S.R. Bevilacqua, author of “Guns on The Roof”, is an emerging writer and a long-time resident of Venice, California.
The screams came from a homeless man on the boardwalk. Robbie’s head was close to the sand, and the ridges he made with his fingers were the massive dunes of Arabia. Robbie saw a sheik crest the horizon on his mighty stallion, his scimitar raised, galloping through the rippling waves of heat.
Then came the tanks, roaring across the desert, racing toward the epic clash. It was hot for April, and Robbie didn’t know what to do today. Nobody knew what to do today, unless you wanted to smash some windows or loot the Payless Shoe Source. Robbie did a bong hit before coming to the beach. Now he heard a distant voice yelling that everyone had to go home. Most of the people on this beach are homeless, so good luck with that, he thought.
He heard the voice again, closer this time, “I’m talking to you!” Robbie turned and squinted into the sun to see a fat man dressed like a soldier lumbering toward him. The man’s boots were sinking into the sand as he struggled to walk in his military gear. His face was shiny with sweat and it was taking so much effort to march on the beach that he probably didn’t realize that his rifle was aimed straight at Robbie’s head. A jolt of panic stabbed through Robbie’s stony buzz.
He heard the voice again, closer this time, “I’m talking to you!”
“Whoa! Point that thing down, man!”
“Huh?” The sweaty military dude looked embarrassed for a second, then he shifted his gun to the side and attempted to puff himself up again.
“What the fuck?” says Robbie, “Who are you?”
“National Guard! This beach is closed. You have to leave.”
“Why’s the beach closed? The riot’s that way,” Robbie pointed to the gray plumes of smoke in the east.
“Vacate the beach immediately or you will be arrested!” The National Guardsman stood awkwardly, still unsure where to point his rifle.
*****
Robbie was legal but his parents weren’t. They were sweet but clueless people who came from El Salvador to Pico-Union and worked their asses off and got nowhere and meant well but didn’t know shit. Robbie was twenty. He thought about going to college. He was smart enough for college. He was sure of that, and it was true, but nobody he knew had ever gone to college. The idea both excited and scared his parents, who thought there was a chance that Robbie would be arrested for trying, and they’d be sent back to Mejicanos.
Robbie walked back to his apartment in the building on the only hill in Venice. The upper floor units that faced the city had a great view of the smoke. The TV news had been instructing that they were not to call this a riot. Instead, they must refer to it as a “civil unrest.” Robbie smiled every time the TV said it, knowing that anyone who heard that in Spanish would laugh. The Spanish stations weren’t even bothering to play that little word game, but nobody who made the rules here ever listened to the Spanish stations, which Robbie figured was just one more reason that there were riots.
From above, he heard a scratchy voice and clumsy thumping footsteps. Robbie looked up and saw Todd the building manager standing unsteadily at the edge of the roof with a gun in each hand. Todd had been on a meth binge for two days before the riots began. Now, he staggered in his cowboy boots, wildly paranoid and talking to himself. Waving his guns, Todd issued warnings to the world like a lanky ravaged gunslinger. Todd dared the motherfuckers to come near this place. Robbie figured that Todd was going to kill somebody, probably himself, so he called up to him.
“Todd, put the guns down.”
“Fuck you, man! I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
“Yo, I live here.”
“Oh hey, Roberto! What up? Just protecting this place from those motherfuckers.”
“Dude, come down! There’s nobody looting around here.”
“They smashed the windows of the Pic ’n Save! They’re coming!”
Todd shuffled his boots to the peak of the roof to get the maximum view. He looked to the east, aiming his guns at an enemy that only existed in his head. Todd yelled, “If you come near this place, I will blow your motherfucki-” Todd stumbled back. He bounced down the other side of the roof and tumbled off the edge. Robbie heard Todd’s cry, then the crunch of branches as Todd fell through the trees and bushes behind the building, and then a gunshot.
Annoyed, Robbie started walking around the building to see if Todd survived.
*****
Robbie did his best to ignore the constant nagging guilt over leaving his family back in Pico-Union crammed into a bungalow the size of a two-car garage. But he didn’t want to be like the other kids from his neighborhood, chained to their families, getting so frustrated and pissed off that they joined the gang or died trying.
Robbie needed to break away. He didn’t want the maras seeing him on the street and wondering if Robbie thought he was better than they were, or if he would be a problem. Because it’s easier for them to kill someone than to trust them. That happened a lot and Robbie had no tattoos. But the maras would forget about him soon enough once he was out of sight.
Robbie watched the ink spreading over his friends’ skin like a contract that kept getting more complicated and more binding. Their tattoos were the only way to express what made them different. They didn’t realize that it just made them more the same. Robbie moved away, close to the ocean because it felt like freedom. He promised his Mom he’d send home money, but he hadn’t done it yet.
Robbie felt like he didn’t fit in anywhere, which is why he liked it here. Every sort of fuck-up and freak lived in Venice and nobody cared. It was an easy place to go unnoticed, and nobody judged. Since Robbie moved out of his parent’s house, he spoke only English. He tried to stop himself from using Spanish phrases, even in his head. Robbie thought in English. He had trained himself to do this since he was a little kid, and now it came naturally to him, which he liked. Probably the single best thing he did to help his family in the long run, he thought.
The phone had been busy for an hour but finally his sister picked up.
“Why the hell don’t you stay off the phone?” he asked.
“Because it’s going crazy outside.”
His parents were staying in the house. They didn’t know what was going on. They thought it was a revolution and worried about dinner. Two of Robbie’s brothers were out, but nobody knew where. Robbie’s sister, the only one in the family he could talk to at all, was doing her best to keep everybody inside, especially the little ones. Robbie’s Dad was glued to the TV, watching what was happening right outside their house. Robbie’s Mom was in the kitchen with Ascensión and Mrs. Cardenas, crying and wondering if they’ll have to run.
“Where’s Oscar?”
“He went out with his friends.”
“He’s ripping off the stores. He’s gonna get shot. The National Guard is here.”
“What am I supposed to do?! You’re not here.”
“If he comes back, keep him inside. Don’t let anybody leave. It’s not safe.”
People were talking as if things would never be the same again. Unlike most of them, Robbie wished it were true. But he knew deep down that things would be back to the same lousy state in a week. All the threats that were made would be forgotten, all the promises to change would soon fade away.
There still wasn’t any TV, just more riots on every channel. The phone started ringing and Robbie wondered if it was Celina again. He grabbed the cord and pulled the phone across the floor to him. He picked up the receiver. “Where the hell are you?!” the old Slime yelled through the receiver. Even the Slime’s voice was fat.
“You’re open?”
“Of course we’re open! Why wouldn’t we be open?”
“Because the whole city is locked down.”
“Which is why everybody and their fucking mother is calling. Get the hell in here now!”
*****
Night dropped on Venice, and the smelly prick was right. This was the busiest night since the Superbowl but there was a military curfew and nobody was supposed to be on the streets. Robbie hummed to himself, reminding himself to replace the radio that had been ripped out of his car, and trying to pretend that it was an ordinary night as he snuck around Venice in his battered Toyota.
The car had dents and scratches on every inch, but Robbie loved his car because inside that damaged body was a scrappy little fighter. His beat-up Camry had lived through a flash flood during an El Nino storm when it got swept up in a three-foot wall of water rushing down Laurel Canyon and carried down Crescent Heights, floating with its headlights underwater.
Robbie and his Camry washed up on somebody’s lawn, along with six other cars, all newer and more expensive than his cheap old ride. But with one determined shout of “Fuck!” and a desperate turn of the ignition, Robbie’s car started again. Robbie needed to drive over a few lawns to reach the part of the street that wasn’t flooded, but his Camry left the soaked, defeated BMWs and Audis behind. Robbie made it home in time to see the flood on the local news.
And now Robbie and his stalwart Camry were delivering pizzas on the night of the underclass insurrection. Robbie’s crumpled 1987 Thomas Guide lay on the seat by his side. The deserted streets were tensely silent, like a dark sinister lie. It was always too quiet in this car since the radio was stolen, and Robbie was sick of humming.
Robbie hadn’t seen any cops yet. Hadn’t seen anyone at all. There was fear in the air and it was creepy. Los Angeles was at war with itself, but here it was all hidden.
*****
Riots or no riots, these were the shittiest tips Robbie had ever received. People were jumpy and afraid, but not too skittish to forget to ask for their petty change. I don’t have nickels, you asshole! I just brought you a pizza during a fucking race riot. There’s a red glow in the sky to the east and I risked getting arrested to come here and you’re not even going let me keep the coins?!
It seemed to Robbie that they were hoarding money for when civilization collapsed. Yeah, you’re gonna need that nickel, white man, when the savages come after you.
The desperate tone of the TV news’ repeated instruction to not call it a riot made Robbie laugh again. What happens if I call it a riot? On TV, it sure looks like a riot. Be sure to tell the truck driver who got pulled from his truck and had his head bashed in what he’s allowed to call it. Robbie wondered how the rules about what to say even applied to him, since he was an American with parents from El Salvador but everyone assumed he was an illegal Mexican.
As he drove the dark, deserted streets of Venice, Robbie thought about the point of the riots. He could understand looting the fancy department store. It was probably the only way most of those people would ever see the inside of it. But his mind kept going back to footage of kids looting the yarn store, and he had to question it. What the hell did they want with yarn? Those kids didn’t look like big knitters to him.
Robbie drove past the Pic-n-Save on Lincoln and Rose, and saw that the windows were smashed. Tweakin’ Todd was right. The stores looked deserted and hollow. No looters, no cops, just dark empty storefronts with big gaping windows. But the civil unrest seemed to be making its way to Venice. Robbie wondered if Todd was back on the roof. In the dark, that idiot would shoot anything.
The next greasy cardboard box was headed for some shithole near Oakwood Park. The kids on tiny bikes cruised up to the car as Robbie slowed at the stop sign. The kids asked if he was looking for something, just like every time Robbie drove by. “Something” meant crack. Robbie could see these kids getting more strung out each day.
Tonight seemed worse because it was darker and more tense and they were the only things in motion out here, ready to zip out of sight when the cops rolled by. These kids were maybe 11 years old. What grade was that? Robbie told the kids to go home and they scattered in every direction.
Robbie kept driving. He’d tried crack a couple times. For the first 30 seconds, it was the most amazing year of your life. After that, it was wretched. All addiction, no high.
*****
He knocked on the door a second time. He could hear the nervous panic of the riot coverage through the windows of the house next door. Robbie reached to knock again when the door was violently sucked in and an angry girl yelled, “I said come in! Are you fucking deaf?”
Robbie took the question to be rhetorical. “I got your pizza.”
“There’s a curfew. You should get in here before cops see you.” Robbie stepped in and followed her into the kitchen. Robbie saw the distinctive squalor. This was a crack addict pad. No doubt. The scowling Latina looked like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. There was a twitchy dude in a stained t-shirt hovering near the back doorway.
No tip here. Let’s get this over with.
“What are you standing there for? Put it on the table,“ she said.
“That’s eleven-fifty,” Robbie informed her, using his bored, don’t-bother-me voice.
“Fuck you. Give me your money, asshole,” the girl said as she pulled out her gun. MOTHERFUCKER! Not again! Goddamn drug addicts, too fucking lazy to leave the house to find somebody to rob. So they called for me to come over and get robbed, which I did like a stupid asshole even after getting jacked three times already. And the old smelly prick doesn’t cover for it when we get robbed. He thinks it’s our own damn fault, so it shouldn’t cost him. I hate this fucking job and I hate my fucking life. It’s amazing how many thoughts can swim through your mind in less than three seconds. It’s equally amazing how much can occur in that same instant. And how what happens during that ephemeral flash can change many lives irreparably.
“Put the pizza on the table and empty your fucking pockets,” she said. Robbie sighed as he slid the pizza onto the table. The box bulldozed through all the crap already there. The empty beer cans, rolling papers, overflowing ashtray, and dirty steak knife piled up as the greasy cardboard invaded. Robbie lifted his hands to the universal be-cool-don’t-shoot position.
Robbie had somewhere between sixty and seventy bucks on him, but there was no way he was willingly giving up his cash again to some scum-sucking crack addicts. Then again, there was that gun. Robbie decided to see if he could talk his way out of this. “Come on, man,” he began.
“Shut the fuck up!” the emaciated Latina shouted, “Give me your fucking money!”
And then it happened. The epic three seconds. She lifted the gun, aimed at Robbie and steadied herself to squeeze the trigger. Robbie’s survival instinct was electrified with adrenaline and, in a lightning maneuver, he grabbed the crusted steak knife from the table. In this warped flow of time, Robbie even noticed the coke residue near the sharp edge of the blade as it flew past his eyes in his lunge forward to drive it into the crack addict’s neck.
Then he heard the click as loud as thunder, and realized his mistake, except that the end didn’t come. The gun was clicking not shooting, because the chamber was empty. The skeletal bitch looked shocked as she realized the gun didn’t fire. The blade sliced into her throat and she bent over like a folding chair with a spraying fountain of blood.
She dropped to the floor. The dark puddle started to spread.
The twitchy guy gasped and ran out the dark doorway. Robbie heard the back door slam against the wall and the guy run through the alley. He was gone. The guy’s trigger-happy girlfriend was dying alone while her blood maneuvered its way through the trash on the floor.
“Fuck!” Robbie whisper-shouted, watching the puddle grow. The dying girl’s gasps were getting shorter and more painful to hear. He moved closer to help her, but then stopped himself before stepping in the blood. Robbie spent a skipped heartbeat deciding, and then started to run.
He ran for the front door, but stopped short just past the kitchen doorway. He could hear her gurgling final gasps and it was painful. Robbie turned back to the kitchen, and walked through the doorway, thinking frantically. He saw her on the floor, still as death. He grabbed the pizza from the table and took off.
He rushed into the living room, then stopped short again, frantically wondering if he should leave through the alley. He decided against that and headed for the front door. But he stopped again. Inside, he was screaming at himself for his indecision, but he had never killed anyone before, or fled from the scene of a murder. He ran back into the kitchen. He dropped the pizza to the floor and picked up the steak knife that lay in the lake of blood.
Robbie held the knife, watching the blood drip off, and the girl stirred with a gurgled moan and reached for him. Robbie yelled and jumped back. Her hand slid slowly through the blood. Her fingers were struggling to reach the gun. Robbie slid the knife down the back of his jeans and felt it scrape his skin. Robbie wondered whether to grab the gun on the floor. She stopped moving again. She still looked like she was reaching for the gun but she was dead. She had to be. Robbie left the gun. He left the pizza on the floor and bolted for the front door.
Robbie will spend the rest of his life reliving these few seconds. He will eventually give up trying to stop the continual re-examination of this moment because fighting it will take too much effort. Robbie will scrutinize every detail, from every angle. No molecule in this room, not even the air, will go unanalyzed. Years from now, people will never suspect that this is what Robbie is thinking about when they are talking to him. But it will be this.
Robbie hurried down the dark path outside the crack addicts’ house. He could hear TVs through open windows a few feet away. The dead girl’s neighbors were glued to their sets, watching the rioters rampage across the city.
*****
The streets were still empty but now they seemed to be buzzing. Every noise echoed with a dull, life-sucking thud. Robbie knew the fat Slime would be waiting for him at the shop but he couldn’t breathe so he decided to go home first. This was good because Robbie had yet to notice the blood splattered all over him in artfully dotted patterns.
Robbie was certain that now the cops would appear and pull him over for violating the curfew. He practiced his manner for when they questioned him. He didn’t worry about his story. The story was the story, what mattered was how he acted. The attitude. His beat-up Camry now seemed like doom, certain to be pulled over. The car would ensure that the cops would make up their minds before Robbie opened his mouth. Robbie stopped the car and got out. Without thinking or looking, he threw the steak knife down a storm drain.
The building on the hill seemed dark and oddly quiet as Robbie approached it, except for Sebastian’s place, which was loud and rocking. It looked like everybody was getting wasted at Sebastian’s because the cops won’t let them venture outside. There are certain situations when it’s convenient to have an abundance of drug dealers in the building. Tonight was clearly one of them.
The strip clubs by the airport must be closed because Robbie heard Dawn’s shrieking laughter explode from Sebastian’s open window. Robbie walked quickly toward his door, hoping no one would see him. “Hey Robbie!” Todd yelled from above, and Robbie jumped in alarm. “Don’t worry, amigo. I’ll keep those pigfuckers away from here!” Robbie tensed up, thinking a mile a minute as he looked up at Todd, who was standing on the roof with two guns again. Todd teetered near the edge, wasted and armed. If Todd survives this night, it will be a miracle, thought Robbie.
Robbie went inside. He stepped into the bathroom. He was shaking. Then he saw the blood all over him and his knees suddenly went weak. Robbie began to take a piss, but he doubled over and puked.
Should I change my shirt? Should I wash this shirt and keep wearing it? Is anybody paying attention to me at all? He noticed that his blinds were open, so he twisted the plexiglass rod and shut them completely. Shit, is that more blood?! I think I missed some.
Robbie still had two pizzas in the car. He decided to toss them and tell Slime that the address was wrong. Or did he have enough money to cover them? But ditching them might make somebody wonder. Robbie couldn’t breathe. He thought he was going to puke again. He felt the room starting to spin. Robbie punched the bathroom doorway with the side of his fist and commanded himself to get his shit together.
He took a breath. He pulled off his shirt and rinsed out the spots of blood in the bathroom sink. Putting the shirt back on, he looked into the mirror. He tried to notice the shirt, but he couldn’t pull his locked gaze away from his own terrified eyes. This is when the creature of fate arrives to punish me. Out of thin air, La Llorona or some shit, coming to attack the bad man who just butchered a girl. He stared at his wet shirt. It looked suspicious. Robbie found a t-shirt in the dirty pile on the chair that was similar color and he put it on. He was still sweating.
Robbie checked himself for more blood. He wondered if he smelled like blood. Can you smell like blood? Fuck, I don’t know. Robbie found a cigarette and lit it to cover the smell in case it was there. He stepped outside, hoping everybody was too fucked up to notice him. He paused in the doorway, hearing a loud haunting chord slice through the night. Sinead O’Connor started singing Nothing Compares 2 U and Dawn stumbled out of Sebastian’s door. “Oh my gawd! This is MY SOING!!!” Dawn began gyrating drunkenly on the landing, grabbing the railing for support. Dawn did this whenever she was smashed, which was mostly between 4 and 7 a.m. after she was finished her shift at the Nude! Nude! Nude! club by the airport.
Dawn fell into the railing and it clanged like an echoing gong. Bent over the railing, Dawn swayed her butt and continued her sloppy dance while singing along with Sinead. She made eye contact with Robbie. “Hey you…” she slurred. With the jagged knife scar across her face, Dawn was both heartbreaking and repellent. Dawn started to clumsily pull off her clothes and voices cheered from inside. Robbie turned and hurried away.
Robbie snuck down the path to the street, praying that nobody else noticed him. When he reached the front of the building, he saw a battered TV shoved into the scrawny bushes. Robbie didn’t know how the TV had ended up in the bushes, or if it was there when he walked by earlier.
Robbie ran to his car to deliver the last two pizzas.
*****
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