Tripp`s Stories
Tattered army jacket, baggy jeans, a blood red heart tattooed on his temple: Tripp sits on the curb, clutching a brown paper bag and exhaling rings of cigarette smoke. As far as I can tell, Tripp was born sitting on that curb, malt liquor in hand. On the way to the ER, his mother stopped by the 7-11 to get a twinkie and unknowingly plopped out her son as bells jingled to warn the clerks that a patron entered the store.

According to Tripp, however, he was born in a military hospital in Juneau, Alaska. When Tripp was just one year old, his mother Cindy put him in a carriage, strapped it to the back of her Harley, and rode with Tripp to El Paso. At a Mcdonald`s near Cindy`s trailer, four Hell`s Angels jumped Tripp and his mother, taking her wallet and keys to the Harley. They grabbed Tripp and Cindy, dragged them into the empty parking lot, and proceeded to beat the s*** out of Cindy. Once Tripp`s mom was limp and moaning, the largest of the four bikers took a glock from his holster, aimed it at Tripp`s mother and muttered, “Payback, b****,” which Tripp somehow remembered despite being only one year old when this occurred. Before the gangster had a chance to pull the trigger, Tripp`s mom reached into her motorcycle boot, grabbed two small daggers and threw them at the two gangster`s throats. One of the gangster`s advanced on Tripp`s mother, reached for hear throat, and she promptly grabbed his wrist, violently twisted it downwards, forcing the biker to drop his gun which she used to unload the rest of the magazine in his face. Out of breath and completely defenseless, she stared past the barrel of a shotgun into the dark green eyes of the last biker standing. Waiting for his muscled arms to pump the barrel and fire, her heart gave one last burst of surprise when he turned around, picked up Tripp, and fastened his baby carriage to the back of his motorcycle. Enzo, the muscular biker, took Tripp back to his house in El Paso.

For sixteen years Enzo made Tripp mickey mouse pancakes, took him to the zoo, taught him how to ride a bike, gave him boxing lessons , and showed him how to properly load a Desert Eagle. On his sixteenth birthday, Tripp ran away to Vegas to live with Charlene, a girl from his church. When Charlene`s great grandfather, a filthy rich oil tycoon, died shortly afterward, Tripp and his lover went on vacation to Macau. While in Macau, the duo brushed shoulder`s with celebrities, socialites and mobsters alike. Tripp bet a private college tuition on craps and made Charlegne swoon with the romantic, two story, golden ceilinged penthouse sweet overlooking the waterfront that he booked. Unfortunately, Charlene took the wrong person`s money during a texas hold `em tournament, ending Tripp and Charlene`s short marriage. As Tripp was mourning the death of his beloved, three suited men who were large enough to stop a five hundred pound boulder from falling down a hill battered through the penthouses` door and held Tripp over the railing. The men made it clear that Tripp was to keep a low profile, and he did just that, donating his great grandfather in law`s fortune to charity and finding his way to the San Fernando Valley, where he spends his time holding down his territory next to 7-11.

Tripp tells me these stories and I listen intently, disregarding the potent stench of urine and staring into bloodshot eyes. For the duration of his anecdotes, Tripp fails to meet my eye. He gazes into the distance, and I could tell that he is transported from this putrid valley back to Macau, drinking lavish martinis and eating caviar. He finishes his stories and meets my gaze. Sadness overtakes the fantasy in his eye. I say goodbye and walk back to my car. Tripp stays put, sitting on the curb next to the 7-11.