Down Solo by Earl Javorsky Read Free Book Online Page A

looks ready to shoot or jump out the window. He moves to his right and his partner comes in gun first and motions for me to get on the floor.
    Jimmy looks from one cop to the other, then at his own gun, and says, “Shit,” and drops the gun and keels over.

10
    So now I’m riding a bus. I moved to LA with my family when I was five, and for the next thirty-five years never got on a bus. My choice. This bus is black and white, an LA County Sheriff’s bus, and choice isn’t in the equation.
    After Jimmy dropped the gun, the cops relaxed a bit and handcuffed us. They got paramedics out to handle Jimmy’s chest wound and strap him on a gurney, then they took us away separately.
    My wrists are chained together, ankles chained together, my shackles chained to the guy next to me, and I’m watching out the window as we roll toward downtown on Highway 10. There’s an odor I don’t even want to guess about. The bus slows down as the traffic congeals. A convertible comes down the on-ramp and into the lane next to us. The driver is a blond with a ponytail and mirrored shades. She’s chewing gum and moving to music that’s blasting from the car stereo, one slender arm resting along the back of the passenger seat. She’s wearing a skimpy halter top over what’s got to be ten thousand dollars’ worth of silicone.
    The biker-type in the seat ahead of me yells, “Hey, mamacita, you know what I got for you?” He’s got long greasy hair and a full beard, and now he’s standing with his crotch pressed up to the window, arching his back and flicking his tongue in and out of his open mouth.
    “What a fuckin’ asshole,” I say, to no one in particular.
    “S’matter, man, you don’t like chicks?” It’s the guy I’m manacled to, a heavily muscled Mexican with a pointy little goatee. “’Cause if you don’ like chicks, man, you goin’ to the right place.”
    Go fuck yourself
is what I want to say, but I stop myself. A series of X’s and 0’s alternate on the guy’s knuckles, and his biceps stretch the sleeves of his tee shirt. I turn my attention out the window to the road below.
    The blond looks up at us and waves her fingers. A bubble grows out of her mouth and then pops and disappears. The entire right side of the bus is lined with manacled prisoners staring down at her.
    “ALL RIGHT, IN YOUR SEATS!” a sheriff in the front of the bus yells at us from behind a Plexiglas barrier. Traffic loosens up and the convertible shoots ahead of us with a peeling of tires.
    There are more lowlifes on the bus than I’ve ever seen in one place, except maybe Hernando’s Bar out in Venice, and they’re in top form today. One of them yells out from across the aisle, “Hey sheriff, oink oink, is that a shotgun or are you just happy to see me?” The officer just stands there, stone-faced, staring straight down the aisle.
    Now we’re past the downtown interchange, heading out into the industrial flatlands, beyond the traffic, picking up speed, hurtling through the crappy landscape on our way to the county jail.
    We arrive and they order us out of the bus and into a single-line formation on the tarmac. From there we’re marched to the back entrance of the jail building and into a holding cell, where another sheriff orders us to stand in a circle with our backs to the walls. On our way in, a deputy takes off our shackles.
    A huge black guard enters with a clipboard in his hands. “All right all you model citizens,” he yells. “Listen up. Welcome back, as I’m sure most of you have been here before. If you follow directions, everything will proceed smoothly. If you do not follow directions, you will find yourselves in deeper shit than you are already in. Got it? Good. Now, I want each of you to remove all your clothing and place it in a nice little pile at your feet. NOW.”
    I start to take off my shirt. They took my watch and wallet, along with my cell phone and keys, when they booked me at the Marina substation. They must