Robert Hoglund, ‘65
Robert Hoglund, ‘65
“The Chilling Stare"
This story is a work of imagination, and fiction. None of the people are real. Copyright 2019, Paul E. Saevig. All Rights Reserved,



“The Chilling Stare"


Thompie Giddyup was a Sunny Hills sophomore already so tall he could tear fronds from Queen Palms with his outsized while teeth and chew them into a fine chartreuse mulch to spray-coat a stretch of Bastanchury from Malvern to Harbor in a howling rainstorm.


At 6 AM Saturday morning he phoned his buddy Maldo Flamebutton up by the lake to ask him, “How soon can you get down here? Let’s get high!”


“I don’t have any more pot!”


“I know! There’s another way!”


Thompie heard the other’s lavender Princess phone fall from Maldo’s tiny calloused hands to shatter on a gin-soaked 50,000 square foot parquet floor at Catalina near Terraza, and the soppy clop-clop-clop-clop of Maldo’s buckskin hip boots before he kickstarted his Honda SuperHawk.


Drawn to the circling Model Market falcons, Thompie cart-wheeled outside to his parent’s landing where he reached for another phone to call their pal Norvin Clayde in West Fullerton, who answered, and Thompie asked:


“Can you come right up?” 


“I’l get Cletus to bring me!”


The needed someone from outside their neighborhood to make sure the stare would take place. 


Kinetic energy sparked and cracked on the surface of Thompie’s skin, and the breakneck speed of his purple corpuscles   from his heart to his panther toes and back made a dangerous high tension wire growl along his spinal column, and people me found it so appealing, he had hundreds so friends. 


Hummingbirds jitterbugged across the planes of his shoulders as he waited and right away, he heard the minor key blast of  of Mally’s Honda violating Valencia Mesa at Richman Knoll   



“How do we do it?” Maldo demanded.  


“Brain Wave Rhythm Pulsation! You know how Josie Throttle just looks at some West Fullerton classmates as if they’re sow bugs that suddenly learned how to talk, or something? The way she stares right though them with no expression on her face and never says anything?”


“Of course! The Ice Maiden Stare!” 




When Thompie and Maldo became excited, they would often hop up and down like Labrador Rtrieer pups. 



“Well,  I talked to Screamo last night at Cloggo’s.  He’d heard that if you karma is right, you can stare into the sun, not directly into the sun, but off to one side, and the Indic energy  of the rays defracts the sacred energy of the sun dogs to bifurcate and triplicate  the rhyme of your triubunal brain waves! You get high,  IMMEDIATELY!” 


“So we’ll harness the energy of Jose Throttle’s Ice Maiden Stare, and get LO-O—O-O—O—OADED!” 


Cletus Clayde’s ‘52 Studebaker Champion screamed around the corner at Glen View, and Norvin tumbled out the passage side door like a movie stuntman, rolled a dozen times into a rose hedge, shook his head, leaped up and sprinted the last of the way.   


“Let’s go!”


They all three rode to Josie’s parents house on Hermosa Drive near  and Thompie knocked on the front door. 


“Hi, Mrs. Trottle! Is Josie there please?”


“She certainly is, Thompie!” Mrs Throttle said in yodely voice,  


Everyone from Golden Hill to the farthest reaches of Sunny Hills knew each other in a many as ninety thousand ancient ways, usually including since infancy when they ricocheted out of the mother’s wombs while Santa Ana winds retraced the windows.


Thompie and Maldo pushed Norvin into position where Josie would face hm, and when the door opened and she looked out, the two pals yanked him away and took his place, before her eyes where the adjusted to the light.   


She was slow to react, as anyone would be, compared to the two rascals.




She stared in an utterly blank way at them as if they were soggy  casseroles in the Lancer cafeteria, or members of the untouchable class who approached her in the library.




“I feel it! I feel it!” Maldo yelled, 


‘MAINTAIN! MAINTAIN! Let it all in!” Thompie exhorted him, and watched with satisfaction as his buddy’s eyes lost their focus and he staggered for with a faraway grin on his face. 


Thompie leaned close enough to smell her Josie’s baby powder. The peaches and cream purity of her complexion caught him in its tenterhooks, and he grasped her sleeves to moan:  


“Stare at me, Josie! Ignore me like barranca scum!”


His sensorium buckled under the Tilt-A-Wheel her blankness wrought, and felt his cerebral lobes pop open like a chopped cantaloupe.   


Josie stepped inside and closed the front door behind her.  


“I am so wasted,” Thompie sang. “My fingers feel like little golden tufts of baby fur on a giant queen polar queen’s buttock!”


Maldo laughed, Norvine Clayde  joined them, and soon the physical manifestation of their hilarity lifted them to hover above Rodeo and the gulch, a purple and orange fish kite dancing in a gentle roseate sky, 


Thompie hollered: 




Maldo took up the chant: 




Like Western movie Apaches they leaped onto their motorcycles to ride for breakfast of sacred grease by the sea.


Enveloped in a saffron haze of pachouli they hurtled across the coast, to and out to The Wedge, south to Killer Dana, San Onofre, making friends everywhere they went, and they would repeat their Ice Maiden Gaze intoxication, victors at last, unto their last high school reunion on the distant banks of the Nethe, when just as cold, just as blank a stare awaited them.