander Clean It wore, took a more ominous presence. As though it had grown in size and it chose to flap rearward in the wind; driven with a certain amount of anger.

                Commander Clean It urged Wilfong to stop the vehicle. Before Wilfong could bring the vehicle to a complete halt, Commander Clean It leapt from the dune buggy and ran. He hoofed it as best as he could manage with his enormous orange colored gut bouncing up and down before him. He sprinted back to the defiant mail box. Brumoscowitz was able to stop about twenty feet from the mail box and keep it illuminated. The Thing of Pain was in the middle of the street and stopped nearly parallel to the mail box.

                The Universe was tuned into the events unfolding at the behest of The Street Survivors this night. For some reason the only street lights working were either far behind Commander Clean It or far out ahead of him. For everyone watching this KILL unfold, they saw Commander Clean It grow several sizes in height and girth. He was backlit to all the spectators and charged forth to smite his stricken foe. Time itself slowed down. Commander Clean It galloped in forth.

                Brumoscowitz pointed with his left hand out of the driver’s side window. He let out a gasp. He said, “You remember CONAN THE BARBARIAN?” He waited, and without bothering to look around, he sensed everyone in his car was nodding in agreement. He began uttering the lyrics from the soundtrack of the film, in cadence with his right hand tapping on the dashboard, the Riders of Doom played along with the scene unfolding

Mortem hostibus et luctem date
(Spirits of the dead, give death and bitter grief)
Acrem di manes sternadis
(to the enemy who must laid low.)
Ave Nevis, ave ferrum
(Hail Nevis, hail iron)
Ave tela, ave cruor
(Hail weapons, hail gore,)
Ave pugna, ave moritur!
(Hail the fight, hail those who are about to die!)
Skylon!

                Commander Clean It’s cape, now billowed out behind him like a great black cloud of poison issuing from an ancient death train. As it flapped, it sounded like great thunder from a storm about to make landfall. Everyone watching from the Chrysler could now see Thulsa Doom riding his horse over boot hill; his great helmet taking on Devil’s horns. In his hands, rather than a sword or bow, there was another deadly weapon. The Louis-villas Sluggarious!

                Commander Clean It, with his severely bulging center, approached the mail box. He hefted the baseball bat high over his head.

                Brumoscowitz seized the moment to do a movie quote. Much like Rexor in CONAN, he shouted, “KILL…THAT ONE!!

                “Man, I gotta see the world through your fucken’ eyes!” said the camera man.

                As Commander Clean It prepared to strike, he hefted his weapon high overhead. Everything froze in place. The baseball bat hung up in the overhanging limbs of a nearby tree. He halted and violently yanked the bat, it remained over his head. He did it again, and only the tree branch shook. Three times a charm, on the third try, he yanked the bat downward. The bat emerged from the overhead foliage with a small, bright red birdhouse stuck on the end of the baseball bat. The bat had gone into the perfectly round entry hole in the center of the birdhouse. Commander Clean It stopped himself from winding up for another swing. He looked at the birdhouse with momentary shock. He was frozen. Then he hefted the bat triumphantly overhead and spun the birdhouse around on the end of it like a ratchet noisemaker. His teeth gleamed brightly beneath his bushy, brown and gray mustache. He looked like a New Year’s Eve reveler.

                Lights came on out in the front of certain houses up and down the street. A few older women and men, dressed in their evening clothes, exited their homes to see what all of the strange noises were about.

                Regardless of the arriving spectators, whoops and hollers of exultation rose from the malicious motorcade. Now the boys had a real story to tell when they got back to school tomorrow.

                When, in their moment of true happiness, all was right in the world, when their joy was at its zenith, a sniveling screech of disdain and cowardliness rose above all of the laughter and cheers of camaraderie.

                Leaping from the Thing of Pain and standing in the middle of the street he began to lecture the Street Survivors. “You people have to STOP THIS!” screamed Kurt R. Gould. “These people can see us and what YOU’RE doing. I am a CELBRITY! I will be recognized; and I can’t get into trouble with YOU assholes!”

                “Shut that bitch down!” Wilfong demanded from his driver’s seat.

                “Can it you genetic sissy!” Trayvion shouted.

                “FUCK ALL OF YOU!” Gould shouted back. “I can’t afford to do this childish shit with you!”

                “Celebrity huh,” Commander Clean It said back. He turned to the home where he had just clipped the birdhouse from. In a loud and sincere voice, Commander Clean It asked a woman of seventy some years, “Excuse me ma’am. Do you know who Kurt R. Gould is? You know, the cable access STAR?”

                “Get the hell away from my house you buffoon!” the woman screamed back at the man in orange spandex.

                “See,” Commander Clean It pointed at the woman with his baseball bat. “Nobody knows who you are.” He began trotting back to The Bug of Love. Dreg Coyle was cackling like a Hyena as he stood in the back of the dune buggy.

                While this exchange was taking place, Brumoscowitz and crew noticed several men, the neighborhood militia, gathering up just a few driveways back from the developing fracas. More were about to join the fray and they looked pissed off. At once, they began marching down the sidewalk towards the orange spandex clad local hero and Kurt R. Gould. Brumoscowitz cranked the steering wheel hard to the left, then hard right and accelerated away from the two parked vehicles. As they sped away from the Thing of Pain, the sound man and Patronics shouted from the windows to get going. They drove past the two other vehciles and turned around a few houses down.

                “Get in the car, lets get back to the studio,” Commander Clean It said.

                Gould refused. Throwing up his hands, he stepped a few paces further back from the Volkswagen Thing. He raised his hands and watched the Chrysler Behemoth speed away from him.

                “Get the FUCK in,” Commander Clean It demanded. “You think you are going to make peace with them?” He pointed the bat at the oncoming vigilantes. “We need to go.”

                “HEY!” There was a great shout that overtook all the excited chatter in the street. The shout was so loud it drowned out all the other noise. Six middle aged men, one armed with a shovel in his hands, came striding towards the two parked vehicles. The men had an air of retribution about them. One of them was pointing at the damaged mail box. Another said something about some vandalism up the street a minute ago. Far beyond the parked vehicles, crimson brake lights lit up the night for a moment, then dimmed. The brake lights were replaced by round and very wide apart headlamps.

                Gould kept his hands up and twitched and turned away from efforts to get him back into the Thing of Pain. Wilfong gunned his motor as did Trayvion. Trayvion shouted back at Gould, “Get in or they are going to kick your ass and hand you over to the cops.”

                The neighborhood watch crew waddled toward the vehicles in the street, bent on righting some wrongs. Just as they were within a few feet of Gould, a thunderous crash of metal on metal halted everyone in their tracks. They saw a plume of: dust, debris, TV dinner boxes, scrap paper, lawn clippings and old leaves burst high into the air. The front grill of the Chrysler Dreadnaught came through the maelstrom of detritus and bought everyone that precious two seconds to act. The Chrysler did a hard right to catch the driveway ramp on its right, then a hard left to execute an impossible looking U-turn on the neighborhood street. The driveway ramp directly across the street allowed the Chrysler Behemoth to ride up on the curb and turn around.

                Kurt R. Gould was frozen with fear. He stood in the street until a double bear claw grip, delivered by Ron Gibson, took hold of his tuxedo. Ron had been swimming for many years and had developed the upper body strength of an Olympic competitor. Tonight, Ron found a new use for his tremendous strength; participating in suburban mayhem. Kurt R. Gould was yanked through the air and into the back of the Thing of Pain. The Bug of Love spun round in a screeching donut and was racing away. The Chrysler coming in behind it with the Thing of Pain in close pursuit.

                The most familiar of scenes played out on the street, behind the escaping Street Survivors.  Running behind the fleeing vandals, some barefoot and others in fuzzy slippers, the neighborhood watch pounded up the pavement shouting and demanding the troublemakers halt. Most of the neighborhood watch would stop after only a few yards. Several bravely kept hurling their demands and insults that went unheeded. Others within the vigilantes tried to just catch their breath. They saw the passenger in the back of the dune buggy, thin and gangly, deliver the international two arm gesture for up yours. The last thing they saw, was the enormous car, a possible Cadillac, come to a halt at the corner where it was turning right onto Newland Avenue. As the car halted, a figure leaned out of a passenger side window and shook hands with someone on foot.

                “STOP! STOP!” Patronics shouted from the rear seat.

                Brumoscowitz hit the brakes. He looked back at Patronics to see what needed their immediate attention.

                Patronics hit the play button on the ghetto blaster, the guitar version of Ride of the Valkyries was playing again. Patronics leaned his upper body out of the passenger side rear window and shook hands with a woman on the sidewalk who was jogging right at them.

                Wilson blurted out, “What he fuck!?!?!”

                Patronics reeled himself back in and sat down with a satisfied grin. He was waiting for Brumoscowitz to comment.

                In short order, Brumoscowitz recognized the scene. It was another move from REPO MAN. While Otto’s former friends were fleeing a crime scene, one of them stopped to shake hands with a transient lying on the pavement in a back alley. Patronics, in the midst of the criminal act, Damage and Dash, had the presence of mind to fully re-enact the very scene from the movie which he had provided the soundtrack.

                “Eloquence me boy-o,” Brumoscowitz said as they drove away.

               

                The malicious motorcade made its way back to the cable television studio without any further calls to action. They delivered Kurt R. Gould to his stage in time to wrap up the show. As they entered the studio, Taysha and her friends were standing on the stage having a look at themselves on the surrounding television screens. As Gould entered, the stage hand cleared the stage and pointed at Gould with one hand while holding up four fingers on the other hand. The in-studio camera’s light came on and Gould slipped right into character. His practiced smile appeared as he looked into the camera lens.

                “Well folks, we are back and just about out of time,” Gould started his wrap up. “That food at Dexy’s was EXCELLENT, so make sure you spin by there. Also, I will be doing a meet and greet and signing autographs at a new store opening in the Westminster Mall this weekend. It is called CHESS KING, located right next to Sam Goody.”

                A loud, angry female voice came over the microphone from the audience. It was Taysha Sailer, shouting, “Come ON!”

                “Shut…be quiet out there for me please,” Kurt R. Gould said, nearly breaking his phony on screen character.  “Also, you can tune in next week when we will be hitting the Naugle’s drive thru. We have heard a lot about Naugle’s so we are going to see what they are all about. Ummm, good times ahead.” He paused and looked at the stage hand who likes throwing his fingers in the air and counting down; the stage hand had four fingers up denoting the number of seconds left on air. Gould continued, “And as I promised earlier,” he said while forcing a massive grin, “We are going to check out…meet this young woman right here, the aspiring and inspiring…

                Taysha, who was heading for the studio door with her entourage of two friends, halted when she heard the words issuing from Kurt R. Gould. She saw one of the cameramen turn towards her. She knew the light over the camera had to be on in order to capture her visage. The light came on.  She half turned to the camera and arched her back and threw a big smile at the camera.

                Gould continued, “Tisha Sailer,” he said just as the stage hands fingers all disappeared and the live feed was cut. Gould looked at the camera aimed at Taysha and raised his eyebrows. He checked the stage television screens and they only had test patterns up and running. He rolled his eyes back to Taysha.

                Taysha’s eyebrows darted up as she stood there, forcing a smile into the camera lens for several seconds. She heard the mispronunciation of her name. She still forced a playful laugh and nod at the camera as she turned to her friends. It took about three seconds for them to hear the giggles and chuckles of everyone else in the studio. They looked around for a moment, then their eyes landed on the television screens with the test patterns up. Their fake smiles vanished instantly. Taysha shot a deadly glare at Kurt R. Gould. Taysha spun around and disappeared through the studio door.

                “Now the rest of YOU, clear out of MY fucking studio,” Kurt R. Gould demanded. He spun on a heel and scurried towards the rear door of the studio. He came to an abrupt halt and spun back around. He said, “And if ANY-THING should come up from our evening’s extra… trip tonight, YOU WILL hear from my attorney.” Turning back around, he stalked out of the studio.

                “What a pansy,” Commander Clean It said. “Come on guys, we should get in one more mail box.”

                “Did you guys,” Wilfong pointed over to the camera crew members who were on the evening’s adventure, “Record any of that stuff we did tonight?”

                Every crewman looked around at each other and smiled; they shook their heads indicating they caught none of it. At least that was the notion the Street Survivors got. A few years later, footage would appear in presentations done by Huntington Beach Police Detective MK Riller. Riller being the internationally recognized expert on Skinhead gangs and street terrorists.  Interestingly, all of the pertinent/identifying information had been blurred out from the anonymously mailed video tape. The swinging of bats and the crashing of cars through debris was caught, but no faces or license plates were clear. The footage surprised Riller, in that he saw the familiar activity he had been investigating. Yet, the street was outside of his jurisdiction; and he never got any communications from Fountain Valley PD.  The other jurisdiction was surely, doggedly pursuing these criminals  and intent and punishing them to the fullest extent of the law.

               

                Back at school the next day at lunch, the Street Survivors and all of their friends had gathered at the box to share their experience. Each took a turn regaling their heroic tale. After the participants all had their say, the group needed to figure out who the ten were going to the live taping of HOT SEAT. Just who among them would get to bask in ravings of Wally George? Everyone began naming names and who they thought should go. They got the first eight but came to a dilemma. They asked peripheral members like Don Chudwick, Paul Benjamin, and Thomas de la Grande, each a character in their own right but all had prior commitments. Someone, no one remembers who, suggested Don Jake go along. That idea was quickly shutdown. Ron Gibson suggested the two girls from the swim team Aura and Molly go. There was no dissension. The two girls liked hanging with the guys and never put their two cents into anything.

 

                At five o’clock the entire group met up at Wilfong’s house and loaded into the two vehicles they would be using to shuttle them to the taping of HOT SEAT with Wally George in Anaheim. Five loaded into the Chrysler, including the two girls who had never been on a sortie to cause any trouble. Five loaded into the Thing of Pain (Trayvion at the wheel with Wilfong up front, Patronics, Dreg and Ron Gibson). In the Chrysler Brumoscowitz at the wheel while Wilson Scott and the two gals rode in the back with another junior protégé.

                The drive to the studio was thirteen miles. A few of the younger crew members finally got to see something that only jokes had been told about earlier. While cruising north on Harbor Boulevard, they stopped at a red light in an area of talent surplus and socially depressed. The trash on the sidewalks and graffiti on the walls was thick and caked up over years of collective apathy. The type of area that most of them had never seen. In front of Jose’s Fine Used Cars, there were some women getting the attention of all the vehicles on the street. The women all looked beaten up and years older than their actual ages. They wore miniskirts with fishnet stockings and high heels. Their clothes were shabby and riddled with holes and tears. Their faces looked like piles of modeling clay only half way shaped into human caricatures. Their makeup was thick and nearly clown like. They stuck out their tongues and winked at the men in the cars waiting for the traffic signal to phase green.

                The Thing of Pain was sitting in the slow, number three lane, closest to the curb. The Chrysler was in the middle lane, the front half of which was slightly ahead of the Thing of Pain. The prostitutes began signaling to the boys in the cars. They blew kisses and waved. One used her rather long tongue in a manner reminiscent of Jean Simmons on stage with KISS.

                “GNARRRRRLLLLYYY,” rang out from Wilfong in the front seat of the Thing of Pain. “Brumsocowitz! You guys! Check this shit out,” Wilfong called to the other car.

                Everyone focused on the prostitutes who were now pedaling their wares directly at the Thing of Pain and the Chrysler Imperial. They would take two steps forward with a hand outstretched as they licked at the air and blew kisses at the cars.

                “Oh GROSS!” Aura said with a screech. 

                Brumoscowitz started to laugh, just as everyone in the Thing of Pain was doing. After a second, he bothered to look around his own car. He had the junior and non-members who had never seen such things and probably never came through neighborhoods like this before. Aura seemed to be handling it though she found it disgusting. Molly was silent, transfixed and turning a little green. Finally Wilson said, “Those are real hookers.”

                “Thanks for the tip,” Brumoscowitz said back.

                “Check out the hairy chest on that one,” Dreg Coyle shouted. “That one might be a dude!”

                Brumoscowitz sensing an opportunity to showcase one of his comical characters lit into action. He shouted, “THOSE IS HACKERS. Ya’ KNOW? PRASTITTATS!” His horrible rendition of a Boston accent that ‘packs his car in the yawd’ (parks his car in the yard) came to life.

                Dreg and Wilfong became lost in their laughter as the hairy chested hooker came at them, daring them to show some money for a good time.

                The traffic signal phased green and the cars were about to start moving, so Brumoscowitz went for broke on the hookers with his horrible accent. He shouted, “GO TO DA BAHBA and GAT YER HAR-EE CHAST SHAH-VED. YA FACKEN BATCH! (Go to the barber and get your hairy chest shaved you fucking bitch) YA SEE DAT FELLAS?” He motioned to his friends in the other car. “DEM WAS HACKERS SPREAD’N CRABS ALL AH-VER DA PLASS!” He looked at Wilson who was at least familiar with the routine; he was sure he saw tears come from Wilson’s eyes as he doubled over laughing.

                “FACKEN BATCHES” Both Dreg and Wilfong shouted as they pulled away from Jose’s Fine Used Cars.

                Brumoscowitz answered with, “STAY OUTTA BASTAN YA FACKEN FLAZZIES!

                In the Thing of Pain, the laughter from the hooker incident finally died down. As before the hooker incident, afterwards the conversation was constant and rambling. Not one subject was held longer than just a few moments. A sign of what would later be determined by professional medical staff as ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder); but this was back in the days where inattentiveness was treated with a kick in the seat of the pants. During the entire drive, Wilfong had been mulling over Brumoscowitz’s story about Taysha Sailer and Timmy Pinkerton. Just how well did that guy know those two? How well did he know half the people I went to school with before transferring to Huntington? He resolved to make some enquiries when they got into the studio at channel 56.

 

                Waiting in line out in front of channel 56 KDOC studio was a pain in the ass for everyone involved. They stood out there on the sidewalk for nearly an hour. They were on the 1700 block of South Clementine Street in Anaheim. It was one of those areas that was semi-commercial, lots of business and industrial type buildings around, but there were also some motels in the area. The studio was in this really small building with a huge parking lot behind it.  It was hot and uncomfortable. Nearly everyone besides the Street Survivors showed up was carrying a hand drawn sign or wearing something that would otherwise get them noticed as different looking on camera. Weird hats and strange designs on their shirts. Trayvion bothered to put on a J.F.A. (Jodie Foster’s Army) sweatshirt; Dreg was wearing a Dr. Know t-shirt.

 The other spectators showing up were nearly all friends and family of the production staff. They all spoke openly about their connections to Hollywood. However, there were a couple of girls, just like at the Kurt R. Gould show, who wanted to be on camera and sell themselves. Most of the spectators were young, entitled kind of guys; Orange County regulars. Just like most of the entitled dorks the Street Survivors went to school with. They carried that aura of superiority about them; not that they were better than anyone else, they had just been told so by mommy all their lives.  One of these entitled little snobs took a long look at Ron. Ron suffered from a condition that made him noticeably different from the rest of the crowd. He made a comment at Ron that wasn’t very clear, but it had something to do with Ron’s short legs. When the Street Survivors turned to look at the little man who made the comment, he got scared and tried to turn away. Wilfong would have none of it.

                “Get fucked, sweetie,” Wilfong said back at the turd who made the comment. The turd got some distance after looking back one more time and seeing everyone staring at him.

 

                Once inside the studio, Brumoscowitz nestled his considerable size right in the middle of the bleacher seating. Wilfong sat to his left, the girls to his right. Ron and the others sat around but not behind Brumoscowitz since his enormous head would only eclipse them. Brumoscowitz figured being dead center was a sure fire way to get on television. The last time the Street Survivors got on HOT SEAT, they were not at full complement and stood on the sides of the bleachers. They barely got their limbs on camera that time.

                Wilfong asked Brumoscowitz about some of his junior high experiences. In particular with Timmy Pinkerton.

                “Fucking Messy Marvin, only shorter, and with a bowl cut. He had these big thick bangs like Nellie Olson from Little House on the Prairie,” Brumoscowitz answered. Wilfong began to chuckle, thinking of Pinkerton’s bangs that were always combed straight down over his forehead and abruptly ending at his eyebrows. Brumoscowitz went on. He said, “That dude was a complete pudknocker. He was the kind to talk shit behind someone’s back, and then run, not slip away, but run away once anyone caught word. You know that kind that hangs out with the teacher between classes. They go and wait for the teacher to leave the office and then walk up to class with them; giggling all the way. Or he finds some click to glom onto and they keep him around as a punching bag no matter how many sodas and Twinkies he buys them.”

                “What a tool,” Wilfong said. “Didn’t you have something happen with him?”

                “Yeah, it was art class and he and his even dorkier little friend, Craig Critter, were sitting in front of me. They kept turning around and fucking with my stuff. It was some watercolor painting or something.  After the third time I took my bowl of water and just dowsed those two dorks. I soaked Pinkerton’s pink shirt all the way through. They squealed like little bitches. You know what, you can ask Fin. Fin Tettig was there.”

                 Wilfong found even more interest in this story with some validity being offered by an independent witness. He resolved to tell of his own run-in with Pinkerton. “That’s right, Fin went to Crest View with you.”

                “So those two bitches, which I thought would run straight to the teacher, Miss Muric, actually challenged me to do something; after I soaked them. They said ‘We’ll kick your ass!’ I said, ‘WE HUH? Are there enough of you?’ And I got up and smacked Pinkerton right there. The other guy ducked away… You know what they did? They just stood there for a minute. Then a second later, talked some more shit and ran for it. Where did they run to? Up to Miss Muric’s desk.”

                “You scared TWO guys away. Since you were the size of four of them each,” Wilfong said with delight. “Well, I had a little harrier run in with that turd.”

                “What’d he do?” Brumoscowitz asked.

                “In my ComArts class, that’s English over at Ocean Zoo, we had this one kid who had all these special needs. He could barely walk around, he couldn’t…he had spasms in his limbs and would make noises and stuff. Mentally he was like second grade. The teachers said the district is mainstreaming kids now with special needs. It is to better prepare them for life after school. So we had him in our class. He was a little distracting but we made it work. Except for Pinkerton. Every day he called that kid a retard and would fuck with him. Every day he got a little braver with that messed up kid. One day that kid with the special needs bumped into Pinkerton on the way out of class. Pinkerton started screaming at him, called him a fag and shoved that kid into a wall.”

                “What a douchebag,” Brumoscowitz said.

                “I gave him a monkey boot right in the ribs. I kicked Pinkerton so hard in the ribs he dropped all of his books and stood there frozen for a minute,” Wilfong said. “He spun around and said something I couldn’t hear. I told him, ‘You ever mess with that dude again and I’ll bury you.’ He did this funny half turn and walked away on his toes. HIS FUCKING TOES! He was on his toes and teetered from side to side with each step as he hustled away.”

                “What about the kid with the special needs?’ Brumoscowitz asked.

                “Oh…and you know what,” Wilfong went on, “This chick walked up and slapped Pinkerton across the face. I mean a real slap, you could hear the smack from a mile away.”

                “Was he still on his toes?”

                “He went flat footed for a second, then got back on them.”

                “That’s awesome. What about the kid with the special needs?’ Brumoscowitz asked again.

“You know what, it was like nothing ever happened as far as he was concerned until the end of the year. He shook my hand.  He never engaged in stuff like that,” Wilfong informed him. He had his hand out in front of him, like he was ready to shake hands with thin air, as he was reliving the moment.

                “And the very next day,” Wilfong practically laughed the words out. “After I kicked Pinkerton, that little prick was sitting next to the special needs kid and pretending to be his helper. He even went walking up to the teacher and getting that kid stuff and checking with the teacher to make sure everything was okay. He would stand there and giggle in the teacher’s direction and look over at that kid; pretending to be a special needs aid. That lasted about two days.”

                A double door to the audience’s left burst open and 2 men in casual clothes walked out. Both men wearing oversized sets of headphones with peculiar wire arms on them that held microphones in front of their mouths. They were talking furiously into their microphones to unseen cohorts.  They marched at the audience, then split in opposite directions and one of them marched in front of the audience with practiced determination. They looked like soldiers kicking off a military parade. As the two men spoke, they used the word mutants over and over again. One said, “Looks like more than a full house, maybe ninety to ninety-five mutants tonight.” The two went to opposite ends of the audience and took up pre-planned positions. They both did the same routine where they would look at each camera operator and get a thumbs up form them and return the gesture. They then looked at the sound boom operators and did the same thing. They then looked through a large window on the far end of the studio, it was packed with electronics, shot thumbs up back and forth with all of the staff in the electronics/ sound booth. Then a woman, wearing a set of the trademark oversized headphones, marched out of the double doors. She was in business attire and immediately cut to her left and stopped. She went about doing the thumbs up ritual like the two previous mutant wranglers.

The woman in the business attire, obviously in charge of the other personnel, put her hand up to her microphone and fiddled with the apparatus mounted on its side for a moment. After a second, her voice came over some speakers mounted on scaffolding near the ceiling that also held lights. She introduced herself as the stage manager. Then introduced her assistant who would be helping us to participate.

The assistant stage manager, in business casual attire (no sport coat) walked out to the audience. When introduced, had one of those fake names that only maybe a pro golfer or a gameshow host might have; something like Schick Wrigley or Chad Talbot. The assistant stage manager came out in front of the crowd. He began directing everyone’s attention to stage right and stage left, where the monitors are. A monitor, as he explained, was another word for television but it was dedicated to just the studio cameras and meant to silently direct the mutants/audience where to look. He covered how the audience was to respond to hand signals he would be giving throughout the show. He told everyone to be quiet unless signaled to bellow, boo or cheer by him. We were not to engage any of the guests in private conversation or risk being thrown out of the HOT SEAT studio. He told everyone how the guests for HOT SEAT would be going on stage from house left. He then talked about, in certain detail, the number of guests to be on. He then gave us a little lesson on production lingo. House left being the audience’s left; stage left would be the left of those on stage of course. Some idiot just had to ask about stage right. The assistant stage manager just tilted his head with mild disdain, surely hearing that same question every week, then turning away.  Several in the audience just groaned at the sound of such a question. Ron Gibson whispered jaggoff in a muffled tone.

                Everyone nodded and seemed to agree to the rules of the studio. After another minute, Wally George marched out onto the set. He looked tall and was rail thin in a closely tailored suit that made him look like he weighed a mere one-hundred pounds. He had to be at least one-hundred-thirty pounds though. His bright white hair was done in its signature massive comb over coiffure that looked ridiculous at close range. His hair wrapped around his head like an alabaster cloud wrapping itself around a pale mountain. Wally walked with a very stiff gait and he did not seem to know what to do with his arms until he sat down. Once in his seat, the silver scarecrow known for inventing Combat Television, came into his own. Years of radio broadcasting and a flare flair for showmanship came alive.

                The first guest came onto the stage seemed friendly with Wally. That was until the cameras were rolling. This guy was some kind of activist who wanted the B-1 bomber program cancelled. His contention was that since there are two super powers and world divided up into First World (free and aligned with the United States) Second World (Communist and aligned with the Soviet Union) and Third World (too poor and primitive to make a difference), the B-1 was a useless expenditure and there was no need for it. In a world awaiting the launch of Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles, one more aircraft that we will never get to use is too much of a waste. Wally vigorously countered the argument with the possibility of smaller wars and conflicts with nations other than the Soviet Union. The guest, Mortimer Feld, gave a line that the Street Survivors had been hearing their entire tenure in high school, “Nicaragua will be America’s next Viet Nam War and we don’t need the B-1 to send our boys to die in Central America.”

                Wally, and the natural course of human events, would prove Mortimer wrong on many levels. That guy lasted all the way to the second commercial break.

                For some reason, the audience could not watch the commercials being mixed into the taping of the show, yet they were mixed in right there in the sound booth. The assistant stage manager would talk to the audience while the commercials were being mixed in between the interview segments. He had the gift of gab, even though the look of contempt in his eyes for the audience was as obvious as a turd in a punch bowl. He made a few off-color jokes here and there, and kept the tempo moving along. Between segments, the Stage Manager would often walk over to Wally and attempt to ‘fix’ his hair. Without fail, on every attempt she made, Wally stopped her and did the hair himself; using a monitor as a mirror. Wally smiled every time he gazed at himself in the monitor.

                After the two segments with Mortimer, a reject from the Age of Aquarius floated onto the stage. The reject’s pertinent issue was for the legalization of all narcotics; and they should be free as well. The world would be a much happier and safer place if all the dope was legal and FREE.  Needless to say, this kind of guest was on HOT SEAT every couple of weeks. Another character who, in the course of human events, would be proved wrong. He was made to leave the stage by Wally. The guest wanted to argue a bit more but Wally threatened to sick the security guards on him.

                By now everyone on the bleachers was feeling the strain of such hard seating. The studio lights were also a pain; bright and very hot.

                There was a final commercial break and then time for the last segment. The final guest was a young woman who was dressed more like she was going clubbing rather than to be on a talk show. She wore a tight mini-skirt with high heels that had straps wrapping around from front to back all the way up to her knees. Her hair was done in a standard 80’s big hair style, cascading down her shoulders.  The men in the audience, let out some primordial vocalizations as the guest strutted onto the stage. The guest bothered to walk in small circle, making sure everyone got a look before sitting down. Her name was Rhonda Vassey and she owned UpandComing Talent Agency. She was there to promote her company and argue that Wally and his followers were too prudish. Rhonda declared that Wally would see things her way if he would hire her company, which she held up a sign with the phone number. She promised to do a birthday party, bachelor party or some kind of private event. She would provide hostesses and entertainers for his event.

                Wally George, completely inept at feigning disgust, just had to ask the worst, or maybe BEST, possible question. He asked, “What could you possibly bring to a party of mine to make it any better than it would be without you?” He shot his eyebrows up as if in anticipation of an unrehearsed response. Wally’s head looked like one of those tall pumpkins with a pantyhose pulled over it as his expression signaled a bit of tongue in cheek comedy.

                Off to House Left, the audience, but not the cameras, could see more women coming into the studio. They were all dressed in warm-up suits until the Assistant Stage Manager gave them a signal. In an instant, they had all stripped their warm-up suits and were clad in only bikinis and high heels. The Assistant Stage Manager was emphatically signaling to the audience to remain silent. After Wally’s last question, the Assistant Stage Manager threw another signal at the new arrivals.

                The new girls herded themselves onto the stage. They looked like a family of some politician who had just been nominated by the party to run for president. They comfortably marched onto the stage with waves and smiles; all under the barrage of testosterone fueled male avarice. Not only were there applause and cheers, but the ubiquitous stomping of the feet on the bleachers to further exhort the men’s approval for the last segment of the show.

                The guest, Rhonda, stood up and dropped her mini-skirt to the floor, revealing her own bikini clad body. It was glorious.

                Wally George put his hands to his face like Ricky Ricardo and bulged his eyes. He looked about in this expression for several seconds until Wilfong shouted, “Lucy, I’m HOOOOOME!” Wally heard the comment, shot a look to his monitor and realized the error of his facial antics. He dropped his hands and began uttering noises that seemed to convey sheer surprise.

                With Rhonda, there was a total of seven women on the stage. The milled about, each taking turns to be center stage, and flirted with the cameras and the audience until Wally called for them to get off his show.

                At that moment, Wilfong shot an elbow into Brumoscowitz and smacked Trayvion on his arm. Simultaneously Ron let out a gasp and gestured for everyone to look at a particular portion of the stage. The tallest, youngest and the only girl to rival Rhonda in her display of physical perfection, stood Hannah Fuzzler. She was a fellow student at HBHS and in the 11th grade. Definitely under age of 18. Maybe under 17.

                Wilfong shot a grip onto Brumoscowitz’s arm. Snarling he said, “Hey that’s Hannah Fuzzler. I told you I walked in on her changing at that party I went to.”

                “Yeah, a party you went to without us, right,” Brumoscowitz answered. His response was laden with sarcastic contempt that had no impact.

                Un-phased at the dig, Wilfong continued, “Dude, she had her bra off and she had nipples like a couple of polished up new quarters. I only imagined her legs were so perfect,” Wilfong barely got his words out. “Gaaawwwwwd DAMN.”

                “Dude, has she seen us yet?” Trayvion asked without getting a response.

                Hannah Fuzzler took her turn to strut from the camera front and center to stage right. She waved and winked at the audience with skill that only a lifetime of flirtatious practice can produce. She beamed at the audience and accepted both the howls from the men and the searing eyes from the women. She was looking at the center of the audience and did not seem to notice Wilfong and the rest of her fellow students for several seconds. Not until Brumoscowitz slowly tilted his enormous head sideways; it must have looked like an Easter Island statue tipping over in slow motion. All at once, Hanna’s smile disappeared. She physically shrank two inches in height and shifted her waving hand to rest in front of her face; as if she was hiding behind a great shield at arm’s length.

                Dreg leaned forward, his weight resting on everyone in front of him and fired a bladed hand in Hannah’s direction. He nearly shouted his words, “Dude! She’s sporting a soft taco!”

                Hannah quickly fell back within the pack of entertainers. She was quick enough to keep the rest of the Street Survivors from confirming Dreg Coyle’s detailed observation. She dropped her face straight down and kept one waving hand up between herself and her schoolmates. The security guards came out to usher the girls away.  Hannah went from strutting to a clipped stride as she left the stage in the middle of the pack. She looked back for a split second as she gathered up her warm-up suit. She was the first to exit the studio while Rhonda stayed back and chatted with the audience; she handed her business cards out to various men in the audience.

                Aura poked Brumoscowitz and Trayvion. She said, “Get me one of those cards.” Trayvion leaned forward and snagged one.

                Wilfong said, “You going to go work there?”

                Aura went from a smile to a scowl and spat, “Gross!” at Wilfong.

               

                The Street Survivors agreed this was a tale worthy of sharing at school tomorrow. After the girls left, they looked up to see the credits rolling on the overhead monitor. On the stage, Wally George was on his feet and went from waving at the crowd to fist pumping in the air as many in the crowd chanted WALLY, WALLY, WALLY! The host of HOT SEAT loved the adoration.

 

 

                Thursday morning at Huntington Beach High School, Brumoscowitz was on his way across campus. His first period typing class was over and he was on his way to Photography with Mr. Lesshome ( also known as Commander Clean It). During typing class, he considered sharing last night’s adventure with Mr. Lesshome; he realized that Wilfong would have informed him of the HOT SEAT adventure already. As he made his way towards the photography classroom door, Hannah Fuzzler materialized in front of him. It was abrupt and he nearly did not stop in time. She stood there, about one foot from him, staring up at him. Her face slightly twitching like she was fighting off an urge to cry or scream. He was in a mild state of shock for about a heartbeat. Though she looked terrified, she managed to force a smile onto her face.

                My god, look at those eyes! He thought. They’re as big planets and cobalt blue. My god, that tan is mostly her natural complex…her complexion is flawless. Holy shit, the whites of her eyes could light up the mines out at…

                “Brumoscowitz, can I ask you a question?” Hannah Fuzzler asked.

                “You just did,” he answered. His eyes darted around; he could feel other students staring at them as they passed by. He thought he heard one of them say, she’s gonna hire him to kill someone.

                “How about another one?” she shot back. “I need a favor actually.” She said with a big nod and a reassuring smile as she looked around and flipped her hair over a shoulder. “I need you to…uh…you and your friends toooo…

                “What?”

                She gripped his left forearm tightly. “I am asking you to not say anything about…what you saw last night. And, ask your friends to not say anything. Please?”

                He tilted his head back, looking down at her, he wondered how this looked to everyone passing by now. She has a hand on him. He watched her jittering eyes search his as if she were awaiting a blood curdling roar. He said, “Omert`a.”

                Her smile grew for a brief moment, then receded. “What is that? Is that Mexican?” Her smile faded completely, then came back.

                “It’s Italian,” he answered. “It means… to the grave.”

                “What grave? What do you mean?” she shook her head and smiled up at him again but was clearly confused.

                “Your secret…it dies with me,” Brumoscowitz said. He stood silent for several moments watching her face. Her eyes darted from side to side. Do I have to explain that a little more, he wondered in silence.

                “That’s…that will do,” she said. Her grip released like she dropped a hot utensil. She turned and sped away to one of her girlfriends hanging just out of his peripheral vision.  She leaned towards her friend and said something under her breath.

                Brumoscowitz heard her friend, who was one of those I’m better than you kind of assholes, or bitches actually, Jenna Frankish say, “See? I told you so.” He wasn’t sure what that meant. He watched them speed away as he went into class. There, after taking attendance, Mr. Lesshome took him aside and asked about last night’s adventure. Brumoscowitz told an edited version of the HOT SEAT taping. He left out the name of the recognized face on the stage at the studio. Mr. Lesshome already knew and filled in the blank.

                “She stopped you out there and told you not to say anything, right?” Mr. Lesshome asked him.

                “Well she asked me,” Brumsocowitz answered. “She didn’t tell me, but she scurried away and I heard that tall flag or cheer leading, raging BITCH friend of hers say, ‘See? I told you so.’ I am not sure what significance that has.”      Mr. Lesshome smiled. He said, “Two PIGS like that would get some douchebag guys to threaten you with an ass-kicking. Except, word is, you might kill somebody who’d try that with you.”

                Brumoscowitz watched Mr. Lesshomes’s eyes search him for a reaction. He kept his face stone still, just like he did with the cops that came to question him time and again. “Maybe I’d break a leg on someone,” he whispered.  He let his eyes drill into Mr. Lesshomes’s after he said it. The teacher gave out a small chuckle and went about his business.

 

                Come the lunch break, Brumoscowitz was approaching the box. He could see Wilfong in a defiant stance and making an exaggerated gestures and vocalizations off to a small pack of students further away in the quad. Out in front of that pack of students was Hannah Fuzzler and her raging BITCH friends Jenna Frankish. Caroline Dindell and Sharon Zasher were giving Wilfong the finger. Brumoscowitz increased his stride, he still could not make out what was being said back and forth over the din of lunchtime activities.

                Approaching must faster, now, he can see Trayvion walking up next to Wilfong and shouting something at Hannah Fuzzler and her friends.  Trayvion was bending at the waist and shouting with violent arm gestures at Jenna Frankish and her crew. She put her middle finger up while her friends did some posturing and cussing of their own at Wilfong and Trayvion.

                “What the hell is going on?” Brumoscowitz asked as he arrived.

Patronics turned to him and said, “Fucking Hannah Fuzzler threatened Wilfong this morning. About ten minutes ago some guys walked up to me and Trayvion and told us to keep our fucking mouths shut or we get stomped! Trayvion told them to get FUCKED!”

“Did they swing on you guys?” Brumoscowitz asked.

“No. But they said they would come kick the shit out of all of us if Hannah or Jenna says so,” Patronics answered.

Brumoscowitz looked over at Hannah Fuzzler and she made immediate eye contact. She hesitatingly raised her middle finger into the air at him. She faltered a few times as though the act of flipping someone off was completely alien to her. Her eyes bespoke her halfhearted feelings of doing so. Her raging bitch friend Jenna Frankish, with her oversized head on her ridiculously small frame, was now giving the finger and voicing her opinions.

 “What gives?” Brumoscowitz said in Hannah’s direction with his hands spreading apart at his waist in a gesture of explain please. Hannah Fuzzler did not answer, but her raging bitch friend did and so did one of the guys in their cluster of fools. I hate that little bitch. The way she stomps around in her silly cheerleader outfit, blowing her whistle. She really believes she is hot shit, he thought. So Brumoscowitz marched straight at Hannah Fuzzler and stopped a few feet in front of her.  He said, over the bitchy verbalizations of her friends, “We had a little discussion this morning. What the hell happened?”

Hannah Fuzzler looked up at Brumoscowitz for a few moments with her mouth open and was about to answer. Her bitch friend asserted herself into the conversation. Jenna Frankish marched in front of him, with her hands on her hips as if she was doing her half-time routine, and stopped in front of Hannah. Jenna said, “You fucking assholes will get your asses kicked if you think you can just talk shit….

“Nobody’s talking to you!” Brumoscowitz roared down at her. He turned his attention back to Hannah Fuzzler. “What is all this?”

Before Hannah Fuzzler could answer, a little guy sprang out of the opposing crew and asserted himself. He was a peripheral hanger-on to the in crowd. Jaden Blohwell’s face was the definition of entitled. He had very pretty hair and a whiny voice. He said, “You guys are assholes and you think you can fu……

“Shut up!” Brumoscowitz barked. He looked at Hannah and continued, “Are you capable of speaking for yourself?”

Hannah Fuzzler stood silent, frozen for a few seconds. A moment later she turned her head from one side to the other and her friends started speaking up for her. Each issuing their own, uninventive, dire proclamations about what would happen if the Street Survivors talked about Hannah Fuzzler from this point out.

 The guys are just as bitchy sounding as the cheer floozy, Brumoscowitz thought.

Patronics stalked up behind Brumoscowitz and challenged the opposing group to threaten him again. Hannah and her friends started to speak up until Fin Tettig walked up next to Brumoscowitz and said, “You guys aint threatening nobody again. You TRY IT!” Fin’s words made all of the opposing group lean back like palm trees encountering a strong wind. Fin, a large young man in his own right, was known to hit first and never ask a question.

Jenna Frankish grabbed Hannah Fuzzler by her arm and spun her around; they scurried away with Sharon Zasher and Caroline Dindell following. Jenna Frankish was screaming over her shoulder, “I can get these guys fucked up. I know some USC football players who’ll do it.”

“Yeah, some of her party clients at USC I am sure,” Trayvion said.

The rest of Hannah’s friends backed away slowly, at first, then left completely.

Trayvion shouted a few more fuck-offs while Patronics asked, “You think we should do something about those guys? Go see them tonight?”

Wilfong walked up to Patronics and Brumoscowitz. Wilfong announced, “TV party at my house Saturday. We are taping HOT SEAT and spreading it around EVERYWHERE. Got that?”

“An EXCELLENT suggestion, “Brumoscowitz concurred.

“Capital. A capital idea Mr. Wilfong,” Patronics said.

“Hey, hey you guys,” Mr. Lesshome was walking up to them from the direction of the teachers’ lounge. “What the hell was that all about?” The smile on his face told everyone the question was rhetorical

The Street Survivors turned to face Mr. Lesshome. He was advancing on them, wearing his typical Hawaiian style shirt and casual shorts. That was no surprise, but the characters lurking behind him at the teacher’s lounge did pique the Street Survivors’ interest. Among the faces hanging in the air just beyond the students passing by like a river of human heads, Detective MK Riller of the Huntington Beach Police Department and Diaper Don Fishin, the campus cop.

“I heard about this half way through fourth period.  I told those guys something might happen out here today,” Mr. Lesshome said as he motioned back the real cop and the pretend one.

“So the cops just stood back there and let the shit hit the fan instead of making their presence known and averting someone getting thumped on,” Patronics surmised loud enough to be heard by the two cops.

“Yeah, they weren’t going to do anything unless something got out of control. Hannah Fuzzler saw us standing back there and decided to exit. She was shooting her mouth off in my class. What a little bitch,” Mr. Lesshome informed them.

“You shouldn’t talk that way about students,” Patronics warned. “They might get offended.”

“Trayvion nudged Brumoscowitz’s arm. In a hushed tone he said, “That is the second time in just a few days that some hot chick turned out to be a raging bitch; AND bitch us out for something.”

“A personal record for me,” Brumoscowitz replied.

Trayvion started to laugh.

“Dude,” Wilfong interrupted Trayvion and Brumoscowitz. He poked at Brumoscowitz’s other arm, “What the hell did you walk over there for with Hannah Fuzzler? You know her or what?”

Brumoscowitz shrugged. “I was ….

“Dude you walked up there like it was gonna be a spat of some kind,” Wilfong continued.  “Faison Jolton said he saw you two talking this morning. He said he didn’t think someone like her would ever lower herself to talk to one of us.”

Brumoscowitz shrugged again and said, “Fucking Faison… she…she walked up to me this morning and asked me not to say anything to anyone. I told her Omert`a. She didn’t get it of course, so I explained it to her. Then that whore bag friend of hers started this shit. I think Frankish needs a visit from the Street Survivors.”

“Wait,” Patronics said, his hands flailing outward like a professional sports referee bringing an end to a play on the field. “She asked you to keep quiet and you agreed?”

With a shrug he responded, “Yep.”

“Fucking TWATS!” Patronics roared. “They get it now. We must respond with the whole team. They want it both ways, they get a SORTIE!”

 

Eight o’clock at Brumoscowitz’s house, he had gotten off of work early to set things up. He had a message waiting for him at home, call Ramona.

 He set the VHS VCR out in the den to start recording at 10:45 pm. A quarter of an hour early to record HOT SEAT. He set it to record for 80 minutes; it would go on recording until 12:05 am. He turned the television on to UHF channel 56 and left it that way. He hoped no-one would turn the thing off, but his mother’s strange behavior would surely destroy his hopes of getting the show recorded at home. Earlier that night, he told Ahn Bihn, the owner and manager at Video 94 about the adventure at the taping of HOT SEAT. He also arranged to set a television and VCR in the back room of the store to record the show. He told Ahn, he would like to make copies while at work, if it was ok with him. Brumoscowitz’s other job as a go-between for the syndicate and the new Asian syndicate, on Saturday and Sunday, offered him a few perks along with his duties to both organizations. Ahn agreed as long as Brumoscowitz provided his own VHS tapes.

With his preparations for recording HOT SEAT done, Brumoscowitz called Ramona. She answered on the first ring. “What’s going on,” he said.

“You want me to tape that show tonight?” She asked him.

“Absolutely,” he answered.

“Did you get on camera?” She asked excitedly.

“I am pretty sure I did. I won’t know anything until I see the final cut.”

“Who was Wally interviewing?”

This question should have set off at least one caution bell, if not several alarms. Maybe just one alarm to NOT SAY TOO MUCH.  However, in Brumoscowitz’s Asperger’s like condition, he fails to pick up on certain ques or respond to human social norms.

Brumoscowitz gave a brief rundown of the guests. “A guy who wanted to halt the B-1 bomber spending, a drug addict that wanted to make all drugs legal and free, and a talent agency that provides bikini girls to events. Some of their girls were there in studio as a live commercial and…”

Which guest on the list did Ramona hear? The talent agency, of course.

“You went there to look at some girl in a bikini?” She spat. Her words seemed to Brumoscowitz to be a part of his own last sentence they came out so fast.

“No…,” he answered. “We went there there…

“You guys drove all the way up this way to see some girl walking around in a bikini? That is just sad. You …

“Don’t you know how to listen?” Brumoscowitz interrupted. “We didn’t know who was going to be on the show. We just got tickets to go. One of the girls from that agency…

“There were a bunch of them?” Ramona fired back.

Fuuuck, he thought. “I am going to explain this. One. More. Time. So listen,” Brumoscowitz said. “All we had were tickets to go. We did. Not. Know. Who the guests were going to be. The last segment had on the talent agency. One of the gals who worked for the talent agency goes to school with US. She is in the eleventh grade, as in she is sixteen or seventeen. You understand?”

“Why would I want to tape that?”

“So you can see the funny shit my friends and I went through. We are on television,” Brumoscowitz answered.

“Did she look good?”

“Which one?”

“The one you go to school with?”

“Oh. So that’s it?” Brumoscowitz said. “Yes. She did.”

There was a very long silence. Brumoscowitz resolved to remain silent until she spoke first. After an agonizing fifteen seconds, she finally did. “Why would I want to tape that?”

“Can you just do it please?” He begged her. “This is like insurance to make sure it is captured for all time.” He let that hang for moment, then remembered something else to tell her. “Oh, and speaking of her, she approached me and asked me to say nothing. Then, later in the day, I find out she has had some douchebag guys threaten my friends. We almost had a brawl at lunch. Her friends were…

“Who was the girl on the other show, the one where you went through the drive thru?” She asked.

He let the question hang unanswered for a several heartbeats. Finally he said, “Why do you care?” He paused for a second, then said, “I have to get going. PLEASE tape that for me. I will call you later.” She hung up without another word.

Walking out from the den, through the dining room, Brumoscowitz was on his way to the front door. He stopped at the end table that sat to the right of his dad’s chair. The living room furniture was set up in a dog leg. From where Brumoscowitz was standing, along the wall to his left was the couch where his mother parked herself every night. There was an end table there at her elbow. His dad’s chair on the next corner, then a slightly higher end table followed by another chair ran at a right angle from the table at the end of mom’s couch.

His dad was running his mouth in his usual braggadocio about whatever mundane subject he was a self-proclaimed expert on. He was hefting the Chalice, his favorite 12 oz. glass for mixing his vodka and Canada Dry club soda, up to his waiting lips. The old man was already locked in on the Holy Coordinates, as he was every evening. Eyes glassy and jaw flapping on and on about how brilliant he is. He was doing his very slow slide down into his chair, his spine seeming to bend to the left. Within a relatively short time, he would pass-out. Yet, he would not pass-out prior to explaining his shear brilliance and expertise on every subject imaginable.

“Okay, mom,” Brumoscowitz said. He waited several seconds for a response and got none. He saw her eyes dart in his direction, but she did not deign to move her head towards him. She preferred to be signaled several times before she would answer. “Mah!” He barked.

“Whahh?” She responded. This is the Irish defensive tactic. It is used to lull a person into a sense that they doing something wrong. As in: you did not speak loud enough, you did not speak clear enough, or the other person was distracted. None of these are the case. EVER! Whahh is used to tactically to gain a verbal advantage over the person in the conversation. This turns the two in the conversation into the Aggressor (user of Whahh tactic) and the Repeater (repeating themselves after having fallen for the Whahh tactic). If you weigh out the circumstances, the use of the pregnant pause is often enacted by people trying to gain the upper hand in a conversation. The pregnant pause will USUALLY make one party start asking questions; this puts the pauser in control—they choose to give answers or not; they win, so to speak. With the Irish, they employ Whahh, it is used to get the other party off balance. The Whahh is fired, much the way Larry Holmes fired his jab, throughout a fight to keep the other fighter off balance. When Whahh is fired, the other party will start over, repeating what they had asked the first two or three times they spoke. There will more than likely be a sense of irritation welling up within the Repeater. About three words in to repeat, the Irish strike, a verbal right cross or even an uppercut. They fire off as many words as possible, as fast as possible, while the other party is deep into their repetition. After their verbal volley, the Irish will stop speaking just as abruptly as they started, often engaging in chewing their lower lip (possibly darting their eyes in a false searching manner). At this point, the Repeater has either stopped talking and is trying to piece the conversation back together OR they keep on speaking through to the end AGAIN. Now the Irish have two options: they can say, “I already bloody answered you, weren’t you listening? Or they say, “You are just bloody talking over me.” Either way, they have asserted their superiority into the conversation.

This time, his mother turned her head. She was about to fire another Whahh.

 “I put the VCR timer on out there. In. The. Den. Just leave it and the TV alone and it will tape the show. If you…if you guys cannot manage to stay up and record it. Are you still planning on watching HOT SEAT?”

“There ye go,” she started in her Irish accented moan. “You want me to stay up at all hours of the night to do something for ye.” Her head started to twist from side to side.  She was warming up her mouth to deliver a speech about how all anyone ever does is demand something from her.

“I JUST said you don’t have to do anything other than LEAVE the TV and VCR in the den alone. They will turn themselves off when it is over.”

“Gow-wing on like I’m BLOODY STEW-PIT,” she spat back. “I have been after working all day and all I can be good for is turning some bloody contraption on.”

“I just told you, you don’t have to do ANY-THING at all. Just leave it alone. Resist the urge to touch it,” Brumoscowitz emphasized.

Throughout the exchange, the standard background noise in this house played along at an inappropriate level of volume like usual. His dad was drunkenly droning on and on as if he were one of those televangelists that is on his own television station twenty-four-seven. His audience hanging on every word he says, at least as far as he believed. He blabbed away, “When those fucking Veee C R’s came along, I was telling them at Douglas that we need to put together an electronics division for average dumbfucks. Stuff we can sell to the consumer instead of it all going to airlines, NASA and the military. We can put simple shit in the hands of dumbfucks and really make money at that. Those fucking things don’t even cost five dollars to make. They are really simple. The parts are all standardized for breadboards and just a few moving parts. Hell, I could have designed one of those and made a million on that idea. The thing about electronics is that dumbfucks constantly have to have the new shit all the time. They don’t know anything about electronics at all”. He turned his attention to Brumoscowitz and said, “Just like you. Dumbfucks that don’t know shit.” He snickered a bit, he typically laughed at his own jokes.

“Funny,” Brumoscowitz said. “When do you plan on learning how to program a VCR yourself?”

“That’s what the fuck you’re here for,” dad finished with his enormous, shit eating grin. He loved to look at someone that way after he felt he had lectured them into a corner.

“Yeah, I do it for you because you can’t figure it out. So who is the dumbfuck?”

Two heartbeats after the rebuke, dad figured out he had been successfully slighted back. He began another of his lengthy, lubrication induced lectures. “You fucking dumbshit. If you knew anything about fucking anything, and you don’t, you would know that…

“Can YOU shut your gob!” mom barked. “I don’t know if I’ll be up to see you on television.”

“Yeah,” Brumoscowitz said and turned to head out the door.

There are several types of bullets, as in ammunition for firearms. Some of them are fired by the standard American Assault Rifle, the M-4 (M-16 to us Veterans). Virtually any firearm can fire these basic types of ammunition. These types of bullets are: Ball, Tracer, Blank and Dummy. Brumoscowitz’s Dad fired the self-delusional putdown round on most occasions, and in particular when he was LOCKED IN TO THE HOLY COORDINATES. He had about a half-pint of Popov or Smirnoff Vodka in him at this moment in time. As usual, Dad had to work in some parting shot; get a last word in, no matter the cost. He just had to engage in some form of verbal combat. Typically it was just in the form of being opposite of what was said by someone else; anyone else; about ANYTHING else. Yet, when there was no contention or at the end of vodka fueled barrage, he had an overwhelming need to fire off a final putdown. “Make sure you Pansies don’t run into some other Orange County hooligans tonight. I don’t want to hear about a bunch of cassimere sweaters being used to pelt and blind some fucking…

“I’ll make sure I stay SOBER so nothing like that will sneak up on us,” Brumoscowitz fired back as he walked out the door. He knew that last shot would dig in; but he also knew the Dad would think who the hell was he talking to? The self-delusional never get it, even though it is all about them.

 

Movie night at Wilfong’s, or at Patronic’s house, was not quite a regular occasion but it did happen often enough to where the boys got it down to a science. Who would grab: a movie, who was in charge of chips or drinks. For this occasion, the boys chose a treasure of recent years gone by to watch, THE WARRIORS from 1979. Sipping on Jolt Cola, munching pretzels and taco chips while David Patrick Kelly clanked several beer bottles together with his fingers and repeated, “Warriors, come out to play-ay. Warriors, come out to PLAY-AY. WARRIORS, COME OUT TO PLLLAAAYYY!” was worth a million laughs. Even a suggestion arose from Dreg that the Street Survivors needed to do that to someone.

Just after Dreg made his suggestion, Brumoscowitz got up, went to his jacket and raided the pockets. His hand emerged with a pair of silvery reflective aviator sunglasses. They had been all the rage since the film TOP GUN came out. He widened the sunglasses by spreading the temples and folding the bridge forward so as to fit them around his head. He sat on the couch, leaning at his friends. Mimicking the leader of the Riffs (the biggest gang in New York according to THE WARRIORS movie), he said, “Who are the Street Survivors?” He paused as he saw smiles crack along his friend’s faces. He continued, with a deadpan expression just like the film character, “There must be some word.” He paused again. “I want them all. I want all the Street Survivors. I want them alive if possible. If not, WASTED! But I want them.” He paused again for several heartbeats. He said, “Send the word.”

“RIFFS!” Wilfong, Patronics, Trayvion and Dreg barked back at him simultaneously.

“Dude, wouldn’t it be cool if we knew a DJ at Kay-Rock (KROQ)?” Patronics was starting a roll he could feel deep in his bones.  “We could have them call out stuff over the radio at night in code. Like avoid the police station—that would be Winchell’s Doughnuts at Talbert and Beach Boulevard. Or, there is some holiday display down by, they name someone we know in the neighborhood; and we would head down there and find it. Rectify that situation, then hear about it that night over the airwaves before retiring for the evening. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“Pipe dream,” Trayvion called him on it.

THE WARRIORS ended just before HOT SEAT came on. Wilfong was taping it. Trayvion’s little brother Quayvion was supposedly taping it. Patronics set up his VCR, as did Dreg, to record it.

As the Street Survivors watched, they realized something about the camera operators for the show. If the camera would turn to the audience, the guy working the camera already had his favorite girl that night dialed in and would always turn to their favorite. On some occasions, the camera would pan across the entire audience and the boys could see themselves for a split second. In all, they were only on camera for a few blinks of an eye. One shot that was very clear, and looked almost rehearsed, was the moment Hannah Fuzzler recognized Brumoscowitz and Wilfong; while Brumoscowitz turned his head half way over. The look of fright on Hannah’s face was forever memorialized on tape before a live studio audience.

Dreg the Defiler repeated his earlier observation. He said, “Man, check out Hannah. She is sporting a soft taco.” His arm was fully extended and his index finger was aimed at the television screen. To their amazement, the rest of the Street Survivors had to concur with Dreg’s observation. The tight fitting, canary yellow bikini bottoms Hannah was wearing were SO tight, and detailed, they left nothing to the imagination. 

 

Brumoscowitz drove home from the Central Park area where his friends lived after 1 am. This was after they stood around talking about how to spread the video of their favorite UpandComing piece of talent for some time before calling it a night. Brumoscowitz offered to make copies while working at the video store the next day. He could burn eight copies but had no idea about how to distribute them so they would be seen across the school campus.

Dreg had the problem solved before they met for the movie. He pointed out that in many classes, there were roll away media carts, each having a television and a VCR on them. Lots of teachers used the VCR to play an instructional video for their lessons. Typically, they set up the VHS tape before class started so they could just hit play and begin the lesson. All Dreg needed to do was load the tapes into the VCR’s that would be used that day, right at the moment everyone could see Hannah Fuzzler on stage. “There is no way ANY of those fucken’ bitch teachers can react fast enough to stop that shit from being seen.”

Brumoscowitz returned home to find that his parents did not watch, nor record HOT SEAT.  He walked out to the den to find what he suspected. His mother turned the television in the den off some time before 11 pm. This television was not hooked up to the cable system, so it would receive the airwaves with a set of rabbit ears. The VCR came on and recorded over an hour of nothing. Even though she was told not to turn it off, she had done so anyway. He could just imagine her facial expression through her thick glasses; head tilted forward as if on some mission for the almighty with eyes half open while she chews her lower lip. Slapping her hands at the television to kill it. He recalled doing laundry a few weeks ago, when he poured the liquid detergent into the water swirling into the washer tub. He used just a dash of detergent like the commercials AND instructions said. He closed the detergent bottle and placed it aside. He grabbed a load of laundry, both hands full to load the washer. She had snaked the detergent away and as he hefted his load of his laundry to drop it into the washing machine. She just HAD to pour another dash of detergent into the washer. She turned her face to him, her eyes only half open beneath her thick glasses; her lower lip being devoured by her upper teeth. She had a look of near guilt on her face as she did it. She just had to be in control. On Saturday night, that meant killing the television so HOT SEAT with Wally George could not be recorded. Dad was passed out on the floor. The destination for the Holy Coordinates had been reached.

The next day, when Brumoscowitz went into his Sunday evening job at Video 94, he found that the VCR there had recorded everything just fine. Ahn Binh, the owner, had already watched the tape a few times. Anh couldn’t wait to point out to Brumoscowitz where he appeared on the show. Brumoscowitz set up a second VCR to the first. He loaded a High Quality VHS tape, a Maxell no less, into the second VCR and recorded just the portion where Hanna Fuzzler makes her entrance; to the end where she and her coworkers are herded from the stage. He used that Maxell as his master copy to make the other copies. He made eight copies on less expensive Fuji VHS tapes.

 

On Monday morning, Brumoscowitz made his way over to the box in the quad with a cloth sack under his arm. He opened it to Dreg the Defiler. Dreg’s face went from a passive state of bemusement to one of joyous ruination.

“I can start loading some of these now,” Dreg said as he reached into the sack. “My first period is open right now and we are going to kick off with a scene from RED DAWN. Only, it won’t be Patrick Swayze and C. Thomas Howell we’ll be looking at.”

Wilson Scott was standing next to Dreg. He said, “Yeah, we can go to my class now. We are supposed to start with that PBS version of Julius Caesar. This will be WAAAAY better.”

“Oh, yeah that piece of shit they shot on VHS video where it looks like a soap opera,” Brumoscowitz said to Wilson.

“I fucking hate that thing myself,” Wilfong said as he peered into the cloth sack. “Let me have two of those. I am going to set one up in my first period Government class with Ms. Krauthammer. She has an electronic remote, no wire, I can snake before class and then set up the television on channel three with no volume. I will hit the play button while she is going through some shit about how GREAT the Soviet Union is compared to America. I need take the second one to Photography cuz Mr. Lesshome wants…speak of the DEVIL!”

“Dudes,” Mr. Lesshome happily greeted the students gathering around the box. “You got something for me.”

Wilfong took great pleasure in retrieving a tape for him and handed it over. Mr. Lesshome spun on a heel and hurried away without a word.

Trayvion took a copy and asked, “We have a master to make more copies if we need to right?”

“Yep,” Brumoscowitz intoned an answer that was nearly a growl. He raised a hand to get everyone’s attention. He said, “You know what? We are about to do something that will be a great gag, and maybe mark us for some trouble from her asshole friends. Are we all in on this?”

“Fuck yeah,” Wilfong said. “Ron, I need you to act as my lookout.”

Ron Gibson cackled with uncharacteristic happiness.

Patronics raised a hand. He said, “Before we embark on this holiest of missions, some words to guide us. From this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered we few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.”

As Patronics recited the words, Brumoscowitz recalled Shakespeare’s words from Henry the V. When Patronics finished, Brumoscowitz said, “That is such a classic piece right there.”

Wilson Scott interrupted excitedly and said, “YES! That is an awesome speech. I watched Gene Hackman recite those lines over the weekend in UNCOMMON VALOR. After four years, it still holds up.”

Brumoscowitz stood dumbfounded, staring at Patronics. Patronics let a smile creep along his face as he silently communicated back. They both knew Wilson was confusing Julius Caesar with Henry the V. What the hell, it is Shakespeare and he is motivated to carry out the mission.

They went their separate ways.

 

At lunch, the Street Survivors met at the box as usual. On this day, they were all wearing grins. Big, shit eating grins.

 Patronics used Wilfong’s idea of snagging the remote control before class started and setting up the TV to play with the volume turned all the way down. He did it in his 11th grade College English class. The television was behind the teacher who was seated at her desk. She did not notice what was going on until she heard some snickering. Patronics stealthily rewound the tape and played several more times while class was in session. At one point, he would pause on the frame of Hannah Fuzzler in full view of the camera lens, then rewind it to show her walking out and pausing it there again. It was several minutes before the teacher figured out what was going on. Both Patronics and Wilfong produced the VCR remote controls at the box. The Street Survivors howled like New Year’s Eve revelers at midnight.

The Street Survivors were having a good laugh when Brumoscowitz and Don Jake had a look around the unusually quiet quad area. It was the middle of the lunch break, yet everything was somewhat quiet. It had not been that quiet at lunch time since the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded the year before. They noticed lots of faces turned in their direction. Not just the kids. Diaper Don Fishin, the campus cop, was staring at them through the ocean of teenage faces. Standing next to Diaper Don, was Detective MK Riller of the Huntington Beach Police Department. Detective Riller’s eyes had the practiced glare of a hardened police officer. As opposed to Pillsbury doughboy eyes of the campus cop next to him. From off to the right of the teachers’ lounge, storming towards the Street Survivors in an aggressive posture, her arms back and face twisted with demonic anger, Hannah Fuzzler’s friend, Jenna Frankish, stopped a very safe distance from the Street Survivors and began screaming at the top of her lungs. She screamed, “You are ALL DEAD! I’M GONNA HAVE SOME GUYS KILL ALL OF YOU FUCKERS! YOU’RE ALL FUCKEN DEAD!!!”

The two cops, one real and one so-called, winced at the words being shouted across the campus quad. They both turned towards the teacher’s lounge and were about to make a hasty retreat.  Mr. Lesshome stopped them and pointed at Jenna Frankish; while she continued her tirade of death threats. Begrudgingly, the two adults with badges were made to their duty and intervene. Eventually there would be an investigation and court date for Jenna Frankish. Making death threats on campus, while school is in session, was an expellable offense. Yet, nothing really came up in the way of punishment; even though a year earlier, a student named Peter Trejno (Tray-no) was expelled for making the same threats in the South Hall building. As Trayvion commented on the incident at the end of the year, “It’s different for chicks. Even if they’re fucking nuts, if a teacher thinks they’re hot, they get away with shit.”

Before the end of the school year, Jenna Frankish would go to Wilfong’s house one evening and throw a tantrum out in front it. Wilfong Senior, who was in his garage at the moment, heard the ruckus and came down the driveway to address the issue. Jenna Frankish got in her car and left in such a hurry she clipped a Volkswagen on the way out of the neighborhood. Another court date that ultimately resulted in nothing other than insurance covering repair costs for a damaged vehicle. The hit and run of the parked vehicle would have gone unreported had it not been for Wilfong Senior calling the police and signing the complaint.

 

For a couple weeks after the HOT SEAT incident, there was tension around the box. Hannah and her friends would shoot evil eyes at the crew around the box, but they never made a move. Once when Hannah and her friends were walking past the Street Survivors, Aura of all people, held her hand out in front of herself, mimicking Hannah’s shielding move on HOT SEAT. Aura pretended to hide behind her hand. Hannah was pissed to no end. Her raging bitch friend Jenna screamed some curses every now and again, but things died down as time went on. Officer Diaper Don Fishin spent many a lunch break out on the quad.

 

Copyright  © 2017 by Bruce McRae