A Couple from Venice Beach

A chick I met a couple of days ago lives in a garage with her boyfriend in Venice Beach, and they’re letting me crash here, with my sleeping bag on the floor. Her name is Nance, and his name is Steve. He tells me we are close to a Black Panther headquarters and a Hells Angels chapter. I tell him that’s really groovy, man, and he says, no, not really. A few nights ago, he tells me, a couple of Panthers kicked open the side door to the garage and pointed a shotgun at his nose. He says he ducked behind the mattress and shows me the hole in the wall, but I’m not sure I believe anything he tells me. I ask him why would they do that, and he says because he was fucking a black chick. Nance laughs and says he better not be doing that anymore.

Steve and Nance shoot some smack, without offering me any, then start fucking like they forgot I’m here. I’m sitting three feet away, considering masturbating. Heroin is synonymous with limp dicks, but Steve looks ready to fuck the shot-gunned hole in the wall. It’s after midnight when I go for a walk, and the streets are dark and quiet. I can feel the ocean breeze and the thump of the waves. On a busted-up sidewalk I find a dead bird or maybe an old flattened shoe that missed the trash.

The moon is friendly, and I’ve got the Doors’ "Whisky Bar" in my head. Closer to the ocean is a block of buildings up next to the sand, with arches and pillars that look 100 years old. On a corner curb are two longhaired guys and a girl in paisley-patched bell bottoms. The girl says, hey, you got a fag? I tell her, yeah, sure, and tap a Kool King out of the box. She’s tiny and bone-thin and her hair is a mess. She’s wearing a bikini top and sandals. Her teeth are bright white and perfect, and she smells of patchouli. I ask her name, and she tells me Sparrow. She asks my name, and I tell her Scotty.

“You got a light, Scotty?”

The two guys watch us with their hands in their pockets. They both have ratty sun-bleached blond hair. I light Sparrow’s cigarette, and her hands are dirty, her fingernails chewed. She asks me what am I looking for?

“Nothing. I’m not really looking for anything, you know. I was thinking I’d walk down to the beach.”

“This is the beach.”

“Yeah. I mean the water.”

“Hey,” one of the guys says. “You want to buy some shit?”

“I don’t really have any money. What kind of shit?”

“What’s it matter what kind of shit,” Sparrow says. “If you don’t have any money.”

"Yeah, well,” I say. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

I walk down to the wet sand and the waves and conjure rock-star fantasies on the dark horizon. Ten minutes later, back on the street corner, Sparrow and the two guys are gone. Up above, a noisy police helicopter hits me with a round beam, and I raise my fist and flip up my middle finger. A block later a patrol car finds me. Two cops get out and throw me against the hood and make me empty my pockets. They look at my Missouri driver’s license and shine a flashlight into my eyes. The tallest one has a head shaped like a bucket. He asks me would I like to spend the night in jail. I tell him, thanks, but no. He tells me he doesn’t want to see me around here again. He says next time he sees me he’s gonna put me in jail, or the hospital. As they drive away I flip them the bird and get ready to sprint through the alleyways if their brake lights start glowing.

I’ve been back in California for a couple of weeks when I drive to Venice Beach. The sun is low and gorgeous, Southern California light. The oceanfront is a thick party of sparsely dressed people. Marijuana smoke swirls in the open air, and some of it is mine. This is life full of color and without restraint. I’ve got my Contax camera and 85-millimeter lens. I make an exposure of a pudgy little kid by the women’s bathroom. I’ve got a roll of Kodachrome in my pocket and the tail end of a roll of Tri-X in the camera, so I walk down to the water to finish it off.

A guy leaning on a cinderblock wall is meditating, and I take a couple of shots. I take a picture of a little group of teenagers. A girl tells me I look like her brother except not as stupid. Back on the boardwalk I load Kodachrome and make a photo of a woman in a blue straw hat. I take a shot of a woman sitting alone with her shadow. I photograph a guy on his knees to a woman, pledging to be a better person.

I spy a cutie on roller skates watching the muscle guys lift weights. She’s got orange hair and freckles. She is older than I am with a twinkling of new wrinkles. I saunter up and smile, and she smiles back. She’s drinking a beer and asks me if I’m a photographer. I say, yeah, you wanna be a model? She tells me she already has a job, working in a sperm bank, and would I like to make a deposit? I’m asking her about penalties for early withdrawal when a drunk guy in a cowboy hat staggers over and says, hey, dude, take my picture 'cause I’m more prettier'n this skank. Turns out the drunk and the roller cutie know each other.

His name is Jerry, and hers is Polly. I back up and compose a picture. A German shepherd walks into the frame. Jerry says he’s gonna tongue Polly’s asshole, and then he tries and nearly topples them both. I take a couple shots, nudge Jerry out of the picture, and tell Polly we should spend some quality time together, just the two of us. She laughs and waves bye-bye and skates away with the sunlight on her backside. Jerry says, hey, I gotta piss, take a picture of me taking a piss.

Scot's first book, Lowlife, was released last year, and his memoir, Curb Service, is out now. You can find more information on his website.