~ Across The Thin White Lines ~

by

Jim Green

Remember the Alamo--

I get almost to the holy-rollers’ church when, out from behind the building, comes one of those decorative oranges sailing by my ear--you know, the kind that looks so good but tastes so bad they’ll lock your jaws for a month. It hits the street and splatters. Then comes another and another.

I duck and run for cover. I see a couple of Mexican guys hiding under these orange trees. They’re chucking the sour fruit at white guys passing by. They’ve invaded our territory with a sneak attack. I creep around the corner of the building, grab me three or four oranges of my own and counterattack with stealth. One of my tosses catches the biggest guy right upside the head. It goes splat when it hits his temple, and he drops like a running Nazi being chased by a forty-five slug. Sour orange juice is all over his face and chest.

He and his friend have a big stack of ammo, though. By the time I get my ordinance dump started, orange colored rockets are flying by me in numbers.

When a couple of my friends, heading to the library to do homework, see me gathering my bombs, they come over to check out what’s going on. This Mexican guy they call Flaco fires a shot that whacks this friend of mine square between the shoulder blades. That’s all it takes.

In no time we’ve spread the word. Every guy that lives in my neighborhood is soon there. We begin to chuck and run. We chase the two Mexican guys across Main Street with the sour oranges flying like cannon balls.

They go for reinforcements. Soon they’re coming in packs. We recruit. One of their guys fires a rock the size of a plum that hits the pavement, sails across Main Street and bounces up, shattering the side window on some old guy’s car, while he’s having a few in the Wagon Wheel Lounge.

I break out the white flag. After a few minutes Flaco, whose about my age, sneaks out from behind a block wall, and we parley.

“What’s the deal?” he asks.

“Hey, man, one of your army fired a rock. He broke that car window. If we do that, Chief Lester’s gonna be all over us. Let’s keep it to oranges. When you guys get tired of having your faces splattered, you can go back on your side of town.”

“You’re talking tough, punk. Maybe we should settle it all by throwing chingasos instead of rocks.”

“We’ll fight you, but that’ll bring Chief Lester, too. I’m not ready to go before Judge Twitty. Are you? He’s likely to send us all to Juvy.”

“You’re probably right,” he says. “I don’t want to ever go back there. Been there once and that’s enough for me.”

“Okay,” I say to him, “we’ll keep it to oranges till we run out or until you guys quit, put your tails between your legs, and crawl home.”

“What you mean, you gringo punk!” Flaco begins to back up. “We’re gonna orange your whole side of town. Viva Pancho Villa!” he yells as he turns and runs.

“Remember the Alamo!” I cry as both sides unload a volley that turns the clear afternoon sky to orange, above the thin white lines on Main Street.