Five Years Ago:

I was one more year from transferring to Davis or Santa Cruz and I was coming off yet another year of uninspired academic performance, not knowing anything or wanting to know anything except the small tunnel in between waking and sleeping.

But summers are always good. Everyone’s back. We (“The Mafia”) were lounging at Lauren’s house in the Richmond, the night and fog coming upon us, bringing with it both boredom and the anticipation of relieving boredom. The Mahls came over, as did Daniel. Jon told a bad joke, and also about the time a man propositioned him to be a stud in a porno. Someone capped on Cameron for looking like Justin Timberlake and drunkenly macking with a very large girl at a party they’d attended a few days before. Katon made fun of Ara. We played freeze tag in the middle of Cabrillo, running back and forth between 16th and 17th Avenue, like children.

Later, Ursula picked up Amy and we all headed to a house party being thrown by Lou’s then love interest. Her taste in men at this time was a little worse than now. She also suffered from th same brain translation disease I suffered back in my gangster representin’ days. When ‘house party’ comes out of her mouth, we arrive on Sadowa, to find ‘crack house.’ This is the same street mind you that when Katon who lives on Sadowa (where you turn off 280 to get to Brotherhood) was asked by a newly moved in person, “hi, so where do you live?” Katon replies, “oh yeah I live right by the crack house.” The guy says, “oh yeah the green house.” Katon corrects him and says, “uuh no, the white one.”

Anyway, the house wasn’t as ghetto as the people who were actually inside the house party. And having no social skills, I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, because to this point in my life, I could count the number of parties I’d attended on one hand. The first real party with actual music and boys and girls came in 8th grade when our class had finished our volunteer work for confirmation, for freaking confirmation, and the secular volunteer foundation threw a party. Also, I was sorta going with a girl named Tiffany, though I didn’t know it at the time and managed to hem-haw my way out of that one. Most of us ‘cool’ kids were at this function, because we were cool and attended parties, of course. But I didn’t know how to dance to the kind of music that had beats in it. So instead, she danced with my friend Marcus because he had a cool older brother and cousins he could emulate while I had three sisters and one hella dorky-ass cousin. Shortly after that party, Marcus and Tiffany were going out, and they’d suck face (well they kissed on the lips) more than was appropriate, I thought, for Catholic school kids. For the last couple months of 8th grade, I sighed longingly anytime Meatloaf’s video for “I would do anything for love” came on.

Not much had changed between that first party and this crack house party, except the attendees at this party probably had not just finished volunteering at an old folks home. But it turned out I didn’t need social skills at this party to entertain myself and other people. There was one really old guy in particular, who tickled us silly.

A russian at least in his 30’s, took a liking to Amy, a Russian liking, the kind that will warm you during cold siberian nights. I don’t want to disparage him or anything, but since he’s not here…This russian dude was Russian, like Geary St. Russian, full-on leather jacket from Price Club, tight jeans, did i mention old and shady, thinning hair greased from old Crisco, gold chain, stubbly face, repugnant enough to repel the Germans from Stalingrad all by himself. He took a liking to Amy Mak.

Amy Mak is small, due to a number of back complications that have required over a dozen surgeries, as well as a daily cornucopia of medication to cope with the pain. For someone a little over 4 feet tall, she’s got the most pluck for any girl weighing 80 pounds that I know. She’s also small because she’s Asian, and the Orientalists over here have some sick Asian fetish. Walking down the street she’s heard the following catcalls from old black, white and mexican dudes: “oooooh girl you so small I could just pick you up and put you in my pocket, ow; or “ooh girl, you are bite sized aren’t you?” (snaps remaining teeth together at her).

Not surprisingly, as the stench of Asian fetish and Russian guy’s hair grease/gallon of gasoline-smelling cologne wafts through the tiny room as he walks behind her, he begins to give Amy a massage. He talks to her in a Russian accent, asks her things, continues massaging her back, which luckily due to beer and vicodin, Amy is not screaming in pain from having thick hairy paws clawing her compressed spine. Maybe it was Ursula, maybe it was God, but Amy somehow escaped that russian and that room, and into the arms of more beer. At the end of the night, I ended up carrying her out, like a fireman carrying out a child. I clearly recall Ursula saying in her sarcastically droll way of speaking, “oh how cute.”