The Final Expedition of Troop 5717:55 PM
by Rudolfo Carrillo
Two fucking weeks into summer vacation and we're still hanging out with the same people. We don't even go to goddamn high school with them anymore and you're still waiting around for a phone call that might save your life, said Alexander to Freeman as the latter dished out a can of Ken L Ration brand dog food while both stood in the middle of an Avocado colored kitchen.
Come here, Arcoiris, come and get your motherfucking dinner said Freeman as he placed the dogfood bowl upon the custom Mexican tile floor and the old schnauzer waddled up to the trough. I am sure they'll call anytime now.
Three and a quarter seconds later the phone rang and sure as hell it was one of the gals from sixth period. Even though there wasn't a sixth period in their universe anymore and likely wouldn't be again, Alexander and Freeman still referred to their new friends collectively and semi-anonymously because the previous year they would not even have risked all the black beauties in town to be seen with that lot.
They sure could party, though and that's what got Alexander and Freeman interested at first. So what if they liked to do plays and whatnot, thought Freeman as he wiped up and brought a dog food spoon to bear upon Alexander. He pointed the meat by-product scooping device right at the dude and reminded him that some of the ladies from that drama class were stone foxes.
When the sun got low in the sky and it the two scouts had mostly come down from eating seven datura flowers the previous June night, Alexander and Freeman walked down Menaul Boulevard to Juan Tabo. They stopped at the house of a fellow named James Joyce. Joyce was a scout too, though he had recently been suspended for blowing marijuana smoke at a wild bear who tried to enter his tent over at Philmont. Now he mostly drove around town in his old man's gold-colored Pontiac Catalina, looking for game rooms where he might get lost among all the vector-rendered adventures.
You wanna go to a party, huh, Freeman intoned gravely when Joyce came to the door, bearing a bong that was craftily disguised as a shaving bowl. I dunno said James, let's phone up the twins and see what they are about. For some reason, of which he was only vaguely aware, the twins found a comic element to Joyce's name.
At least they'd always laugh and snort when someone said the name James Joyce. Plus which, they always had decent weed, he told Freeman and Alexander as he let his fingers do the walking on the princess phone in his parent's living room.
It turned out Abelardo was already gone for the night. He was busy playing his guitar and drinking the Champagne of Beers with some folks that did covers of songs by the Monkees, said the other twin, Refugio, into the harvest colored headset on the other end of things.
Approximately twenty-three minutes later, the three scouts picked up Refugio and all four of them drove down Montgomery Boulevard at high speed to the party of the summer. Everyone excellent was there, including the crazy communist kids with their green felt berets and Dead Kennedys albums. Someone had even scored a couple of cases of Mexican beer.
When it was totally dark, the stars came out and you could see the tram dangling on its trip up the mountain at the edge of the Heights. Alexander came up with an idea which was for all four of them to pile into the Catalina and drive up there by the tram, to Sandia Heights where Refugio's dealer lived.
Freeman immediately bowed out as he was making time with a gal that wanted to know all about fishing and duck hunting and he could not bear to part with what he felt was an act of god, meeting someone like that out of the blue who also got a hankering for an Allsup's burrito while stringing flies.
Besides if I stay, you are more likely to come back, Freeman said to Alexander, James and Refugio as they walked to the edge of the pool area of the apartment complex. As the other three left, Freeman pulled a hunting license out of his front pocket to show the woman named Caroline.
Tramway Boulevard was only two lanes wide and still had not been paved in some places, so it was pretty rough at night with no police patrols and plenty of opportunities for dangerous encounters, from cows crossing the road to acid-soaked hippies taking a shortcut home to Placitas. One day this place is gonna be a super-highway with mansions on both sides, Refugio whispered from the back seat of the Pontiac as he reclined in the back seat and pulled on a frajo.
Alexander started fiddling with the radio, trying to get a lock on X-Rock 80 when they came up on a Volkswagen microbus chugging along at sixty-five miles per hour. Watch this, James said as he roared up on the left to pass. He didn't see how the left turn signal on the VW was blinking away, how it began to turn as he came even with it.
There was a loud crash and Alexander said son of a bitch as the microbus kept on coming and coming, forcing the Catalina off the road where it soared along for a couple of seconds before flipping onto its roof. Refugio's glasses went flying, James was crying because he shit his pants and Alexander kept on cussing and laughing.
They crawled out and the radio was still blaring and the headlights were cutting sharp patterns through the dusty air. For a minute Refugio thought about walking home; he sure as hell didn't want to be around when the cops showed, but when he realized they never came up to Sandia Heights, he dug around in his pocket for a joint, found his glasses, and walked out to the microbus.
There were three people riding in that van. One of them was a Hawaiian exchange student named Felicia. The other two were jocks. Two of them were busy pouring a case of Heineken onto the pavement while the other was running the empties over to a huge datura plant that was back a ways from the road. How ironic Alexander thought as he picked gravel from his hair.
Come on, James Joyce said, help me turn this fucking car back over on its wheels. The three riders did just that and when no cops had shown up after forty-five shit-eating minutes, both parties drove off in separate directions without hardly a word being said.
James wanted to go back to the party, and hoped the other two did not mind if they stopped at his house to get a crowbar, so that he could fix the dent on the right quarter panel. Alexander said, just drop me off at my house, I am tired of this bullshit, I am tired of all these people.
They agreed and Refugio asked Alexander what he should tell when they got back. Tell about the car crash, but tell them I am dead or at least in the hospital with severe fucking bleeding to the brain, and don't say anymore after that. Just let them wonder. I am headed to State next week and I don't plan on answering the phone anywho.