thing going.
“I’ll go check it out,” Boone says.
“You go check it out,” the kettle-weight guy says with this weird, smarmy smile.
So I guess we agree on that, Boone thinks.
I’ll go check it out.
54
It’s an article of faith among surfers in SoCal that you journey east of Interstate 5 at your own risk.
Nowhere is this more true than in San Diego County.
In fact, a lot of people make a clear distinction between San Diego County and the fictional “East County,” its eastern portion, the latter, rightly or wrongly, having a rep for crystal meth, biker bars, and the Southern California version of rednecks. Sticking with the stereotypes for the moment, west of the 5 you have stoned-out surfers smoking weed, east of the 5 you got jacked-up gearheads spitting tobacco.
So Boone drives east, thirty miles out to the town of Lakeside, up in the barren hills just north of Interstate 8.
Lakeside is cowboy country.
No, actual, real cowboys—hats, boots, big-belt-buckle cowboys—forty-five minutes from downtown San Diego. The bars out here have pickup trucks in the gravel parking lots, built-in toolboxes in the beds, and dogs chained to eyebolts to keep people from lifting the tools while the owner’s inside having a few beers.
The 14 Club is your classic cinder-block bunker. The small windows have been painted black to keep cops, wives, and girlfriends from peeking in. The small “14” sign is hand-lettered, red on black. There’s dozens of these joints in “East County”—hard-drinking caves for hardworking guys looking to blow off a little steam at the end of the day.
Yeah, except—
Boone walks through the door and the music is
Bass like resuscitation paddles.
And it ain’t Merle Haggard, either, or Toby or Travis or who the hell ever. It’s slamming heavy-metal “punk,” for lack of a better description, and the clientele aren’t cowboys, they’re skinheads. Doc Martens, suspenders, T- shirts, tatts, the whole nine.
Which is surprising to Boone because he thought that scene died a well-deserved death years ago. Great, he thinks, now we have
skinheads. I guess everything comes back in style sooner or later.
Boone, in his faded Bullhead jeans, black Hurley T-shirt, and an old pair of Skechers, feels distinctly out of place.
SEI.
The skins are slamming to the music and they are
on beer and speed. This scene could get ugly—ugli
, Boone reconsiders—in a heartbeat. He looks around and spots Mike Boyd leaning backward on the bar, a bottle of beer in his hand, watching the scene, and nodding with approval.
Boone pushes his way through the crowd and makes his way to Boyd.
“Hey!” Boone shouts over the music.
Boyd looks only a little surprised to see him, but then again, he also looks about half shit-faced. “Three times in one day! To what do I owe the honor?! And how’s your neck?!”
“Still attached to my head!” Boone answers. “Just barely!”
“Tap out next time!”
Yeah, “next time,” Boone thinks. Ain’t gonna be no next time, Mikey.
“How’d you find me?!” Mike yells.
“Your boys clued me! I hope that’s cool!”
“You’re welcome here!” Mike says, tapping his fist to Boone’s. “
welcome!”
“What
here?!” Boone asks. “What is this?!”
“You know ‘14’?!” Boyd asks.
Boone shakes his head.
“You will!” Boyd says. “When you find yourself, who you really are, your identity!”
Okay, Boone thinks, this is getting seriously weird.
“Why did you come here, Boone?!”
Good question, Boone thinks, his head already throbbing from the concussive noise. Boone’s musical tastes run to Jack Johnson, Common Sense, Dick Dale, maybe a little surf reggae or some good Hawaiian slack key. This shit is killing him. I must be getting old, he thinks, grousing about how loud the kids play their so-called music.
Next stop, the Gentleman’s Hour.
He doesn’t know how to answer Boyd’s question. Like, what’s he supposed to say—that he’s hinky Boyd has shown up twice in the same case? That he wonders what the nexus is among the Rockpile Crew, Team Domination, and Corey Blasingame?
As it turns out, Boyd answers his own question.
“You came here,” he says, “for the same reason that salmon swim upstream!”
“To spawn?!” Boone asks. “I don’t
so, Mike!”
There are some girls here, but they’re way too young and not at all Boone’s type. Pale, skinny, blond “East County” chicks, wearing black jeans over boots and hanging all over their skinhead boyfriends? No spawning for me, Mike.
“To fulfill your natural destiny!” Boyd answers.
Seriously, seriously,
weird.
Anyway, Boone thinks, my natural destiny is to surf until I have to gum my fish tacos and hopefully topple over in a wave.
West of the 5.
Speaking of 5, what’s the tatt about?
And what’s up with this “14” shit?
The music picks up—picks
—in intensity and the skins start slamming each other, chest-bumping, head-butting—retro, retro, retro—as the lead guitar wails the same chord over and over again, and then Boone picks up on the lyrics.
