"My family hides a dark secret. The lies are eating us alive. Time to come out of the broom closet."
On the anniversary of a tragic suicide, a diverse group of teenagers is drawn to the Simi Hills in Los Angeles. Others answer the call: Latino broth...
Whoever's reading, I hope you appreciate me leaving my hookup to honor this familial obligation. Ay caramba! I want to go back to bed, pick up where I left off, with my face buried in her big, swinging tatas.
Last night, I set a Salvia record. Five minutes after I walk into the Hillbilly Haven with my brothers, a dark-eyed beauty agrees to leave with me. Stuff of local legend, for sure.
She followed me home, praise Jesus, so I don't have to drive her back. We live in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere at the edge of Ventura County, on top of a rock formation called the Twelve Apostles in the Simi Hills.
I glance over at this latest piece of trim. Black hair, round curves. What was her name? Whatever, it'll be "Cielo," my go-to. Means, "heaven" or "sky." Spanish is a magic language because ordinary words sound musical, romantic even.
"Coneja," was Papá's pet word for Mamá because she had big bunny eyes.
Reaching by the bedside, my hand finds a half-empty beer. I raise it in a toast to Papá, outwitting Santa Muerte for 47 years. But the Salvia curse means no one makes it to old age. Our time is brief, so we grab life by the balls. Who knows if we've got tomorrow? There is only now.
Enough for today.
Sunday, August 7, 2011 3:00 a.m. Los Angeles, California, U.S.A.
Miss me? Get over it. I'm not writing for you. Got to document today's events. No detail is unimportant.
What's happened, you ask? A major break in our search for the gold from the Stagecoach robbery of 1854.
So, back to the morning of August 6. 5:45 AM.
Can't sleep. I leave Cielo in the master bedroom and walk the hallway to Martin's room. He's crashing somewhere else most nights. With whom? I've no idea. Two prone lumps tell me George and his girlfriend commandeered his bed. Better than sharing a room with Kendrick. I could give a shit about same room sex, but George likes his privacy. Ken's alone, snoring, in the next room.
I continue along the hallway and pass the kitchen and living room to reach the front door. Light seeps over the eastern horizon as I leave the house. Birds squawk and the squirrels curse, chut-chut-chut. A hawk shrieks to tell the little critters, "Shut the hell up."
Our house is no mansion. White, one-story, three-bedrooms. Doesn't matter because we're 2,500 feet above the rest of L.A. Anything goes down, we've got a front-row seat. The freak show's been airing for 100 years, way before that skinny gringo Charlie Manson moved into Spahn Ranch.
Salvias homesteaded the Twelve Apostles in the 1800s. The Apostles are sandstone columns stretching twelve stories high. At the top is a plateau the length of four car lanes.
Right now you're probably loading up an expensive mountain bike, checking GPS and heading out for what you think will be an "awesome" adventure. Good luck with that, pendejo. A sandstone maze blocks direct access. Walk-in single file or hike up from the valley floor.
East and adjacent the maze is a hundred foot stack of horizontal sandstone. Our house sits on top. We see you coming miles away and greet you with the sound of a pump-action shotgun.
My eyes follow our steep, dusty driveway to the plateau. With my chest tightening, I walk. Halfway to the Apostles, I'm sweating. The lone oak casts a thin shadow. Today's gonna be a scorcher.
When I reach the central column, I stop. One year ago today, Mamá stood here, wedding dress flapping in the Santa Ana winds.
My toes dangle from the edge. Best finish this.
Leaning forward, I look down at the jagged rocks.
The stone directly beneath blurs at the edges. Heat mirage. Another fan-fucking-tastic day in the San Inferno Valley.
The image coalesces into a crouching figure. As it stands to stretch, the shape sharpens into a man. He removes a broad-brimmed, dark brown hat and looks up at me.
I'm staring at my brother Ken. ¿Pero qué coño? What the hell?
Kendrick's doppleganger shows no emotion. Despite the heat, he wears calf-high boots and a floor-length leather duster. Bandoliers form an "X" across his chest. A thick gun belt sports two pistols. This hombre's a bandido from the 1800s.
I holler, "Quién eres tú?" Who are you?
Ignoring me, he puts on his hat and makes his way down the mountain.
I grab my cell phone to call Ken. No answer. ¡Mierda! Shit!
I try George next. Saints be praised, he answers.
"Get the binoculars and meet me at the Twelve Apostles."
"But what's..."
"No questions. It's an emergency."
I keep my eyes on the doppleganger. George, get your ass here. We can't lose him.
After what seems like forever, but is really probably five minutes, footfalls pound. George skids to a stop. "What's so important you have to wake me at the butt-crack of dawn?"
I angle George toward Ken's twin and shove the binoculars in his face.
"Tell me what you see."
"Uh, an extra heading for a film shoot?"
With a heavy exhale, I restrain myself from delivering a knuckle punch to his arm and explain what I saw.
"No shit! You think he's Fernando Salvia?"
"Was Ken still sleeping when you left?"
George nods.
"Then yes. Hombre literally walked out of the stone."
"If that's Fernando, he picked a strange day to come back from the dead." George crosses himself as he peers over the cliff's edge. "Que descanses con las santas, Mamá." May you rest with the saints, Mama.
I grab George by the shoulder. "No time for tears." His prayer triggers the most terrible memory. One year ago I found herat the bottom of the Twelve Apostles. Dead eyes stare as blood pools around her broken body.
No time for this weepy shit. I watch as the bandido disappears into heavy brush. "I'm going after him."
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Author Notes:
Banner photo of the Twelve Apostles by Xandra Barnett
