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 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."

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.