The Monrovia House

The Monrovia House

Published by BookBaby

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright 2023

Ebook ISBN: 979-8-35090-493-2

Cover art: Michael Marino

Contents

Author’s Note

Play List

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Coming Soon

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading my story. It was surprisingly therapeutic writing about my crazy days in high school and remembering all the wonderful friendships that were forged. While this novel was inspired by those days, I created a fictional story to capture the essence and strength of those bonds.

I have also included a list of songs referenced in the book since music played such a key role in our lives. Using your cellphone to access these songs will help you understand the new awakenings sweeping across America then. They celebrated a by-gone era of innocents, its energies, the hopes, and the fears of the times. Listening to the songs will put you in the moment and add a different dimension to your reading experience. Please enjoy. (I only mention the artist and the title of their song since using song lyrics would require copyright permissions, which are sometimes difficult to get, and require a pound of flesh.)

I would love to hear from you and get any feedback as I work on my next novel.

Play List

Time is on My Side – The Rolling Stones

If I had a Hammer – Peter, Paul, and Mary

Money – The Rolling Stones

Paint It, Black – The Rolling Stones

Like a Rolling Stone – Bob Dylan

Hey Gyp (Dig the Slowness) – Donovan

Help – The Beatles

I Got You Babe – Sunny and Cher

What’s New Pussy Cat – Tom Jones

People – Barbara Streisand

My Guy – Mary Wells

You Can’t Be True - Jon Fogarty and the Golliwogs

Black Pearls - John Coltrane

Smokin’, at the Half Note - West Montgomery

My Girl – The Temptations

California Girls – The Beach Boys

Turn! Turn! Turn! – The Byrds

Wild Thing – The Troggs

Do You Want to Dance – The Beach Boys

Wooly Bully – Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs

Don’t Let Me Be Understood – Eric Burdon and The Animals

Hard Day’s Night – The Beatles

You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away – The Beatles

Hang on Sloopy – The McCoy’s

Stop in the Name of Love – The Supremes

Fun, Fun, Fun – The Beach Boys

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy – The Andrew Sisters

(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction – The Rolling Stones

Catch the Wind – Donavan

The Times They Are a-Changin’ – Bob Dylan

Eve of Destruction – Barry McGuire

The House of the Rising Sun – The Animals

Steamroller Baby – Elvis Presley

A Well Respected Man – The Kinks

For Your Love – The Yardbirds

Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter – Herman’s Hermits

Glad All Over – Dave Clark Five

(Remember Me) I’m the One That Loves You - Dean Martin

By Myself – Julie London

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows – Lesley Gore

I Like it Like That – Dave Clark Five

It’s Gonna Be Fine – Glenn Yarbrough

Do You Believe in Magic? – Lovin’ Spoonful

The Girl from Ipanema – Stan Getz & Astrud Gilberto

I Can’t Help Myself – The Four Tops

In the Midnight Hour – Wilson Pickett

All I Really Want to Do – Cher

I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am – Herman’s Hermits

Catch Us if You Can – Dave Clark Five

A Three Hour Tour – Little Buddy

96 Tears – Question Mark and the Mysterians

The ‘In’ Crowd – Dobie Gray

It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry – Bob Dylan

Stormy Weather – Etta James

When the Ship Comes in – Peter, Paul, and Mary

I’ve Got a Tiger By The Tail – Buck Owens

Puff the Magic Dragon – Peter, Paul, and Mary

Groovy Kind of Love - The Mindbenders

Going to a Go-Go – Smokey Robinson and the Miracles

I Got You Babe – Sonny & Cher

California Dreamin’ – Mamas and the Papas

Time is on My Side – The Rolling Stones

Prologue

Craning their necks, looking to the sky, most of the adults, scattered through the street, stood frozen with shock and disbelief. A dozen or so laughing children ran around playing amongst the chaos of tables, chairs, paper plates, and food. There was Italian Rum cake on the ground everywhere. The front yard and street looked like a Texas twister cut through the block.

Two band members slumped to the porch steps in silence. The microphone stands were on the ground and one amplifier was on its side. Fran, rubbing his jaw, helped Jennifer and Jerry set everything back up on the front porch, ready for the last set.

A group of young men wearing red bandanas slunk away past the southern street barricade, helping limping friends back to their cars. Looking confused, none of them said a word. Reversing down the street with their lights off, they dissolved back into the night.

JD came up to me shaking his head. Blood seeped down the side of his face and onto his neck. He had a gash over his right eye and a possibly broken nose, which continued to bleed. Ida, Yolanda, Bill, Beth, and Darci ran over and hugged both of us. Skip’s eye was swelling up some and turning purple as he joined the circle with Liz, who looked like a triumphant Samurai Beauty Queen.

Geez, what the heck just happened? My voice finally returned.

We looked at each other in silence until Liz said, Well, that was fun! We busted out laughing and fell into a group hug.

Joan came rushing up, looked at us like we all just moved to crazy town. Bill and Beth, come help me get your dad home. I think he is in shock. We all looked over at Lt. Bill Sr. sitting in his police uniform on the curb holding his head in his hands.

Estelline came up, pulled JD into a chair, and started cleaning his face. Holy cow Batman, we got to go now if JD is going to make his midnight bus on time, Skip said, pulling out the keys to his milk truck. Liz and I will take you. Ida can come along to see you off at the station.

Johnny turned to me, I’ll see you in a couple of months, my friend.

Yeah brother, I’ll meet you over there, watch your six. We bear hugged, knuckled bumped, finger tickled, and ended with a firm handshake goodbye.

Then the neighborhood returned back to normal as all our friends, parents, and neighborhood kids wished Johnny safe travels and to be sure to come home in one piece. Lots of hugs, tears, and back slapping was just the tip of the iceberg of love that our little tribe of misfits shared. Jerry’s band started back playing again with Time is On My Side by the Rolling Stones.

Yolanda came up to me as we watched the milk truck pull away. Um, you OK Red?

Well . . . honestly, I don’t know.

We put our arms around each other, trying to become one. I looked at the stars and took a deep breath. When I looked back at her, she was smiling broadly and laid some warm brown sugar on me, which I didn’t resist. Mrs. D interrupted us, shaking a wooden spoon she pulled from the bowl of mostaccioli at us. Hey, hey! There are children present.

Our lips parted and we both said, Sorry, as I felt my cheeks turning crimson. Some of the guys began to clean up the aftermath of the party. The band finished their last set and started to break down the equipment. Darci and Jenn were falling asleep on the porch swing.

I leaned close and whispered to Yolanda. No one will ever believe what happened here tonight.

Yeah, it’s never dull at the Monrovia House.

Chapter 1

Located in the San Gabriel Valley at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, Monrovia, established in 1887, was a sleepy little farming town for most of its history. By the time we started grooving in high school in the 1960s, the walnut and orange orchards were mostly gone replaced with craftsmen-style houses and it was the only home I’d ever known.

Late in the summer of 1965, four of us were working at the Plumbing Company three nights a week. The club was a teenage dance spot in downtown Monrovia. On the weekends the club was a major draw for teenagers from all around the San Gabriel Valley. The pay didn’t amount to much, but the notoriety of our light show catapulted us from being targets for the in crowd to being minor local celebrities, no longer bullied or ridiculed for being different, which was something we all received too much of over the years.

Ah, geez, Skip, I complained. I can’t carry the new projector up the ladder, it’s too bulky. We need to rig up a basket and pulley system.

The equipment booth was twenty feet off the floor in the old plumbing supply warehouse. The space, now empty, was over six thousand square feet, making it a great place for a bandstand and dance floor. The office had been converted to a snack bar area with candy and fountain sodas.

Yeah, well, big guy, Fran, Bill, and I carried most of the everything else up there, already, Skip groused.

Ok, let’s take this machine apart, I’ll make three trips. We really should have a third projector in case one dies. Um, we also need to get spare light bulbs for the overhead projectors. We’re down to one.

Yeah, ok, Carrot, I know. Walter owes us for last week, so when he pays us, I’ll ask Fran to buy two extras.

Um, talking about money, rent on our Monrovia house is coming due next week. We can get everyone’s money tonight. I’m sure Johnny will be there, Skip said.

Well, I hope so. I’m still surprised that our parents have not found out that we’re renting a party house. Just as well. I know the rest of the guys will be here, Bill will have Jennifer in tow, as always. His sister Beth and her friend Darci will be wanting to go up in the booth, I bet. Skipper, I think Beth is sweet on you.

I loved to tease my long-time best friend, Skip Cannon, he is the second son of Ruth Cannon, a single mother of two, Skip and Dennis, her oldest son. Ruth managed a large thrift store in Pasadena. The Skipper was like an over-amped monkey from The Wizard of Oz: he rarely sat still. Skip cobbled together most of our light show equipment. Last year he bought a used milk delivery truck, which he painted with psychedelic colors and patterns, with Crystal Flesh emblazoned on both sides of the large, boxy covered back end. His straight brown hair was cut in a Buster Brown style. Skip wore thick dark rimmed glasses all his life, his mind was quick, like a lightning strike. He had the slightly twisted mind of a court jester and the quick tongue of an ambulance chasing a big city lawyer.

Er, wow! Beth? Give me a break, please! She’s cute, but I think her father doesn’t like me much, Skip responded to my jab. Sr. doesn’t like anyone, especially long hair hippy types, like most of his kids’ friends. Beth and Bill Jr. are lucky to live with her their mother.

Joan McCain, the eternal bombshell debutant type of woman, beautiful beyond her years, and her husband divorced a few years before. Bill’s girlfriend, Jennifer, had been his constant companions since the second grade. They planned to marry after graduation. He was tall and had the chiseled good looks of a rodeo star and lumberjack’s facial hair like his father. His gentle heart and his blond hair came from his mother. Bill embraced the winds of change blowing through America as we all did. He drove an old beat-up Ford woody station wagon. At eighteen years old, like his friend Fran, they were older than the rest of us.

Er, geez, Fran will be here tonight and his girlfriend Sherry for sure, I reminded Skip. He’ll want money for the electric bill that will be coming soon. Um, you know how he has always worried about stuff like that.

Yeah, he trips me out. He’s like having an overbearing Jewish accountant for a friend. I know the house and utilities are in his name, but we never left him holding the bag.

Fran Zakarian had twin older sisters who took after their father, Amil. Built like a Russian weightlifter, he was thick and stocky with hands calloused by years of working with galvanized pipe. His son Fran had long black hair and was slightly built, like Karen, his mother, a classical violinist. Fran’s love of music was fostered by her. He was an accomplished musician, playing the piano and guitar and was in the Monrovia High School Band. His parents moved to the United States from central Europe with Karen’s father, Mr. Baghdasaryan, who was wounded in World War I and paralyzed on his left side. Sounding like a Bulgarian taxi driver from Sofia, he spoke with a heavy accent. He loved to tell us stories about his youth as smoke from marijuana he grew himself curled up from his long, curved pipe, carved from wood and in-laid with ivory. We liked to listen to his tales and sometimes, maybe steal a bud or two . . . sometimes.

Yeah, well, if we want to have a party before school starts, we still need to talk things over with everyone. Your mom was great hooking us up with most everything for the house. Especially the TV stereo console. Wow, it’s almost brand new! But we have to get a few more items to make it comfortable. Um, Johnny said that he had a large parachute we could staple to cover the cracked ceiling in the front room. I hope he remembers to bring it with him tonight.

Yeah, well, I want to get his thoughts about our first party. Maybe he can invite some of the girls he says he knows. I sure would like to meet some girls that go to a different school, Skip sighed.

As for me, my friends have always called me Carrot because of my curly red hair. But my parents named me David. I’m the only child of Ron and Betty Kettles. They too, are redheaded and both are PHD professors at Pasadena City College, teaching there for years. Mom taught second year English Literature; Dad taught Geology. I grew up in a forward-thinking, academic household without a TV. They had many friends of different religious denominations, all highly educated. I’ve been happy and content as an only child.

Ah, well, Johnny said that he wanted to get his Chevy to the car wash first, then he’d stop by. You know how much he loves that car. Um, I’ve been thinking, I really don’t want any of those jerk jocks or hair spray queens in our house, they have always been a bunch of stuck ups. The house should be our happy place that we share only with friends, I declared.

Yeah, well, I feel the same way Skip agreed. I just want a groovy place we can enjoy without anyone putting us down. Er, I guess wanting a party is just a way for me, um, us to show off how cool we’ve become.

Yeah, Skipper, remember that the Buddha says we should be humble. Ah, but I know how you feel. Let’s finish up and get back to the house and empty your milk truck. It’s really far out how much stuff your mother gave us from the thrift store.

The house was just a few minutes away from the club; Monrovia wasn’t that large of a town. When we were younger, we rode our bikes all through the tree- lined streets of sleepy neighborhoods creating mischief and looking for soda bottles we could return for deposits. It was a safe burg in which our parents and their friends had their families and chased the American Dream.

Ok, I’ll take care of this. You go find our friend Walter, for our pay. He owes us one hundred- sixty dollars total, for three nights’ work from last week. I’ll be waiting in the truck. Be sure to lock the back door, Skip reminded me.

I locked the door and walked to the truck counting out Skip’s share. Here’s your money man. Don’t spend all in one place. Laughing, I handed him four tens.

Wow, groovy, thanks, now I only need another twenty to cover my share of the month’s expenses for the house. Fran will be happy.

The truck started right up. Skip reversed out of the car park behind the club to make the short drive to our pad. The truck fit Skip’s persona of himself: not much to look at, but strong running, and loud. It drew a lot of attention driving down the street and Skip loved the recognition.

Rubbing the dashboard, Skip said, I’ve almost put together components for a stereo eight track player for my truck, with eight speakers. I can’t wait to be able to play music when we’re on the road.

We arrived at the house quickly and pulled into an empty driveway. The guys had all parked in the street, so Skip didn’t block them in. Beth and Darci sat in the three-person swing on one side of the front porch. On the other side of the porch Bill and Fran sat in the two rounded wicker chairs with overstuffed, dark blue seats and back rests. Behind the furniture were two large picture windows on either side of the entry door that sported a large oval, beveled glass window. Faded blue lace curtains decorated them all.

Well, I hope you guys brought some tacos for us. I’m hungry, Beth gushed, bouncing on the swing, holding out her arms, clasping hands looking like a cute, starving, buff-breasted, baby blue bird.

Ah, geez, Beth, you’re always hungry! Do you ever eat anything besides tacos? Skip joked.

Yeah, well, I like cheeseburgers too! Um, and I really love the cheese Danish Johnny brings from his bakery. Has anyone heard from Johnny, lately?

The phone in the kitchen began to ring. Sherry answered, Hey, Carrot it’s Johnny! Come get the phone.

I went inside and turned the volume down, as Peter, Paul and Mary wailed, If I had a Hammer on the stereo. Ola Johnny! What’s up, I asked. Hanging up, I walked back to the front porch. Johnny is going to be here in a little while. He had to check in with his parents. He thinks that throwing a party is the wrong thing to do. Having a lot of kids here would just leave us with big a mess. We should tell people to meet us at Edward’s Drive-inn.

Well, I think that Johnny is right. We gotta keep things low-key here so not to upset the neighbors, Skip remarked. Let everyone get comfortable with us being on the block before we throw a raging party.

Johnny was our voice of reason. He was the first-born of five boys John and Florence DeCarlo raised together along with Florence’s adopted nephew, Jim, who was six years older than Johnny. Johnny was tall, wide-shouldered, and handsome with dark wavy, longish hair. He attended a local Catholic all-boys high school and was looking forward to being a senior in the coming year. Like the rest of us, he was anxious to go out into the world alone. Overflowing with natural confidence none of us had, Johnny drove a 1962 red Chevy Impala. All the girls loved Johnny and wanted to ride in his car. He worked part time at Federico’s Italian Bakery, from which he kept his family supplied with fresh baked treats. Johnny was our go-to man when we need to find something, anything.

Agreeing with Skip and Johnny about the party, I said, Yeah, um, we don’t want to give Lt. Bill Sr. any reason to roust us. Bill, you know how your dad has a hard-on for us since we started working the club.

Yep, my dad is worried that the long-haired, pot smoking, hippy, and Love is the Answer movement will destroy his America. So, yeah, we want to keep him away from here.

Fran was smiling, I was worried about turning this place into a party pad. Collecting everyone at the drive-in is a better idea and it’ll keep our costs down here at home. Having a crowd here would be a bummer.

Um, speaking of pot-smoking hippies, Skip giggled, I was hoping that Johnny has a connection for some reasonably priced pot. I want some for the weekend.

Reaching in my pocket I pulled out a roll of money, Wow, I almost forgot, Walter paid us today for last weekend. Here’s your money, guys.

Good timing! We need to pay the rent tomorrow, Fran reminded us, and the rest of the bills will come next week.

Resonating from the stereo in the front room, the Rolling Stones warbled their rendition of the song Money.

Chapter 2

It was still light when JD showed up. We heard the deep rumble from that big dual four barreled Chevy as he downshifted third to second rounding the corner. I bet the neighbors loved his car. He pulled in behind the milk truck in the driveway and shut off the engine. JD was singing Paint it, Black with Mick on the car stereo. He looked in the rear view ran a hand thru his hair and hopped out.

We’ve been in the house for two weeks; the utilities and phone were turned on in Fran’s name. He and Bill were on the porch as JD bounded up the three stairs and plopped down on the swing. I was in the living sorting the ever-growing pile of records on the floor in front of the stereo. We had each had put our individual names on albums that we brought to the house. I built a three-tiered shelf from 6’ long 1x12" pine boards and cinderblock bricks, to keep them organized. This responsibility fell to me, and I reminded everyone to please put them back in order. I also oversaw collecting rent and upkeep monies for the houses’ expenses. I called out to everyone for an ante of money so Johnny could go see his connection. We had tallied up $5.00 each. Putting the four fives in his Roy Rogers autographed billfold, Johnny went into the kitchen to make the call.

Fran was going to cook some popcorn, one of his specialties. Beth, Bill’s sister, laying on a table bench, was on the phone talking to one of her many girlfriends. JD gave her a gentle kick on her butt with a black hi-topped basketball shoe. Frowning, slapping his leg, she got up saying, I’ll have to call you back. JD needs the phone. Standing up she put the receiver in the cradle of the black wall-phone. Turning, she pushed herself against his back. Making fists, she pounded on his shoulders playfully showing her distain. She was Bill’s sister and became a permanent fixture, taking full advantage of the house and all of us. Sweet, beautiful little Beth was trouble waiting to happen and we all knew it. She bumped Johnny with her hip as she turned and exited the room.

Holding the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, JD dialed the phone with one hand, holding an unlit cigarette with the other, as he waited for someone to come on the line. Lighting his Marlboro, he pulled in big drag. Exhaling a cloud, he said hello into the mouthpiece and asked for Darius, Tell him It’s Tony.

From the kitchen I could hear every word he spoke over Fran’s pan shaking. After a ten-minute conversation he hung up and walked back into the front room.

Who is Darius and who the fuck is Tony I inquired.

JD pulled on the straps of my bib overalls. I’m glad you asked, ‘cause, Carrot, you’re riding shotgun with me. We grabbed a couple of Cokes and went out to his Chevy.

We had to pull Beth out of the front passenger bucket seat. I want to come along. You can buy me a taco, I’m hungry.

No, JD replied, be good and I’ll pick some up you and the rest of the gang. Carrot and I have something to fetch, and we’ll be back soon. I slid in and shut the door pulling it from Beth’s hands. She opened her month to speak, but Johnny cut her off saying, It’s business, stay here.

Turning the ignition, the V8 came alive with a growl as we reversed out the driveway. Where are we going? I asked.

We’re going to South Pasadena, so buckle up buttercup. I need you for backup, he said quietly smiling while pushing in an 8-track tape of Bob Dylan. Volume up, Bob cried, Like a Rolling Stone. The Chevy cruised valiantly thru heavy traffic. JD put his seat back and drove with his left hand while his right was on the black 8-ball knob floor shift for the Chevy’s 4 speed transmission. Keeping to the speed limit, JD side eyed left and right as cars passed us. We traveled down Colorado Boulevard, Pasadena’s main street. Not many cars out, it was dinner time on a Thursday evening. The lighted shops, restaurants, businesses, and a few night clubs that lined either side began to thin out the farther east we drove down the Boulevard and the neighborhood became dark and somewhat run down. Making a right, JD parked to the curb in the middle of the block across from a dimly lit, small three-story older apartment building.

Opening his door, he said, Don’t look so worried. Let’s roll.

On the wall next to the stairs there was a directory of tenants. There were two units on each floor. Toward the bottom, it listed; Apt #4 - Darius. We climbed two flights; number four faced the street. A light turned on in front of us and we knocked on the door. A muffled voice called out from within, Tony that you and who is the big guy you’re with?

Yes, it’s me. This is Red, he’s a friend, he’s cool. The door slowly opened into the hall; we took a step back in unison. Inside, in a wheelchair was an older clean-shaven, casually dressed black man. Behind him was a tall young, balloon-haired, pretty woman. She was also black.

Darius, Yolanda, you guys are looking good! Johnny exclaimed.

Tony, it’s good to see you again! Come in, he said looking questionably at me. The girl behind the wheelchair put a baseball bat down next to the door and pulled her father back into their nicely appointed living room. JD did a fist, knuckle bump handshake with Darius.

This is one of my partners, Red. Red these are two of my friends, Darius and his oldest daughter, Yolanda, JD said.

We sat down and Yolanda lit a big fat joint. Want to try before you buy? I relaxed some, took a hit and took the sweet smelling, tightly-rolled doobie from her. We hung out awhile, Yolanda poured us some freshly made cherry Kool-Aid. Darius asked Johnny to follow him into the next room. Leaving me and Yolanda to small talk, we shared the rest of the excellent joint, while we looked each other up and down.

They returned, sat down, and re-lit that doob of which we had smoked less than half. DeCarlo thanked Darius and they fist bumped again, giving each other a manly hug. We said our goodbyes and quick stepped back to the car. As we got in Johnny put a medium brown paper bag in the center console. Together, strapped into our bucket seats, we sat laughing and giggling under the desired effects of the joint for a couple of moments. We were stoned. I reminded Johnny we needed to get Beth a taco.

I stopped laughing long enough to question, Tony, when do we get to visit Yolanda again? JD shifted flawlessly into 4th. Lighting a cigarette, adjusting the volume, Hey Gyp a song by Donavan was on the radio singing about bartering a Chevrolet for some love.

Not looking in my direction he answered, Well, you see, sometimes Red, I use an alias when dealing with new connections. Earlier this past summer I met Yolanda at a Love-In. We got high, danced, and grooved together awhile in the park. She needed a ride home and, like you, Red, I was hoping to get lucky. But her dad and sister Ida were home. Yes, she is a very righteous mama, JD said, You’ll see her again, Red. He turned his head towards me, smiling, winked, and said, Tacos.

We pulled up at Pup-n-Tac and got in line at the drive-up window. A slow night, not many people waiting. Can I get your order, a disembodied voice spoke to us form a smiling mustard colored fiberglass dog.

Six tacos and four chili dogs please, JD barked.

The dog asked, Anything to drink?

I said, Doctor Pepper. JD grimaced at me and told the dog to fetch a large Coke and a large Pepper. As we pulled up to the pickup window, I told Johnny that I had coin.

Won’t need any if we’re lucky, he said. A young man at the window, who, upon seeing the lowered red Chevy, leaned out, waving. Pulling up, JD exclaimed Bink! Crawling far out the driver’s side they did a thumb grip side slap handshake. Our food was comped to us from Bill MacFarland, Bink a classmate from La Salle High School where Johnny attended. It seemed that DeCarlo had many friends. Putting the bags on the floor in the back, we eased onto the Boulevard.

Back in the driveway, I grabbed the food, JD put the bag from the car’s console nonchalantly under his t-shirt. We climbed the stairs and went inside. Help by the Beatles filled the house. Beth had about half of the record albums spread across the floor. I put the food on the empty power line spool that was our coffee table and turned, angrily eyeballing the mess Beth made of my efforts. As I opened my mouth to chastise her, Johnny behind me said, So do you want Yolanda’s number? I felt my skin turn a brighter crimson than normal. I followed him to the kitchen, as did everyone else. There he pulled out the brown bag from inside his t-shirt and produced a large plastic baggie full of pot. With a pen he wrote the phone number on the paper bag, crumpled it, and tossed to me. Her last name is Washington; her younger sister’s is Ida. I went out with Ida a few times. They both would be a handful for you, Red!

Beth floated thru the door asking, Who’s Red?

We emptied the contents of the plastic bag on a cookie sheet pan. Smells good. Let’s split it, Fran said, producing a triple beam gram scale, officially property of Monrovia High’s chemistry lab.

JD passed out the food watching Fran work the scale. At the table, Beth, with her best puppy dog eyes, asked for mild hot sauce for her taco. Luckily, Bink, had loaded us up with all kinds of extra sauces, several sets of plastic utensils and a pile of napkins. Everyone came to the kitchen table filling the benches, grabbed at the food as I passed out some soda from our ice box.

Fran found four sandwich bags to put the weed in and passed it out