Middle Men Read Online Free Page B

Because of the paydaycash situation, K-Mart employees were always getting mugged in the parking lot, usually by disgruntled ex-employees. Our supervisors encouraged a “buddy system” when leaving the premises. As we walked down to Bellflower Boulevard, she asked me how things were going at St. Polycarp. I began telling her about all the colleges who were recruiting me, but then we passed the Cal Worthington Ford dealership.
    â€œI want a Mustang,” she said suddenly, more to herself than me. “Black with a big-ass woofer in the trunk. Once I save enough for a down payment, I’m gonna go see Cal.”
    Just as we got to the bus stop, Tully rolled up in his Chevette.
    â€œThere you are,” he said to Jessica. He was wearing a blue blazer with a light blue turtleneck. Overton, in the passenger seat, was wearing an Air Force flight suit.
    â€œGet in,” Tully said. “We’re going on TV.”
    â€œWhat the fuck?” she said, laughing.
    â€œWally George!” said Overton, slapping the side of the car. “Come on, Pat. You too.”
    My mom was on her way to pick me up, but now all I could see was Jessica’s ass, bobbing in front of me as she climbed inside. I followed and Overton handed me a forty. Jessica seemed to know I wasn’t going to drink it. She grabbed the bottle from me and started chugging.
    â€œDamn,” said Overton, nudging Tully. “You were right about her.”
    Wally George was the host of Hot Seat , a conservative talk show on the local UHF station. A tall, cadaverous Reaganite with a platinum-blond comb-over, he interviewed pornographers, pacifists, socialists, homosexuals, dopers, punks,rappers, minorities, and all manner of human scum. His audience consisted mainly of drunken high school kids from Orange County, who were less concerned with ideological purity than with getting on TV and doing the pantomime for cunnilingus. The exception, tonight, would be Chris Pham, who, as Overton explained, was going with the sincere intention of throwing shit at Wally’s guest, a Vietnamese merchant in Garden Grove who had recently hung a Communist flag in the window of his donut shop. It made the local papers and Pham’s family had helped organize a boycott of his business.
    By the time we got to Anaheim, Jessica had finished another forty, and now she and Overton were drinking a jug of Sunny Delight spiked with gin. Pham was standing in line outside the studio with a bunch of family and friends. He handed us each a button with an American flag on it and, underneath, something written in Vietnamese.
    â€œThanks for coming,” said Pham. “It means a lot to me.”
    â€œI’m already fucked up,” said Overton.
    The parking lot was full of giant trucks, your basic OC Panzer division. A linebacker descended from the majestic heights of his Toyota 4-Runner. He saw some of his bros getting out of another truck and they all started broing out. The linebacker looked at everyone in line and said, “Go home, you fucking gooks!”
    Pham’s crew started screaming at him and giving him the finger.
    â€œThis is America!” said the linebacker.
    â€œYou dumb fuck!” said Tully. “Those gooks are on your side!”
    The linebacker and his bros stepped toward us.
    â€œShut up,” said Overton, kicking Tully’s leg. “They’ll kill us.”
    I just stood there. I was everybody’s favorite guy—thepassive sober observer. A couple security guards appeared. I thought they were going to break up the race riot, but instead they ushered everyone inside.
    Wally George’s set consisted of a desk, an American flag, a picture of the space shuttle, and an oil painting of John Wayne. Jessica walked to the top of the bleachers and puked. It was all foam. Next to her, a guy in a rainbow Afro wig turned away in disgust. “I need Gatorade,” she said, tugging at my red smock, which I had