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,
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.