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My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

tough guy poetry and manly stories of loneliness
all contents copyright Jon Rolston 2004, 2005, 2006

July 20, 2006

Part Three

Perhaps the final installment of the criminal misadventures of two homeless aluminum recyclers. Please scroll down to PART ONE to begin at the beginning.

“This is car 26, I’m Code Three on the 2100 block of Sunset, responding to a noise complaint, possible gun shots and car crash on 1400 block.”

“Copy that 26, sending in back up from Rampart Station.”


The black and white prowl car raced ahead of it’s own wail, the red flash of lights like floating blood from the air ripped open by the howls. Officer Hutchinson puts the radio back on the dash and asks his partner, “Gangsters?”

“Either that or some dumb Mexican’s car backfiring. We’ll know in a second. Look for Solo, he’s always hanging around that bus stop lookin’ to jack someone.”

The squad car left stripes of light as it tore up the street heading towards the bar where Jim and Kenny were still stuck inside.

“I can’t walk Kenny.”

“Just stack the cases as I bring them out.”

Kenny was hauling full cases of beer, three at a time, out to the pool table.

“Build a set of steps. We’ll walk out of here. Don’t worry.” Kenny was trying to calm Jim down by talking about construction. The idea of building helps men focus.

Kenny and Jim worked well together. The set of beer stairs was quickly built. One case at the rail. Two cases where you rack ’em. Three cases at the side pockets, on it went, four cases, five cases high. Kenny climbed up first and hauled himself out into the air. He rose up and saw the squad car blast through the lights a block away so he fell to the rough pebbles tarred into the roof.

He peeked over the edge and saw the police stop in front of two Latino men walking along the sidewalk. The police jumped from their vehicle and tackled the two young men.

“Kenny!” Jim yelled up through the air shaft.

“SSHHH!” Kenny hissed down at him. “The cops are out front!”

“Oh no Kenny. Oh no. I don’t want no jail house baloney.”

“Give me your hands,” Kenny commanded, and he pulled Jim out onto the roof as the officers were sitting on the two Latino youths, who were face down on the sidewalk, legs spread, arms behind their backs and under the knees of each officer.

In the alleyway the shopping carts were empty and waiting, the chrome gleaming from a the shine of a streetlight at the corner. Kenny dropped onto the dumpster first, then supported Jim and his swollen ankles as he lowered himself over the edge.

With Jim inside the cart like a load of groceries, Kenny wheeled his damaged friend down the alley.

“I hate to leave my cart behind, Kenny. It was one of those old Kmart ones with the big wheels.”

“Don’t even think about coming back for it tomorrow Jim. Those cops are gonna figure out they’ve arrested the wrong guys soon enough, and they’re gonna be back around.”

Kenny took a left away from Sunset and the flashing lights of the police who now had the suspects back on their feet and in handcuffs. The cart rattled a bit and Jim was moaning about his ankles as another Los Angeles night drew to a close with justice for all*, and to all a good night.

*a joke on the Rampart police station’s history of profiling.

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