‘It’s tradition, man . . . you cruise, hang out, try and talk to girls.’

Look at the street.

How can you be indifferent

to this great river

of bones, this great river

of dreams, this great river

of blood, this great river?

--Nicolas Guillen

It’s Sunday night.

It’s hot on Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Pacoima near the edge of San Fernando.

The elderly comadres and compadres sitting on porches and sagging lawn chairs have front-row seats. The burly young security guards at Carl’s Jr. adjust belts heavy with nightsticks, radios and holsters, clowning, guzzling Dr Peppers.

The teen-age girl at the phone booth by the Thrifty turns as she talks, checks her reflection in the window of a parked car: Mona Lisa eyes with high painted corners, an artful tumble of brown-red curls over one shoulder, shorts, boots speckled with silver glitter.

And here they come, their arrival heralded by anthems of menace and desire pounding from the super speakers of dream machines.

Here they come: Unique Creations, Latin Lords, Valley Lows, Suenos Latinos, Toyz-r-us, Fine Obsessions. Here they come: Japanese mini-trucks with sleek, elongated shells. Pickups with monster wheels. Vietnam-era Mustangs. World War II-era Packards. Customized Volkswagens that the Germans never imagined.

Classic low riders do a herky-jerk hydraulic jig at the flick of a switch.

The cultural epiphany attracts rolling altars each week from Pacoima, San Fernando, Reseda, Granada Hills, even Palmdale. It has been going on for 20 years.

“It’s tradition, man,” says Frank from Panorama City. “Friday and Saturday people go to parties, go to Hollywood. Sunday night you cruise, hang out, try and talk to girls. They used to cruise at the San Fernando Mall, but they shut it down a couple of years ago. Now everybody comes here.”

Frank leans against the wall of the Thrifty next to the phone booth, surveying the parking lot of the mall east of Laurel Canyon and Rinaldi. The barrio Mona Lisa in shorts and boots has finally relinquished the phone. With lithe dignity, she climbs into a Suzuki Samurai next to stern dudes in Raiders caps.

“ Mira esa ,” Frank says, gesturing after her with his chin. “Yeah, they’ll talk to you if you got a sharp ride, tu sabes .’

Frank is 21, recently separated. His red Mazda mini-truck is parked nearby. He works at a company that makes X-ray machines. He goes cruising after Mass.

Frank nods along with the dance of humanity and machinery in the parking lot, hundreds of people and cars. The car clubs array their fleets in angled slots, owners posing in stylized tableaus.

Waves of music rumble across the lot--rap, funk, oldies. Some of the trucks have their beds angled to the sky to amplify howitzer-strength stereo systems, vibrating metal and cement.

Hollywood Boulevard, mythic cruising territory, attracts motorized disciples from all over the county. But in the parking lot on Rinaldi, the cruising takes place at close quarters, almost in slow motion.

New arrivals snake their way among the parked cars, making the circuit several times, then park. Then maybe a quick run to Pollo Gordo or In-N-Out Burger before rejoining the parade.

There are cheers when a gold-flecked Impala arrives from the 1960s with a triumphant hydraulic display, bucking and juking and creaking.

There are hoots when a car abruptly gives up the ghost. A column of smoke rises from the hood and glows blue against the K mart sign.

It’s a time to talk, flirt, maybe sneak a beer or a joint, though the presence of the LAPD makes that tougher.

Black-and-white cruisers nose through the crowds like sharks. The police write traffic citations and make occasional arrests. They say they are there because of the potential for violence among so many young people from so many neighborhoods.

There has been one gang-related slaying at the parking lot in the past several years, police said, along with occasional confrontations. Neighbors complain about noise and public urination.

But police officers and cruisers agree that many of the congregants are law-abiding, quoting the old movie line “It’s not a gang, it’s a club.” Some older connoisseurs bring their children and frown on boisterousness and loud music, preferring Motown at a civilized decibel level.

“We just park in the lot and rap,” says Hugo Chavez of the Oldies Car Club, which holds weekly meetings in Mission Park before sundown.

Chavez, 28, works for the Los Angeles Department of Sanitation. He drives a 1960 Impala with $6,000 worth of restoration work. The club rents out vintage Chevrolets for weddings and “ quinceaneras “--coming-out parties.

The assembly breaks up around 10 p.m, the exodus shepherded by the police. Half an hour later, a single police car sits in the lot, which is quiet and glittering with broken bottles.

In front of K mart, a young boy doesn’t want to get off the coin-operated car next to the tiny three-horse merry-go-round. His weary mother, who is pregnant and wears her hair in braids, tells him it is time to go. His father prowls the sidewalk by a liquor store, asking people if they can spare some change.

Meanwhile the cruisers are back on Laurel Canyon Boulevard, where many of them regroup at fast food places and darkened mini-malls, silhouettes spattered by rushing headlights.

Some will go home. Some will go to nearby parks or other bastions of the night, where they will hang out as long as they can, as long as the music is playing.

Until it isn’t Sunday anymore.