Hella Nation - Evan Wright [49]
Next to having been a Nazi, Panic’s second most shameful episode occurred during a dark time when he wore a tie and worked for a bank. “It all started during a really fucking bad acid trip,” he says. “I heard my dad’s voice telling me I was all wrong, that I was a loser.” Shortly after that bad trip, Panic got a job counting money for ATMs. It lasted only a few months. “Yeah, punk brought me back to sanity again,” he says.
Riding in the car with Panic and Siren, Wingnut tunes out discussions having to do with identity crisis or searching for a place in life. Wingnut says he has never wondered who he is, questioned his beliefs or worried about his future.
Asked if he could ever imagine giving up his nomadic life and becoming an office clerk in ten years, he answers, “There won’t be office clerks in ten years. There won’t be offices, there won’t be cities.”
There are a number of reasons why Wingnut despises cities. One of them is toilets. “A toilet is a fucked-up thing,” Wingnut says. “The first rule of living in the forest is, never piss or shit in good drinking water. What’s a toilet? You piss and shit in good drinking water, push a button and throw it away.”
At a refueling stop outside Bakersfield, Siren wanders barefoot on the asphalt, looking for a ladies’ room, while Wingnut and Panic go across the street to a McDonald’s. When they return a few minutes later, they are in getaway mode. “Let’s go, quick,” Wingnut says, jumping into the car. For a moment or two no one says a word; then Wingnut and Panic crack smiles.
“We wrote ‘McMurder’ on the walls of the men’s room,” Panic finally says. “The red paint dripped perfectly, like blood.”
“Break it! Break it!” Wingnut says in a Beavis voice.
Panic and Wingnut giggle together.
“You guys?” Siren says, frowning. “I’m left out of things because I’m a woman. I wish you guys would include me in everything.”
THE L.A. CO-OP is a ramshackle stucco house in a suburban section of Inglewood, under the landing path of jets flying into LAX. A “Free Mumia” banner is draped across the backyard fence. There are car seats on the lawn. Inside, more car seats serve as living room furniture. Posters tacked up in the kitchen depict small, furry animals being tortured in scientific labs. A chunk of uneaten vegan casserole sweats in a pan on the stove. The four full-time residents are all vegans.
A harried-looking twenty-year-old named Kendra is the only co-op member home when the Eugene anarchists show up. Kendra and her three housemates are helping to organize Solidarity Fest, the festival of punk bands and political workshops Panic has come to California to attend. It is scheduled to begin tomorrow at a community center north of downtown Los Angeles.
In the living room of the anarchist co-op, Siren reunites with her ex-boyfriend Austin. The reunion appears to be a shaky one. Austin, a skinny sixteen-year-old, dressed all in black, kneels on the floor plugging wires into a guitar amp.
In happier times, Austin and Siren sang together in his band and carried protest signs that read “You’re Eating Kak Burgers” outside a local McDonald’s. (Siren explains that “kak” means “vomit,” “penis” or “come,” depending on the context.) But today their reunion is strained. Siren sits in a chair made from a car seat across from him and smiles. He avoids eye contact with her.
“What are you doing for the holidays?” Siren asks.
“Dose on acid to write songs for my band,” Austin mumbles. “Fry some more on Christmas. Go to San Diego on New Year’s and fuck shit up.”
As the sun sets, a cluster of punks from Phoenix arrive in two beat-up vans. Among them is a fourteen-year-old girl who ran away from her home in Texas. She says her parents had her under virtual house arrest. She escaped by propping the automatic garage door open with a paint can and wiggling out after her parents had