Andy Jenkins

"BY ANDY JENKINS"

As a creative writer, Jenkins tends to blur the line between fiction and non-fiction with his prose. He has been published extensively in short story anthologies, both in print (Little Engines, Life & Limb) and online (Smokebox, Open Letters), with regular columns appearing in periodicals, Level (UK) and Monster Children (Australia). One of Andy's pieces is currently being made into a short film by a production company in Australia. Jenkins is the founder of the publishing company, Bend Press, where he works as the CEO, creative director, editor, head of marketing and janitor.

Andy's current book, "What Happened" (2017) is a collection of his short stories. A compendium consisting of over a dozen short yarns, four of which are featured below.

“BIG IN JAPAN”
 

“Jenkins!”

“Jason! What’s up? New issue treating you well?”

“No one in Japan reads English.”

“Huh?”

“We’re doing an all Japan issue.”

“Oh.”

“Which brings me to the reason I called… can you make your article Japan-centric this time around?”

“Aaah, I’ve never been to Japan.”

“Good, good. It’s due next Monday.” Click.

Lunch was coming up, maybe I’ll go to that noodle spot in Carson and try to glean some Japanese culture.

I did. It was good. Nothing happened. Everyone was super nice and polite.

The next day I ventured out to the well-known Mitsuwa Market in Torrance. It’s a Japanese mall complete with grocery store, food court and a bookstore. The books are all in Japanese and I like the look of the Japanese characters, so I bought an edition of Bukowski’s “Women.” I couldn’t read it, of course, but it looked good.

I met him once, Charles Bukowski. Well, I saw him. At a pseudo Chinese restaurant (I know, Chinese doesn’t count) in San Pedro were we both happened to live. Truth be told, he was one of the reasons I moved to Pedro. We both ordered the buffet. When he got up to get more food, I made my way over. He was a tall man. As I walked toward the buffet I remembered how much he hated being approached. I pretended not to even notice him — much like he was doing to me. Better that way.

A few years ago, I was with my wife at a bar — some pseudo tiki place (again, not a Japanese bar) and we almost literally ran into the actor, Rob Lowe. She bumped right into him and the first words out of her mouth were, “ROB LOWE!” He turned around quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

Then there was the time when I actually talked to one of my heroes, Tom Waits. — I know, you’re not supposed to talk to them.

We were at a really large wedding. It was after the ceremony and we both somehow wound up sitting on some porch steps together. He talked to me first, so what could I do?

“Is that your kid?” he asked nodding towards my son.

“Yup. Is that your kid?”

“It is.”

They were “playing” on the lawn underneath a giant tree. His son was a couple years older than mine and was giving mine a hard time. I didn’t say anything… it was Tom Wait’s son after all and we were in the midst of creating a memory.

Tom casually shouted out, “Casey give the kid a break.”

They kept on playing.

This was nowhere near Japan.

It was Napa Valley.

“BLITZKRIEG BOP”

As a 7 year-old, my mom took us from Florida to Spain for a family visit. We had a layover in London, and at some point we found ourselves on a double-decker bus. I was tired, but at every sway and bounce of the blundering vehicle, I would awaken when my head konked against the window. It must have been amusing to the other passengers.

Now, years later, I’m on the bus again. The Metro. With my car broke and my money tight, becoming a passenger was pretty much the way to go.

Every weekday morning I pay my $1.75 and take a seat in, what imagine to be, a sort of purgatory between driving a car and shuffling along the sidewalk with a shopping cart.

Every ride has its own personality. Loud, restless, contemplative… depending on the time of day, or the weather. Maybe the moon. There are old people, young people, kids, fat folks, skinny, tall, short, etc. of many different persuasions. You will hear multiple languages during one ride.

Each bus has its own smells as well. The Talcum Powder Lady. Cigarette and Sweat Guy. And today, the Old Woman whose scent could not be ignored. People opened windows, changed seats. A young black man wearing a fluorescent orange community service vest spoke up, “Smells like butt up in here!” But no one laughed. Her multiple layers of mismatched clothing, ratty finger-less gloves and matted hair demanded a sort of empathy created by ignoring her.

After a few months of riding, the novelty wears off. I yawn a lot. Once, a tiny stream of water exited my mouth, over the seat, and onto a sleeping man's exposed neck. He didn’t wake up.

People sleep. Some pretty hard. I kept an old man from falling over into the aisle. For a heartbeat, I thought he was dead.

Most folks are quiet, some talk to others, some to themselves.

“I smoked marijuana for 40 years just to put up with my husband. Bastard.”

“Excuse me! You have a bit of toilet paper coming out of your pants."

“We got the good, the bad and the ugly on here today!”

“Fuck you and your stanky ass!”

Most just sit with the 1000 mile stare.

Some listen to songs quietly through their earbuds.

Some don’t.

At the Normandie stop, a scruffy kid in a school uniform climbed in with his phone on blast — no ear buds — playing the Ramones. Singing along. Loudly.

“HEY HO, LET’S GO! HEY HO, LET’S GO.” Repeat. Literally. The song was on repeat. “HEY HO, LET’S GO! HEY HO, LET’S GO.”

Surprisingly, no one said anything. I caught another rider’s eyes for a second and we acknowledged the absurdity of it by raising our eyebrows. The Kid held the phone to his ear and it went on and on for at least 15 minutes before people started to crack. One by one other phones started cranking up the volume in a sort of retaliation. The news, rap, metal, kid’s music… you name it. A cacophony of noise. When Bitzkrieg Bop finally got off the bus everyone clapped and laughed. It got quiet again. People went back to sleeping, reading. Staring.

“THERE'S A WAR OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW”

I punched Jason Lee in the face.

Granted, it was a sort of slow-motion punch, it’s not like I kicked his ass. Not at all. But I did punch him — on the cover of a magazine. My fist, his face. It’s documented. Check the 2nd issue of Dirt. Jason probably doesn’t remember. It was years ago when he was skating for Blind and hanging out with Spike and Gonz.

I was punched in the face once as well. Just once. In High School. I say once, not because I became a bad-ass at defending myself. Just the opposite — from then on, I avoided confrontation of any kind. I didn’t like the feel of a fist touching me anywhere on my body, especially my teeth, nose or eyes. But there was this one time…

My friend, Ricky, had a shriveled left arm. He was born that way. I never gave him shit about it. Plenty of other people fucked with him, though. Those were the days way before the “Stop Bulling” campaigns. He took it. As far as I know, it didn’t bother him much, but then, we never talked about it. We never talked about anything except Devo, BMX and girls.

The bell to signal lunch was about to go off. We were sitting around a communal round table, wasting the waning minutes. I had a rubber band and was, of course, pointing it at everyone. I had no intention of letting it fly, but it released itself nonetheless and bounced right off Ricky’s glasses.

He hit me in the face with his good hand. Absolutely no hesitation. He hit me hard and fast.

As he connected, the bell rang and I ran out of the room holding my hands under my bleeding nose.

Had Ricky just channeled his anger onto my face?

It was embarrassing. I told my mom and dad I ran into a door.

Years and years later, I came close again. We were at a Dodger game in LA. A kid sitting next to me ran down to try and catch a ball thrown up into the stands by a player. He got it and returned to his seat with a huge smile on his face. We high-fived — keep in mind, his dad wasn’t there, he was off buying hot dogs or something. A few seconds later, a pudgy, stained-shirted man walked over and started hassling the kid from the row above and behind us.

“Hey, you stole that ball from my nephew. You need to give it to him.” This scared the kid badly. “Cough it up, you little thief, you don’t want to fuck with me.” I spoke up.

“Leave the kid alone. He caught the ball, it’s his, that’s how it works.”

“This is none of your business, asshole.”

My first thought was punching him in a place that’s much worse than the face. His nuts were right there at fist level. He kept on ranting and raving. I was ramping up to sock his danglies really hard. I’d never wanted to hit anyone this badly. Before I could, an usher came over and escorted him out.

I would never punch Jason in the nuts.