25th & Imperial

25th & Imperial 

  The three young black men walked into the Safeway supermarket on Easter Sunday afternoon, quickly spreading out to corral the startled shoppers. Each carried a sawed off shotgun. I was renting a room in an old two story house from an eccentric black woman named Cleo Mobley. The house was four blocks from the Safeway store in an area known as Logan Heights. But the story really began six months earlier.....

   I was transferring from my junior college to San Diego State with a plans to become a dentist. The two years spent prior to the move to SDS were a scattered mess. I tried marine biology, English literature, various science courses even graphic design, searching for a direction. I had visited San Diego many times in my youth and the connection was mysteriously powerful. One major reason was the Navy presence and the numerous warships. The other reason was I had relatives who lived there. But the Navy and Marines were a fascinating component because I had watched so many movies about the two World Wars.

   My three roommates were..... grad student, Alex Cohen (the Jew), handsome Augustin Mack (Warren), redhead Michael McNamara (Ginger), and me (the Kraut). Alex had hung those monikers on each of us. Ms. Mobley was “queen of the manor”, who didn’t “allow no womin’ upstairs... no how”. She would come by weekly on Fridays to collect the $25 rent from each of us, bringing a whole frozen chicken for us to later cook during the weekend, and then proceeded to clean house. She was employed by a wealthy family in LaJolla to keep their home in good order. We all absolutely adored her.

   The Logan Heights area of San Diego was at the time 90% Black and 10% Mexican. We used to call ourselves “the White Island”, at least that was what Alex called us. It wasn’t an exceptionally high crime area and we felt safe enough to come and go at all hours. It was at the height of the Vietnam war, marijuana was everywhere, and rock music was in its golden age. It was my first experience living away from my parents and frankly I was very naive with borderline immaturity. In so many ways it was a magical feeling to be alive, when suddenly it wasn’t.

Augie was from Zibo, China he told me after many attempts to find out where he was born, not that I cared or needed to know, but I kept sensing his resistance. He was tall by Asian standards nearly 6’ and a wide inviting grin that was very disarming for many coeds. He seemed to believe that Cleo’s ban on women upstairs was a challenge that drove him to numerous violations each week. We often called him “Warren” after the notorious actor/ playboy Warren Beatty. Speaking impeccable English, stylishly dressed, and a charming voice that women of all kinds succumbed to his pitch. I liked him but I didn’t know why, for the true Augie remains elusive. Many times when I arrived in the afternoons after classes, I’d find Michael and Augie at the kitchen table seemingly in a serious conversation, but my appearance would break the spell and awkward silence would ensue. After Michael’s death, Augie didn’t seem to miss a beat. I thought that maybe he’d experienced loads of death during his life and learned to suppress his emotions.

   The ginger haired Michael was from the same high school as me but we were barely acquainted even though we had been schooled together since first grade. It’s strange to say that now, knowing what finally happened to him. Maybe I should have been a better person or better roommate or better something. “The Beatles”White album had recently been released, Michael was enamored with it, listening for hours on end especially “Revolution 9” with his headphones encompassing his skull like some futuristic implant. You’d hear him mumbling sometimes..... “number nine....number nine “. It’s still really funny to me even now and makes me feel like he’s not really gone.

   As Michael lie on the floor in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood, his final thoughts must of been of his twin sister Maureen. They virtually raised themselves since they were twelve. Mom was an eradic alcoholic who was for the most part passively incoherent. Their father was MIA since their infancy. I still remember that day when he asked each of us if we needed anything from the grocery store. It’s something that none of us ever asked before... We were all so indifferent about meals and our eating habits. The robbery was in full swing when he walked innocently into the store and surprised one of the gun toting young men. Surprised, the gunman turned around and fired reflexively. Michael was only a few feet away and the blast knocked him back into the row of shopping carts. Unfortunately he was mortally wounded and was slowly, painfully bleeding to death.

   We didn’t know anything about what was happening until the local Sunday evening news. Alex was fervent about the news and continually berating us for our lack of interest in daily coverage of the Vietnam war. He was an activist in the peace movement. After the latest segment on the war was over, he rolled a joint to begin his nightly discussions about current affairs. I had never smoked pot before until a couple of months back when I received my draft notice during the summer having let my deferment lapse. Suddenly on the TV was a special report from a helicopter flying over the Safeway store. The reporter began filling in the few details. We could now hear the helicopter circling overhead of us. For the moment we had forgotten about Michael. Alex passed the joint to me and I inhaled deeply. Augie came downstairs asking about Michael and the groceries.....immediately a huge smothering pall fell over us. As a group of roommates we were certainly different but the tragedy struck each one of us with varying degrees of magnitude. We all dispersed relatively quickly and easily, moving out and never to connect again. Our little rental family died just as surely and unexpectedly as Michael.

   The funeral that never happened was a disappointment to me. His body, after the autopsy, was cremated. The ashes were shipped to his sister Maureen in Texas. I tried calling her numerous times and eventually the phone was disconnected. Even after all these years I have an empty feeling that I can’t get a grasp on, like there’s unfinished work to be completed or something like that....