Naomi Hirahara - Santa Cruz Noir

What was that on her sleeve? The striped beetle again. Karen wanted to scream, but she didn’t. Instead she swallowed her cry, closed her eyes, and extended her arm.

Steamer Lane

I’m not the kind of guy who goes around with wild, violent fantasies, like I got some shooter game playin’ in my head. So this or that guy’s got some beef. So what? I’m not out for confrontation.

But I’ve doled out plenty. ’Cause what are you gonna do? Nothing? Fuck that!

I’ll be the first to admit I’ve had some issues here and there. Major issues with the Santa Cruz PD. Always fuckin’ with me. Like true-blue dickheads — like I’m the loser! But that ain’t me. Drunk and disorderly? Okay. Domestics? Maybe. But that assault charge? Total fuckin’ bullshit. It’s called self-defense!

I don’t look for trouble. But if some goddamn faggot, pardon my lack of political correctness, and fuck you very much, tries some shit out on me? Well, okay. Trouble’s in trouble now!

I surf Steamer Lane. It’s my home break — not yours. You’re not Westside Santa Cruz born and raised. Steamer’s is not for you. Go back to the Valley, or Cowell’s, or even Pacifica. We will not be tolerating any university inclusivity-diversity bullshit from outsider kooks, queers, and mud people. Stay behind the railing and watch.

So yeah, that incident at Steamer’s. Don’t act like you don’t know. Everybody saw that shit. It was all over the Sentinel . Of course, those assholes got it fuckin’ backward, ’cause I was totally in the right. You know I was.

Little-known fact: West Cliff, Lighthouse Field, even the Lane — after dark, it’s a major gay cruise. Oh yeah. Don’t believe me, fuckhead? Check Grindr. There’s so much fuckin’ action. You’ll be gettin’ it wet in MINUTES. It’s truly disgusting.

So it’s bar time and I’m all fucked up. I’m in the Carp lot, leaning on the railing, chilling, just checking out the swell for a dawn patrol. Minding my own business. This fat fuck comes wiggling up and sort of leans against the rail — and I know what’s going down. I know before he even opens his pussy mouth. I am instantly pissed! Just instantly mortally pissed! I say, “Eat shit, you fuckin’ faggot!”

I let him know who’s the boss out here — which is what you have to do in such situations. And yeah, maybe I did get a little too “defensive” on the guy. Grindr-ass motherfucker. He had it coming.

Anyway. The cops somehow manage to come to the conclusion that it was all me! I was amazed that guy could even ID me. It was pitch black. So I told the judge how it went down. That I was in fear for my life, what with how dangerous it is out there, so late at night.

He’s like, “What were you doing out there at that hour?”

“Just doing a surf check, Your Honor.”

But him and the DA didn’t get it. It was that ugly-ass faggot that made me go off! I had no choice. Am I right? You know I am.

They said I went over the line, as far as self-defense.

I was like, Fuck him! He deserves worse !

It was touch and go, they said. “The guy almost didn’t make it. But he’s gonna be okay.”

I thought, Oh really? Too bad. I shoulda put that faggot in a wheelchair.

Thought it. But I’m not stupid. I didn’t say it. Queers can be cops, or even judges now. They’re everywhere.

My trial was a joke. No one was on my side. No one but Ashley the bitch, my ex-GF. The DA wanted assault with intent. But I got away with aggravated assault, due to my saying I was “feeling very threatened, Your Honor, and it was not my intention.” Fuck ’em.

I’ll tell you this for free — County is a bitch. Nothing to do. Nada . And what is doubly fucked-up is that, when the surf is going off, you can hear it in the lockup, late at night, when all the losers are asleep and it’s halfway quiet. Those big breakers out there goin’ boom... boom... boom. Makes me feel so far down.

Did I mention there wasn’t shit-all to do in lockup? I tried not to go nuts. Some guys seem like they can just read through anything — sit there, nose in a book, all day, all night. Sometimes I kinda wish I’d given school a little more effort, back in the day. Looking back on it, I just... couldn’t. Couldn’t concentrate, you know? Couldn’t focus my mind. Even if I tried to really put something in my head, I’d hear my old man yelling. If I even looked at him wrong — bam ! He’d start kickin’ the crap out of me. Yeah, but that motherfucker sure didn’t like being reminded of the shit he did like me for. He took what he wanted. Fucked for life. That’s me.

What I hate about County is dudes surrounding me, all day, every day, with their endless bullshit. Couldn’t sleep with all those brown faggoty motherfuckers waiting for me to let my guard down. But I wasn’t looking for trouble. I got twenty-four to thirty-six months. And with time off for being a good little bitch. I was out in thirty.

Yeah! I’m out, I’m headed to the Lane. Gotta get back in the lineup. It’s all I’ve been dreamin’ of for two and a half years. So fuckin’ stoked.

But I get no priority. The boys are about as welcoming as a twenty-mile-per-hour on-shore south. What the fuck? Everybody lookin’ at me all stink-eye. They don’t know shit!

Plus — it seems like I was gone for all of five minutes, and my home break’s all crowded with geezers, kooks, hippies, and bunches of chicks and faggots from up on the hill. UCSC cunts and their girlfriends think they have some kind of Pussy College hall pass to surf here. Like the Lane is just for anyone now.

Well, it fuckin’ isn’t. The Lane is not for you. Not for your girlfriend, not your boyfriend, not any of your friends. No way will this stand. No fuckin’ way!

This scene has me so fuckin’ aggro. I’m too amped — just sitting in my truck tryin’ not to go all school-shooter on these assholes. When I’m like this, crank can sometimes calm me down. Hit that pipa , burn a blunt, get some brews flowing, and whoa! I am better, motherfucker! Screw that punk-ass parole officer. I’m out and I’ll do what I please.

Oh yeah. That’s better. That’s more like it. Now I’m feelin’ it. My dick is hard as a rock! I’m thinkin’ about Ashley and how she gives me head exactly when I say to. And that’s fine, as far as it goes. But I keep seein’ that little chica maricon in County the whole time. Pumpin’ like a big fresh south. Goddamn! I’m so ripped!

I snap out of it and — fuck me — outside is going off. The inside is loaded with kooks. The boys are all over first peak. Schracking! Monster sets from a huge south are rolling through, with super-long lulls and a takeoff so narrow you gotta be the earliest, charging-est, deep-throatin’-est motherfucker, or fuck you, you are not getting’ anything. This shit is gnarly. This shit is mine!

Don’t remember suiting up. Don’t even remember paddling out. Just seems like I’m suddenly in the thick of it, raging. Yellin’ at every kook I see. “Fuck you, faggots!” Paddling in front of all the Barneys and thinkin’, Make room for me, boys; priority is mine!

But goddamn! I’m too amped! Pulse pounding. Can’t chill. Timing is off. The extra fifty I gained in jail, on top of my crank-’n’-beer cocktail, is messing me up, slowin’ me down.

“My wave, fuckhead! My wave!” But my fat-fucker pop-up is too slow — too late. No way am I gonna make it. I can feel my extra body weight dragging me down as I pearl my board and eat it, right into the bowl. Then I get sucked back up the face, feel the sick moment of weightlessness, then — over the falls, right onto the deck of my best board. Under water screaming, “FUCK!” It’s a major hold-down. Hitting bottom. Rag-dolled to shit. Donuts all the way.