rudy can't fail

It's 1981 and there are too many of us piled into the back of someone's '67 Falcon rambling around West Hollywood on a Saturday night, trying to find the gay bar that: allows underage kids (a few of were 19 or 20), and: that plays punk and new wave music. Me, I've got my brother's green card (with a baby picture that looks just like me!), my black jeans and black sweatshirt, black high tops and a stomach full of black beauties and some sugary soda. I had just left high school for good that week. Everyone else (8 or 9 kids mashed up in the car) is, I believe, white, but appropriately "devo" as the surfers and cholos all call us. Short back and sides all around. Even the women, one of which sits in my lap facing me in the backseat (and me with no girlfriend). We had just pulled over to pick up "Rudy" who everyone said knew where this bar was. He was a cool one, apparently. "Glad you're a Mexican gay." She whispers in my ear. "Um...I'm not." I inform. Neither, I want to tell her. "Oh. Are you bi?" She smells of cigarettes and rum. "I dunno." I answer. I didn't know what that even meant. The car explodes into laughter. In my hyped-up state of confusion and lust, I realize that I really don't know any of these punks, and can't recall how I got into this car. This is one of those times I hate not driving. Not driving in LA = confessing to cannibalism. I mean, back in Culver City (an LA "suburb") I was one of the 3 or 4 "punkers"-as those NOT in the know called us-but here in Hollywood, this group put much of my posturing to shame. I felt a hand (not my lap partner) grab between my legs, followed by a loud male voice: "PACKAGE CHECK!" More laughter. The voice says "No reaction. He's not bi or gay." More laughter. "My hand is named Rudy, just like me." "Uh...Hi." I mutter. Can't see Mr. Grope. More laughs when Rudy answers: "Not yet!" The woman in my lap begins swaying to the tape playing. It's Bowie. Rudy barks: "Turn left here! It's Peanuts!" I envision Charlie Brown and the gang in punk attire, dancing. When we all ooze out of the car in the parking lot I only see a bunch of punk or "gay" looking people waiting in line to get in. No cartoon folk. No piano playing blondies. Rudy, much to my surprise, is a short, dark skinned Mexican punk. Looks a lot like Sal Mineo with an overbite. Rudy says: "Hold on." And goes to the bouncer. Some chatting. Comes back, grinning. "We're in." And just like that, New Wave Heaven. Over beer, dancing for two hours, plus some poppers we've managed to lose our car-mates, Rudy says to me: "So, can you give me a ride home? I live in Mar Vista." (15 miles away). Awkward moment of truth. "I didn't drive. I don't drive. I can't drive...but I live in Culver City." (community just east of Mar Vista). How to explain to ANYONE in LA that you didn't have a car, or drive. Marked as insane, even amongst the punks. Rudy glares. Then starts laughing. "Wows. Me neither...I thought I was just crazy. We'd better find a bus then." No judgement, just some good understanding. "Figures the 2 Mexicans don't have no cars." I figure I wouldn't correct him. And with that, we were best friends.