The Mendoza Brothers ride again
Jerome and I sat on the sidewalk of
Lavaca Street in Austin, Texas as the cops searched
the vehicle. Two days earlier, Jerome bought a used
Volkswagen bus and the cops thought it was stolen.
They spotted us tooling down Lavaca, put on the
lights and sirens, made us get out of the bus,
patted us down for firearms, told us the license
plates matched a stolen vehicle and instructed us to
sit on the curb.
Life was good. For once I was
innocent and the roust only made me feel young
again.
"I'm sorry, man. I can't believe
this is happening. I'm so sorry," Jerome said.
I thought he was going to cry.
Unlike me, Jerome lived a good, decent life. Only
now, at the age of 30, did he give into temptations,
such as divorcing his wife, quitting his computer
job, taking up music full-time and hanging around
dangerously unsavory types like me.
He still hadn't come to grips with
his homosexuality, but he would in time. Every so
often, I was tempted to tell him. "Hell, man, we all
know you like to sing into the mike." But I don't
like outing people against their will -- especially
to themselves.
Besides, he had already come a long
way. Back in his 20s, Jerome had been a Christian
musician on the Amy Grant track and performed before
thousands of believers for thousands of dollars. At
the age of 28, he decided to get a day job (albeit,
a better-paying job than I ever had) and try his
hand at becoming a mainstream singer-songwriter.
These days he performs for twenty or so caffeine
addicts at acoustic coffeehouses for nickels and
dimes. It was a rough transition to a harsh reality.
Now he was getting hassled by the
cops. I tried to cheer him up.
"Jerome, the car came with a
registration and pink slip, right? You didn't steal
it, right? So you're in the clear. This is probably
some kind of bureaucratic fuck-up and a case of
mistaken identity."
"I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry to drag
you into all of this."
"Drag me into what? I'm not the one
with the stolen car."
I took a long hit from my
cigarette.
"Did I ever tell you about the
Mendoza brothers?"
"The what?"
"The Mendoza brothers."
"No. Well, maybe. No, I don't
remember."
He didn't look like he was in the
mood for a story, but I told it anyway.
The day before my 21st birthday, I
played a lonely Sunday night gig at the Bar of
Melody. Despite my being so close to legal age, none
of the regulars offered to buy me a drink -- not
even Jim, the owner. To make matters worse, the rain
came down hard in LA and fueled my self-pity as I
packed my music gear into my '66 Chevy station wagon
and headed home.
As I pulled out of the bar parking
lot, I hung a left and caught a red light at
Manchester and Sepulveda. I needed to take another
left on Sepulveda, but when I stopped for the light
a cop car pulled up opposite me and turned on his
right blinker. Hmmm. I thought long and hard as I
waited for the light to change: Should I let him
make his right turn when the light turns green or
should I go at the same time? After all, there are
two open lanes. He could take the right one and I
could take the left. If I just sit here when the
light turns green, I might attract attention to
myself. And why isn't he turning right against the
red anyway? It's legal. He must be checking me out.
Is my blinker busted? One of my headlights? I don't
really need this shit right now. Maybe I should pull
over and check my lights.
Decisions, decisions.
When the light turned green, I
waited a moment but the cop car didn't move. So I
turned left. As soon as I started my turn, the cop
car turned right, so we were driving side by side,
the most uncomfortable position on the road, even
when it's not a cop. Although the speed limit was
35, the cop car cruised at 25, so I decided to pass
him. When I did, I got into the right lane, but the
cop sped up and followed closely. Just as I cleared
the LA airport tunnel, I saw the Christmas lights go
on and heard a quick obnoxious siren. I pulled over
and expected the worst. I got it.
"Can I see your license and
registration?" I shuffled through my crammed glove
compartment and found the papers.
"What's your name?"
"Mike Jasper," I said. Uh-oh.
Fuck-up number one.
"It says Mike Eagan on your
license."
"I know, but I'm a musician and
everyone knows me as Mike Jasper. I'm in the process
of changing my name. Show biz, right?"
"According to this, the car's
registered in the name Albert Loew," he said,
dangling the registration in front of my nose. "Is
that another name you go by?"
"No, that's my step-dad's name. He
gave me the car three weeks ago, but I haven't
gotten around to registering it yet."
"All right, then, I want all three
of you step out of the car."
Everybody's a comedian. I got out
of the car while he ran a make on my license and
registration. His partner, considerably older and
fatter, came over to keep a watch on me.
"I know who you are," he said.
"You do?" Hmmm. Is he a music fan?
A regular at the bar I had overlooked? I couldn't
place him.
"I sure do. You're one of the
Mendoza brothers, aren't you?"
"The what?"
I was completely baffled and since
I already answered to two names, I entertained the
possibility that I might
actually be one of the Mendoza brothers. At that
time, I was on the cusp of making the transition
from pothead to drunk and the conflicts between THC
and alcohol often wreaked havoc on my memory. I
think. Maybe in my continuing efforts to get laid, I
told some woman I was one of the Mendoza brothers.
Or maybe the Mendoza Brothers are a band. Yeah, I
think I heard of them. I think I bought their album.
"Are the Mendoza brothers a band?"
I asked.
"Don't crack wise with me, asshole.
You know damn well who I'm talking about."
Thankfully, the other cop returned.
"You have an outstanding warrant."
"I do?"
"Yep. In Marina del Rey. Bad
headlight. Not this car, another vehicle."
Oh, shit.
A few months earlier, my
ex-girlfriend had stolen my Chevy Nova, probably to
justify the time she'd spent with me. Before it was
stolen, I got a fix-it ticket for a busted
headlight, put the citation in my glove compartment
and forgot about it.
"That car was stolen," I said. "A
1965 Chevy Nova, right?
"It wasn't reported stolen."
"That's because my girlfriend stole
the car. I decided not to press charges."
"Tough break. But you still have to
go to jail."
They put me in the back of the
squad car and took me to the El Segundo jail for a
fix-it ticket on a stolen car. As they were
processing me, I heard the older cop say, "Yep. One
of the Mendoza brothers, I bet."
Tomorrow I'm shaving this fucking
moustache, I thought.
When I got my phone call, I dialed
the bar, the only place I knew where people would
still be awake at 3 a.m. Although California bars
are required to close at 2 a.m., the Bar of Melody
always stayed open until 4 a.m. to accommodate the
regulars. And since half of the regulars served on
the LA police department, the law didn't figure in.
Artie the bartender answered the
phone. "Melody Bar."
"It's Jasper. I'm in the El Segundo
jail."
"No shit? Hold on a minute," he
said. I could hear him yelling across the room.
"It's the kid, the guitar player. He's in jail. Who
wants to spring him? I say we roll for it." I heard
laughter in the background.
Artie got back on the phone. "We're
going to slam dice to see who comes to bail you out.
Someone should be there in a half hour or so."
"Okay, but... " Too late. He hung
up. I didn't get a chance to tell him I needed fifty
bucks to pay the fine and didn't have the cash on
me. What if the guy shows up with twenty bucks? I'm
fucked, I thought. I'm spending my 21st birthday in
jail.
I waited for what seemed like an
hour. Worse yet, the guy in the next cell wanted to
talk to me.
"What are you in for?" he asked.
"A fix-it ticket."
"A fix-it ticket? A fix-it ticket?
Not me, man. I got in a fight, man. Drunk in public.
Again. Damn! Drunk in public. Again!"
I didn't respond.
"And you know the worst part? In
another hour, they're going to take us down to
county lockup, man. Better watch your booty brother.
They some bad ass motherfuckers in county."
That made the wait much better,
knowing I'd be butt bait in a couple of hours.
Fortunately, Richard showed up just
in time. Richard was the perfect choice to get me
out of jail, since he looked like an attorney, the
only suit-wearing regular at the bar. Apparently, he
had enough money to pay the fine.
"I'll pay you back next week," I
said as he drove me to my car.
"You don't have to pay me. Jim
covered it for you. Stop by the bar before you go
home. He wants to talk to you."
I knew I'd better go see Jim. I
played six nights a week at the Bar of Melody, so
this was my bread and butter gig.
When I walked in, I saw Jim sitting
with a bunch of regulars, all of them cops. As I got
closer to his booth, I noticed one of the cops was
the same guy who had stopped me on Sepulveda two
hours earlier. The older, fatter one.
"Come sit down and have a few
drinks with us," Jim said. "And tell us what it's
like to be one of the famous outlaw Mendoza
brothers."
Sonofabitch. Those assholes
remembered my birthday after all.
When I finished my story, Jerome
stared at me long and hard, longer than good
breeding would normally dictate.
"That's it? That's your story?
That's supposed to make me feel better? What are
saying? Don't worry about going to jail? Don't worry
about driving a stolen vehicle? Look, I'm not used
to this. Maybe you are, but not me. I didn't think
that story was funny and I don't think... damn, this
sucks. I'm really not in the mood, I'm really not.
I'm sorry I dragged you into this, but I'm really
not in the mood."
"Jerome," I said, taking a long hit
from my cigarette. "You're gay."
* * *
SLAID CLEAVES: If you're in the Los Angeles area on
Father's Day, stop by the Coffee Gallery Backstage,
where Austin singer-songwriter Slaid Cleaves
will be performing his country-folkin'-rockin'-blues
tunes. And if you're in Austin the following Sunday,
June 25th, stop by the Will Hampton Library Gazebo
to see Slaid and his special opening act. Me.
I never imagined in my wildest dreams
that one day I'd be opening for Slaid Cleaves. I
always thought he'd be opening for me.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can
read anything else into it, you're on your own.
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