DON’T FUCK WITH NEPTUNE
I didn’t much know Rico Garcia. He was a Park guy but not considered a regular. Kind of a peripheral hanger on-er, who carried himself invisibly until he drank. Then, he got sloppy, always stumbling over and knocking down a lamp or statue. But he was omnipresent at the gatherings and the guys liked him. Girls didn’t pay attention to Rico. He was not at all the type of catch we would’ve felt pride being associated with.
The air was crisp, the way it gets in the Bay Area. Cool, pure, unpolluted. But in those days, we didn't think much about pollution. I sat in the park, inhaling the sharp cold air, pulling at the tufts of green grass that tickled my legs. Miniscule and microscopic life forms living in damp grass homes trampled each other in terror as they ran to escape the uprooting and destruction caused by my nervous habit. Now and again, I’d stop and dig out the dirt that clouded the white of my nails with a messy black line. To me, dirty fingernails connote being unclean. Mechanics have dirty fingernails, plumbers, men who crawl beneath your house fixing and repairing broken whatevers. I hate dirty fingernails but I continued to risk them by pulling and mutilating the green environs on which I sat.
Boys smoked filterless cigarettes. Inhaling with brisk puffs and exhaling leisurely. Long smoke trails interlaced with statements of displeasure, criticism or sarcastic humor. The smoke trailed out till last sentences passed chapped lips. Thick boy hands reached up and picked tobacco pieces off, flicking them airborne. I watched in awe, wondering how they made smoking seem so incredibly delicious when it tasted so bad and made one edgy.
My grandfather died of throat cancer. He smoked constantly. He reeked of tobacco, which filled my nostrils when he locked me in a tight squeeze disguised as a hug. We bought him cigarettes on every celebratory occasion. Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes. The kind macho men smoke. Pictures of my grandfather show him squatting, looking like a catcher in a ballgame ready to strike out a runner at home plate. In his grip, a cigarette. Smoke swirled around his face and throat like a vaporous noose, a foreshadowing of what was to come.
A white Rivera pulled up and parked at the curb in front of the Park. Gary Manoosian stepped out. His face was somber, his stride slow and his shoulders hunched. He mumbled, “Rico Garcia is dead.” The words echoed through my head and I evaluated how much I should care. Rico wasn’t popular. I didn’t like him, but he was dead. Sympathetic utterings of remorse moved through the crowd and tears started to well up. I was stunned and scared. Any death brings to mind the possibility of one’s own.
Gary Manoosian recounted the death details. The previous night, eight guys dropped mescaline, drove to The Cliffs near the Sutro Bath ruins and hiked through the hollowed-out mazes of stone and cable. They clustered at the edge, peering out over the ocean. Waves slapped and crashed against the rocks below. They were stoned, fearless and it was utterly fantastic to witness waves splashing up in hallucinatory technicolor.
They drank multiple bottles of cheap booze to mellow their drug-induced highs. Someone’s bright idea was to climb further out on the jutting rocks. Rico crawled out ahead of the rest and stood atop the highest boulder, arms outstretched in an unforgiving moon-less night. He screamed at the ocean, in mock challenge to God, nature and the universe. The others guys laughed. Rico was drunk again. They’d all seen him act up before. To them, the setting didn’t change the fact that this was just another party.
Then they witnessed in shock and horror as a perfect white-tipped wave swelled up from below and engulfed him like an aquatic snake pouncing on an unsuspecting rodent. The wave withdrew. There was a momentary silence and the hissing of sea foam as the boys looked down on the now empty rock.
That was all. No body was discovered. No personal effects. No tangible remnant for a dead boy’s mother to grieve except the vast, unforgiving ocean. An inconsolable Mrs. Garcia stood on the cliff and threw flowers into the mouth of the watery beast that murdered her nino chiquito. The ocean, a thing of beauty, now forever an unforgettable reminder of loss.
I didn’t much know Rico Garcia. He was a Park guy but not considered a regular. Kind of a peripheral hanger on-er, who carried himself invisibly until he drank. Then, he got sloppy, always stumbling over and knocking down a lamp or statue. But he was omnipresent at the gatherings and the guys liked him. Girls didn’t pay attention to Rico. He was not at all the type of catch we would’ve felt pride being associated with.
The air was crisp, the way it gets in the Bay Area. Cool, pure, unpolluted. But in those days, we didn't think much about pollution. I sat in the park, inhaling the sharp cold air, pulling at the tufts of green grass that tickled my legs. Miniscule and microscopic life forms living in damp grass homes trampled each other in terror as they ran to escape the uprooting and destruction caused by my nervous habit. Now and again, I’d stop and dig out the dirt that clouded the white of my nails with a messy black line. To me, dirty fingernails connote being unclean. Mechanics have dirty fingernails, plumbers, men who crawl beneath your house fixing and repairing broken whatevers. I hate dirty fingernails but I continued to risk them by pulling and mutilating the green environs on which I sat.
Boys smoked filterless cigarettes. Inhaling with brisk puffs and exhaling leisurely. Long smoke trails interlaced with statements of displeasure, criticism or sarcastic humor. The smoke trailed out till last sentences passed chapped lips. Thick boy hands reached up and picked tobacco pieces off, flicking them airborne. I watched in awe, wondering how they made smoking seem so incredibly delicious when it tasted so bad and made one edgy.
My grandfather died of throat cancer. He smoked constantly. He reeked of tobacco, which filled my nostrils when he locked me in a tight squeeze disguised as a hug. We bought him cigarettes on every celebratory occasion. Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes. The kind macho men smoke. Pictures of my grandfather show him squatting, looking like a catcher in a ballgame ready to strike out a runner at home plate. In his grip, a cigarette. Smoke swirled around his face and throat like a vaporous noose, a foreshadowing of what was to come.
A white Rivera pulled up and parked at the curb in front of the Park. Gary Manoosian stepped out. His face was somber, his stride slow and his shoulders hunched. He mumbled, “Rico Garcia is dead.” The words echoed through my head and I evaluated how much I should care. Rico wasn’t popular. I didn’t like him, but he was dead. Sympathetic utterings of remorse moved through the crowd and tears started to well up. I was stunned and scared. Any death brings to mind the possibility of one’s own.
Gary Manoosian recounted the death details. The previous night, eight guys dropped mescaline, drove to The Cliffs near the Sutro Bath ruins and hiked through the hollowed-out mazes of stone and cable. They clustered at the edge, peering out over the ocean. Waves slapped and crashed against the rocks below. They were stoned, fearless and it was utterly fantastic to witness waves splashing up in hallucinatory technicolor.
They drank multiple bottles of cheap booze to mellow their drug-induced highs. Someone’s bright idea was to climb further out on the jutting rocks. Rico crawled out ahead of the rest and stood atop the highest boulder, arms outstretched in an unforgiving moon-less night. He screamed at the ocean, in mock challenge to God, nature and the universe. The others guys laughed. Rico was drunk again. They’d all seen him act up before. To them, the setting didn’t change the fact that this was just another party.
Then they witnessed in shock and horror as a perfect white-tipped wave swelled up from below and engulfed him like an aquatic snake pouncing on an unsuspecting rodent. The wave withdrew. There was a momentary silence and the hissing of sea foam as the boys looked down on the now empty rock.
That was all. No body was discovered. No personal effects. No tangible remnant for a dead boy’s mother to grieve except the vast, unforgiving ocean. An inconsolable Mrs. Garcia stood on the cliff and threw flowers into the mouth of the watery beast that murdered her nino chiquito. The ocean, a thing of beauty, now forever an unforgettable reminder of loss.
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