We started over the tracks, climbing over discarded market carts and tore-up sofas, across Alameda Street, into South Gate: all-white, all-American.
South Gate
Alright.
We should go to the store in South Gate.
There's no point in arguing; he'll force me anyways.
What do we got here?Spics to order - maybe with some beans?
South Gate
We barely got a few feet, though, when five teenagers on bikes approached. We tried not to pay any attention and proceeded to our side of the tracks. But the youths pulled up in front of us. While two of them stood nearby on their bikes, three of them jumped off theirs and walked over to us.
Let's throw them back over the tracks.
Hahaha!I can't believe they dared to cross over to South Gate.
They finally let my brother go and he slid to the ground, like a rotten banana squeezed out of its peeling. They threw us back over the tracks.My brother and I then picked ourselves up, saw the teenagers take off, still laughing, still talking about those stupid greasers who dared to cross over to South Gate.
Swear - you got to swear - you'll never tell anybody how I cried.
I promise
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