by Diego Alejandro Arias

Here they were, sitting in a car. Miguel looked over at John. He was slapping a hand on the steering wheel. The fingers long, crooked, their skin wrapped around his joints and fingers like rawhide on a drumhead. John held on to the steering wheel and pressed into the black leather. He squeezed it and tightened it against his bones. They cracked. Miguel grimaced when the bones and leather crunched against each other. There was an Elvis song on the radio. Miguel was a huge Elvis fan, often fascinated by the 1968 comeback special that revived his career. Miguel was all about revivals and reawakenings. Like his Abuela, he believed the dead could speak to us, bring us back from the nothingness, career nothingness, relationship nothingness, political nothingness, even the nothingness that people say you can never come back from while you are alive, the sort of nothingness that buries you in Black Mollies or Toe Tag Dope or massive depressive episodes. Miguel had been spending most of his days in and out of drunken stupors trying to stay awake in law school classes and legal aid seminars. He periodically experimented with prescription drugs and other controlled substances when the nothingness took over, when the world outside of his own skull emitted a low-frequency white noise assembled out of fingers on keyboards and vitriolic social dynamics. In a Race and the Law class, where he sat next to several students who argued companies had the right to fire black employees on pure racial grounds, Miguel tended to pop back two or three Percocets just to stomach the professor nodding his head at these types of arguments.
 
John moved his finger towards the radio. “Let it play,” Miguel said. “You like Elvis?” he asked. “Everyone likes Elvis. You’d have to be a fucking numbskull to dislike him.” John smiled nervously. “He put out three gospel albums. I mean, you gotta like a guy like that, right?” Miguel said. He smiled, revealing big white teeth underneath a black, manicured beard. Miguel enjoyed the uncomfortable silences he inspired in his classmates. They saw this big, brown Dominican with a gold chain around his neck as thick as a double braided docking line, dressed in black clothing and white Jordans, and he knew they immediately felt like something didn’t quite mesh. Most of the other Latinos in law school dressed and acted like they were preparing for a diplomatic bilateral between Henry Kissinger and the Argentine Anticommunist Alliance; and Miguel wasn’t with that nonsense. But who was he to hate them? He was nothing but a backpack rapper with a law school scholarship and a literature degree focused on Middle English symbolism. He wasn’t even a first-generation college student, so he didn’t have anyone to blame but himself for his lackluster grades from the previous semester.
 
“You like ‘em, right?” Miguel asked.
 
“Of course, of course,” he replied.
 
“You got a favorite song?”
 
“Uh, yeah, what’s the one song, ‘Hound Dog.’ I always liked that one.”
 
“Yeah, that’s early Elvis, back when he hadn’t made all those ridiculous soundtrack albums. I like the more mature, adult Elvis. Don’t get me wrong, bro, ‘Hound Dog,’ ‘Lawdy, Miss Clawdy,’ ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ those are some of the best songs ever recorded, ever written. But my favorite Elvis song is ‘Big Boss Man.’ He covered that one in Clambake. It’s not his. It’s an old Jimmy Reed blues song. I just like the take Elvis has on that song.”
 
“I never heard it.”
 
“Give it a shot. It’s as close to socialism as Elvis ever came. It’s a song about hating your boss, quitting your job, and questioning the employer-employee relationship.”
 
John laughed.
 
He wasn’t so bad, Miguel thought. John was a small guy, the type of kid that wore khaki pants with white socks and polo shirts, a sort of Steve Burns from Blue’s Clues type of pariguayo. A pariguayo is a stiff, a square, a guy with no game and no swagger. The term comes from the Dominican Republic. The Dominicans picked it up during the first U.S. military invasion of Santo Domingo. Miguel knows this because he spent an entire semester researching U.S. abuses in the Dominican Republic for a Latin America and Foreign Policy seminar hosted by a professor from Harvard with a stringy beard that always reminded his pupils that President Obama, who he had gone to school with, was not that great of a student. Miguel even had the school pay for a trip to East Santo Domingo where he researched municipal records in a dusty Caribbean basement that detailed gruesome, blood-stained accounts of his people’s persecution.
 
Miguel had originally known some Dominican history because his Abuela had been a scholar of constitutional law in Santo Domingo, but some of the shit he read sounded like war crimes straight from The Hague, like the shit he saw coming out of Ukraine day after day after day. He wondered if the Latin kids at his law school interning at large firms or if guys like John had a fraction of an idea that this sort of nonsense had gone down? That maybe these were the reasons why 10% of the Dominican Republic’s population currently lives in exile, mostly in New York, New Jersey, and Spain. Some of these texts were straight bananas. Bonkers bullshit like Rear Admiral William Caperton, with full support from the Secretary of State and President Woodrow Wilson and their corporate buddies at the National City Bank of New York, threatening to bomb the shit out of an entire country if the Dominican government didn’t comply with U.S. demands. Miguel read through these old archives, using his best legal Spanish and consulting with Abuela when he returned to The Jaragua Hotel in the Malecón, to review his notes and seek some guidance. “Tienes que mejorar el castellano, hijo. No quiero un gringo que se olvida de su cultura haciendo quedar mal a la patria quisqueyana. No te olvides tu sangre, la sangre nunca miente,” Abuela would say. Miguel dived headfirst into that research paper. For his effort, he was rewarded with an A-, keeping his grades close enough to the grade point average needed to maintain his meager scholarship at Newark Law School.
 
The war itself was a personal one for Miguel, one that forever changed his family’s history, altering their trajectory, changing las vidas de todos. That’s how his Abuela’s dad, his great-grandfather Braulio Hernandez, went from being a farmer in Dajabon, a city on the Haitian border, to a bearded guerilla taking shots at invading gringo soldiers from the Cordillera Central mountain range. This was years before Cuba, decades even. Castro was still a toddler shitting his diapers when his great-grandfather was organizing military campaigns across the Dominican Republic. As a result of Braulio’s heroism, the family carried down war stories for generations, sometimes with ghosts appearing in dreams or living rooms or pool halls filled with sweaty tígueres and de los míos to fill in parts of history that had been lost to time, death, or vows of secrecy. Abuela often visited and talked about American jazz and neo-American slavery arriving in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. She once told Miguel her inspiration to become a lawyer happened when she learned from her militant father that the U.S. had created a modern slavery system to subdue Haitian resistance to the invasion. Incredible, Miguel thought. Does the law school ever teach that sort of shit to its happy recruits? According to Abuela, who observed Río Ozama and the Caribbean Sea from the window of Miguel’s hotel room, lots of words and concepts got mixed between the clash of cultures. “Eran tiempos diferentes, incluso esto hijo, el Malecón, esto era diferente. Es lindo ahora, aunque lo fue lindo en aquellos tiempos también, cuando los patriotas defendieron nuestra tierra,” she said. Abuela spoke at length about what she called the first insult, the first attack on Quisqueya’s sovereignty. White supremacism from Marines and fox trot and jazz played out in nightclubs across the country, along with marginal economic stability accompanying U.S. military elimination of free press and radio on the island. Local Black girls dated White soldiers plucked from Tennessee and Alabama and brought to Puerto Plata to shell the living daylights out of poor, Black rural communities. That’s where and how pariguayo came about, when the American soldiers would make fun of the guys who stood on the sidelines during parties and didn’t know how to talk to women. They called those guys “party watchers,” except the Dominicans mispronounced it and the mutated Dominico-American term stuck. Sounds better in Dominican, anyway. You don’t want to be called a pariguayo, trust me, it’s a high-line insult for anyone, criollo or gringo. But John was most certainly a pariguayo. He had clammy skin and freckles across his nose and cheeks like God had just dipped his big ‘ole hand in roasted cacao and opened his fist violently in this guy’s face, splashing all these marks on his big Italian head. He had a short, cropped cut and a hair line that was disappearing at twenty-three. He wore thick tube socks underneath chunky New Balance sneakers, and t-shirts big enough to make his arms look like dried semolina spaghetti.
 
Back in the car, Miguel looked out of the window. He observed the street’s congestion, its inhabitants, its humid breath just mushing about in the atmosphere, the thick heat rolling around in the ghetto, suffocating the construction workers holding on to jackhammers and scaffolds and public employees picking up litter and tossing black bags into big white trucks that gobble up an entire civilization’s quisquiliarum every morning. Out there, in the naked American summer, beads of water ran down the arms of Indian convenience store owners. Puerto Rican bodegamen sat outside their shops with their hair stuck to their head and damp blotches inking through their shirts, the salt forming through the edges of their sweat marks. Willie Colón and Héctor Lavoe sang tracks from Asalto Navideño on stereo speakers, the music filling up the street like an East Harlem summer in 1972. “Vamos a bailar la murga, la murga de Panamá, los muchachos se alborotan cuando la ven caminar…” A large, ginger cat licked his paws and turned around on his back, and a young boy with shaggy hair outside of a Dominican colmado scratched the white tufts on his belly. On a street corner, a shirtless drifter with long hair panhandled and asked a fearful mother to surrender a wrinkled up, wet Washington. She placed a greenback in his hand and turned away. He smiled and bowed to her. She held on to a blue carriage and hurried along. Miguel watched the young mother make her way down Broad Street. She reached a bus stop and stood in line with the rest of the folks waiting for the #59 bus en route to Washington Park in Newark.
 
Miguel pressed his back against the passenger seat’s wrinkled leather. He sighed.
 
“We’re almost there,” John said.
 
“This is awful, dude,” he said.
 
“Why?”
 
“You have no air conditioner. It’s hot as shit.”
 
“It’s bad, but bearable. We’ll make it to Newark in about half an hour.”
 
“I’m suffocating, dog. I feel like I’m being cooked alive, like a Nathan’s hot dog flung onto a grill somewhere in some dude’s backyard.”
 
“Damn, I’m sorry, didn’t know it was that bad.”
 
John avoided taking the New Jersey Parkway to Newark using the excuse that tolls were costly and unnecessary. Miguel knew it was because he had had his car window smashed up during a recent break-in while he had been at a New Brunswick bar. The naked door was still threatening and jagged with little pieces of glass flying off at violent speeds. Miguel could still see small glass nuggets on the floor near his feet, a reminder that John was a hell of a law student but shit for brains when it came to getting his life together. The broken window had other uncomfortable consequences. Going too fast on a highway caused vibrations in their ears. The car had been like that for over two months. It had been broken into once more several days after the black bag was placed over the window. The thieves took a bookbag out of the car and dumped it near a river in Edison. The police tracked John down when they found his mail inside. They returned the bookbag, covered in dirt and river water, on a Saturday afternoon when he was studying for an eminent domain seminar. Inside the bookbag, ironically, there were only some books on constitutional theory and criminal law.
 
“Ey John, maybe we could stop and grab something to eat,” he said.
 
John looked at the clock in front of him. He quickly read the blue numbers in the middle of the car’s touchscreen.
 
“Yeah, we have some spare time. If we eat something now, we’ll have five hours to prepare for this exam.”
 
Miguel had varying opinions on his law school classmates, and they ranged from quiet avoidance to outright disgust at the sort of nonsense they engaged in regularly. Maybe he should have listened to his father, who had passed away while he was still in college, and pursued graduate school instead of his sorry ass attempt at being a lawyer. What he had expected from the legal field was everything he never found, and instead had forced himself to accept that many of his fellow Brown brethren had little to no interest in dismantling the system that had held them back for generations. Lots of kids were just normal students looking for a six-figure salary. None of them felt this weight on their shoulders, this painful, piercing reminder that people still suffered a couple of miles away, in housing projects in Newark, in dilapidated homes in Camden, or in public schools that were falling apart academically and structurally. There was little interest in making a difference in these people’s lives, and Miguel had come to understand that his way of looking at the world did not coincide with the socio-economic interests of his classmates or the lawyers that they admired. These kids just wanted to clerk for a judge that would hook them up with a first-year associate position at a white shoe office. Sometimes they would throw in a gala where someone gave a speech on the need for diversity at law firms and at Fortune-500s. Then they would return to overlook the waiters in the room that could barely afford to send their kids to college, or the guys who would go on to clean up the gnawed-up chicken bones and empty champagne bottles at the end of the “40 Latino Lawyers Under 40” annual awards ceremony.
 
In his class there were plenty of Johns, working-class or middle-class White kids who were trying their best to sort their lives out and kept their distance from people of color out of an unspoken fear that they did not belong or should not belong to ethnic social circles. Miguel didn’t mind these students so much. What are ya gonna do?, he often thought, they’re just a product of their parents’ social-mobility fears. They think they’re being left behind, and they must catch up because life is harder for them now. The modern Western economy has eliminated their union jobs, their high-paying factory gigs, so they blame others when they should be blaming the system that forced them into a grotesque grind-culture, where the American being with three full-time jobs is hoisted upon a pedestal as some sort of king rat, a hero, a modern-day Beowulf suffering from nonalcoholic fatty liver disease and frequent aural migraine headaches. Miguel pitied them, but he didn’t hate them.
 
But there were others who just wore him down. Miguel thought of one young White woman at his law school who had run for vice-president of the Black Law School Student Association. What on earth was she thinking? Why do they do shit like that? What gave her the idea to run for that sort of student government office? “This is to assuage our conscience, darling,” Allende once wrote. But it’s no different in Chile than in Montclair or Hoboken or Portland or Santo Domingo or Bogotá or Tegucigalpa. “Así son todos,” his grandmother, who had introduced him to Gabriela Mistral’s poetry and Isabel Allende’s prose, used to frequently say whenever they discussed politics, life, and empanada recipes. “Acuérdate que el propio Cristo fue víctima del chisme, de los chivatos, los vendepatrias, y peor!, los extranjeros que solo buscaban terminar con la palabra del todopoderoso!” she once said to him. And year after year, Abuela’s words became like prophetic passages he would come to revere. They would drink Santo Domingo coffee and she would make quipes and sweet plantain mangú. Hours and hours would go by, stories weaved together from testimonials and passages and confessions. The dead once again bringing him back to reality, reviving his rebellious spirit, his guerilla heart, appearing before him with messages of revolution and legislative advocacy still undone, still waiting to reverse the decades, the centuries, of exploitation. If he could only put the whiskey down long enough to concentrate, he’d be on to something. If only the painkillers and cocaine didn't make everything feel so goddamn bearable.
 
He felt so lonely, spread so thin across classes on property law and trust and estates seminars, shit he had no interest in reading about for hours and hours and hours. It seemed to him that the school’s administration had placed all their eggs into a select number of students’ baskets. Deans and professors had become cheerleaders for aspiring lawyers they had designated as future success stories. Miguel, a drunk, a drug addict, a crazy liberal, was just an eyesore getting in the way of the school’s rising rankings in U.S. World and News. The only reason the school couldn’t get rid of him was because he still maintained enough concentration, as thin as Tencel paper but still enough, to pass all his exams and even score an A and B+ here and there. One of his classmates, the son of a senior U.S. senator, joined the school’s Minority Student Program for disadvantaged pupils his first week at law school. “I’m half-Irish and half-Cuban!” he said out loud, in a surfer dude accent, during an orientation meeting where the professors seemed more interested in the twenty-three-year-old aspiring congressman’s opinions than their own lesson plans or sense of self-worth. Surfer Dude was about as Cuban as a Hawaiian shirt-wearing Al Pacino in 1983 Miami. And he was as disadvantaged as, well, as a U.S. senator’s son sitting in a room full of working-class Latino and Black students trying to lift themselves and their families out of poverty. Miguel thought about the way his colleagues brushed off subjects like Brown children in immigration detention centers, families permanently torn apart by men on horseback flashing a CBP badge in frightened refugees’ faces, de facto racially segregated schools, and then the juxtaposition of these issues alongside their frequent racial justice seminars, pro-bono advocacy, and other pat-yourself-on-the-back-for-being-a-good person pendejadas they usually floated around his law school. “This is to assuage our conscience, darling,” Allende once wrote.
 
“Got damn, dog, it’s hot. Let’s pull into this parking lot over here, and grab some McChickens or something over there on the corner,” Miguel said.
 
“Yeah, I got you man.”
 
He felt sweat drip down his neck. His shirt was stuck to his chest. He was too large for the car, way too large for this car. He felt he would grow even larger if he stayed in the Maxima, suffocating until a door opened and he floated out of the car and just flew across the city like a big, sweaty vulture, the gold chain sparkling in the sky like bursts of yellow diamonds. At 6’5, Miguel was a big Dominican. He had muscular, hairy arms, giving him a big enough wingspan to fly across Pico Duarte all the way to Labadee Beach without getting tired. Despite being a child of the Caribbean, Miguel was not designed for intense heat. According to his Santiago de Los Caballeros operating manual, he had been specifically manufactured for air conditioning. Inside the car, he felt he was sitting in an oily, leathery tarp. He looked over at John. The brown beard turned to him briefly and smiled his bright red steak grin.
 
“Diañe, que vaina,” Miguel said.
 
“What’s wrong, bro? Everything alright?”
 
“The heat, bro, the heat.”
 
The McDonald’s was on the corner of Broad and Rahway. Rinky-dinky shops and municipal buildings surrounded it. The Union County Courthouse and the Elizabeth Public Library were across the street. It was a busy section and people came in and out of the place every couple of seconds. John and Miguel walked towards the front entrance. John looked around as he made his way to the door, observing the patrons exiting and entering the building. He looked bewildered. Miguel hovered over him, making it look like he was some sort of local narc hosting a deputy regional officer investigating a new fentanyl lab in the area. This was Elizabeth, one of the oldest cities in America, but also one of its most violent. In the 1770s, George Washington himself had marched across Elizabeth, with a bear fur on his back and a racoon hat covering his white hair, looking to collect the scalps of Royalists and change the course of human history. And now, immigrant families from Central America and Cuba called this land their home. In Elizabethport, the airport community considered by U.S. media as the most lawless two-mile strip in all of America, Ecuadorean and Puerto Rican kids played basketball and baseball in the parks. People like John only came out here if they had a meeting at the Union County Courthouse or at the City Hall Municipal Building to argue in front of some petty judge or to grease the hands of the Irish-American mayor that always seemed to get reelected in a town full of Black and Brown people. New Jersey has more Irish-American politicians representing Brown and Black people than exits on the Parkway.
 
Inside the McDonald’s, they stood in line to order. Next to them, Miguel spotted a young woman standing across from him. She had silver loop earrings and a blue and white top. Her shirt had an exposed midriff, and her hair was long, thick, and white, down to the middle of her lower back. The hair was magnificent, ethereal, something unlike, something not here. It draped over her shoulders as if Jean de La Huerta had carved each strand himself. She turned and looked at Miguel. Her eyes, large and dark and taking up half of her face, glistened. She smiled and turned her attention back to the employee in front of her. “Wow,” John said. Miguel looked over at him. John had become a man stuck somewhere alien, somewhere unexplored. He was off in the Antarctic, 990-pound polar bears and Mirounga elephant seals gathered around him at a watering hole. “Yeah, man, she seems like a nice person,” he responded. Had John been released into the ghetto for the first time in his life? Was this his first experience right here, knee deep in the heart of Latino Jersey, where Cardi B songs play outside of restaurants and Omega’s “Tú Si Quieres, Tú No Quieres” blasts out of black BMWs on their way to Little Colombia over on Morris Avenue? Had he been thrown into the belly of the beast with no parachute? Was he just hurtling, at full speed, towards the bright colors, the Salvadorean flags, the cold horchata drinks like sweet ambrosia at 11:00 a.m. in July, the Puerto Rican salsa filling the air with the smell of pollo guisado and café con leche? Was John seeing this for the first time in his life? Did White people ever visit this part of New Jersey?
 
“Come on, Big Boss Man, let’s sit down over here,” Miguel said.
 
They took their trays and sat down in the center of the McDonald’s dining area. As they ate, a group of panhandlers entered the McDonald’s. They rolled in one by one in an organized line, a sports team on their home turf, looking around the room, sizing up the competition. One of them was an older, handsome man. He was tall, shirtless, and had on a pair of torn shorts. He had broad shoulders and a muscular chest. His hair was pushed back with curls covered in gel and running down his bronzed skin. His hairline began at the edges of his forehead, and he had a carefully trimmed handlebar moustache. He looked about forty, but the other three men accompanying him looked older, perhaps sixty or more. The older ones had a similar appearance. They wore jeans and white shirts that were long and stained with grass and red clay from construction sites. Miguel recognized the younger one as the same shirtless drifter that had been walking down Broad Street. The same man that had asked the mom with the blue stroller for a dollar bill.
 
“Is everything okay?” John asked.
 
Miguel smiled. He finished chewing on some chicken and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
 
“Everything is okay, baby. Have you not been in Elizabeth before?”
 
“Not like this. I haven’t been in this part of the city.”
 
“It’s okay, just be cool, be cool. No one is going to do anything to you. This is a community, that’s all.”
 
Miguel took another bite of the sandwich.
 
“Big Boss Man, how old are you?”
 
“I’m twenty-two.”
 
“What part of Jersey are you from?”
 
“I grew up in Howell. Down in Monmouth County.”
 
“Ah you’re not too far from the beach.” He paused for a couple of seconds. “Well, welcome to Elizabeth, man.” John smiled and sipped from his fountain drink. He looked over at the young woman with the white hair and the big, almond eyes.
 
“You don’t mind me calling you Big Boss Man, do ya?”
 
“Not at all! Unless you’re calling me a fascist employer. Then we might have a problem.”
 
They laughed.
 
“Of course not,” Miguel said.
 
“How’d you get into Elvis?”
 
“My dad, when he was growing up in the Dominican Republic, he thought Elvis personified the American Dream. He was big into his music, his life, his whole story. Even the eagle suit he designed and danced around like a chicken in during the final days of his thunder. I never met a Dominican so much into Elvis, but that was my dad, he thought if a poor country boy from the Deep South could make it in America, then so could a poor country boy from the DR.”
 
“I think a lot of people feel that way about him,” John said.
 
Miguel had been raised in Elizabeth. He knew the way the people stood outside the front entrance of this McDonald’s and asked for change. He knew that the doors to the bathroom were now locked to keep the homeless from going inside and urinating, shitting, bathing, or paying for blowjobs from local prostitutes. He knew this because he had witnessed all four practices inside of the Broad Street McDonald’s as a teenager. One day, while eating lunch, he met a homeless man that had recently been released from prison. “I paid a lawyer and he fucked up my case. He didn’t give a shit about me. I took some plea deal and ended up in the joint for ten years, brah. So, I studied in there and filed my own appeal, and I learned the law the same way that lawyer learned the law. I read all those free books. I filed my own appeal, man.” Walking alongside Broad Street Elizabeth, Miguel encountered all sorts of characters. Doomed souls with no clear path to sanity, drug addicts looking for the next big score, young students trying to make it out of Elizabeth and join the upper ranks of the occidental middle-class, and working dads and moms who came to America because their countries were overtaken by false prophets and charlatans from the Andes and the Pampas and the Malecón.
 
In the McDonald’s bathroom, the urinating and shitting he saw no problem with, except that the drifters weren’t buying food and the restaurant could reasonably argue that they were loitering. This was particularly concerning to the management when the weather was either too hot or too cold and the drifters refused to leave the place. The bathing had surprised him. At 15, he saw a man enter the bathroom and begin to undress. He was startled. He then saw him enter the stall and close the door, locking it with a violent click. The man hung his clothes over the stall’s white metallic door and Miguel could see the water splashing down onto the tiles. He saw it expand towards the rest of the bathroom, mixed with suds of brownish foam. The man shook his body after each splash of cupped water from the toilet. He wet his hair, slicked it back, and walked out. “What’s good, young blood?” he asked Miguel as he made his way back out into Elizabeth.
 
The blowjobs were another story. That was something dark and primal and carved into his memory for many, many years. He was in his senior of high school, using a urinal, and he saw a young tattooed White man behind the metal door leaning his head back in ecstasy. The sounds of slurps and suction filled the room. The man moaned and cursed. This was an obvious violation of McDonald’s bathroom privileges. While Miguel cleaned his hands, a father opened the door and took off running with his son. Miguel heard his muffled screams after the door closed. He dried his hands and left the bathroom. The manager came running towards the lavatory and banged on the door. “Please get out! Please no do that here!” After the incident, McDonald’s locked the doors, and to use the bathroom, management had to buzz people in. And to be buzzed in, prospective bathroom users had to order from the restaurant. This limited the number of people using the restaurant for other purposes besides standing in line and ordering McSomethings. No more blowjobs at McDonald’s. The golden days at the golden arches had come to an end.
 
“What was it like to grow up here?” John asked.
 
“Interesting,” he responded, “You try your best to be a good student. But there are limits. I can’t really complain though, I made it to law school, and some of my teachers, friends, they’re all a part of that.”
 
“You’re a hard worker. I used to think I’d never leave the farms and the one-bedroom house I grew up in.”
 
“Howell feels like another country from all the way up here,” Miguel said.
 
The drifters walked around and asked people for money. The manager behind the counter looked over as they panhandled customers. She signaled to the other employees working the cash registers. She pointed at the drifters with two fingers and then back at her own two eyes. She did this twice. Towards the right-hand corner of the seating area, the young woman with the white hair grimaced as the men came to her table. “Hey sweetie, you got twenty-five cents?” the man in the middle asked. She clutched her tray and rose from her chair. She walked over to the back of the restaurant and sat by the windows that faced the sidewalk. John looked at the men. They came up, individually throughout the McDonald’s, and asked patrons for twenty-five cents. Separated across the room, they worked different corners and asked for the same amount. The twenty-five cents were, according to the men, necessary for them to make up for the missing train fare needed to go to Newark.
 
It took about five minutes before someone gave up a quarter. “Thank you, lady. God bless.” After placing the coin in his pocket, the drifter walked over to John and asked him for another quarter.
 
“See I’m short 25 cents. And I got to get to Newark…”
 
“Sure man, take a dollar.”
 
The man bowed and held his fist out in front of John. They bumped knuckles.
 
“You alright man, you alright,” the man said.
 
“Oye, mi pana, y tú que vas a hacer con eso?” Miguel asked.
 
“Vamo’ a comer un poco, ¿qué má’?” the drifter responded. He laughed and Miguel handed him a twenty-dollar bill.
 
“Bueno, bueno, que Dio’ lo bendiga joven.”
 
While all three men laughed together, they saw the manager make her way over to the table. She came up to the group and tapped the man on the shoulder. He jerked his body and turned around. He stared the uniformed woman in the eyes. She was shorter than him. She had a tight buttoned shirt and a pair of brown pants. She spoke with a heavy accent. “Sir, you cannot talk to my customers that way. I’m going to have to ask you to leaf.”
 
“To ‘leaf’? The hell that mean?” The man asked. His tall frame shadowed the woman.
 
“To leaf, to leaf. I am asking you to leaf.”
 
Half an hour later, Miguel placed his books and folders on the backseat of the Maxima as the car started towards the exit of the parking lot. The Jersey sky was beginning to change from blue to the color of a pale purple wine. As they stopped at a red light, Miguel looked over at the corner of the McDonald’s. A group of people had gathered and were singing. They swished their hands and snapped their fingers to a heavy, chilled beat. There was no electronic music — that was coming from the radio station that John was bouncing his fingers to on the steering wheel. It was just the singing of several pordioseros gathered around in a huddled mass of heat and sweat. Some of them were sitting down, looking at the sidewalk but attentive to the voices. Others were standing around joining the crowd as they moved their arms and held their faces out to the words. There was a joy in their song, a tender calm that kept them still.
 
“John, you think we’re gonna ace this test or what?”
 
“I think we got a good shot.”
 
“It’s goin’ to be a long night. Lots of outlines, lots of cases, lots of fact patterns and product liability analysis.”
 
“We got this, Miguel. I feel this Mickey D’s kicking in, and I think we’re gonna rock this exam.”
 
“I’m happy you came out here. That you saw the beauty in this neighborhood.”
 
John smiled. He gave him one of those I-think-we-shared-a-bonding-moment kind of smiles and looked back ahead of the road in front of him.
 
Miguel continued to look over at the people gathered outside of the McDonald’s. They had felt so far away for so many years, and now they were here, in front of him. He could feel hot stinging tears forming around the edges of his eyes.
 
“Dímelo Colombia!” a young woman with cornrows in the crowd shouted. A skinny man entered the middle of the circle and started bopping his head and upper body, initiating the sacred ceremony, entering the holy cypher’s center stage. “En mi barrio soy el hijo de la lucha, del concreto, doy todo por mi cucha, por mi texto, por la santa cruz de mi señor, no hay objeto más sagrado que la luz y el honor. Vengan, come, come on, vamos, vamos parceros!” Miguel looked over at the men and pressed a plastic button upwards, lifting the windowpane. The four homeless men from before were there. Two of the grass-stained wanderers had their backs against the building, moving their heads to the skinny songster’s raspy Spanish. His face was stretched out speaking to the violet sky, the sun falling into the Earth, the faded glow of the moon appearing over the clouds in Elizabeth.
 
As John drove and made his way towards the border in Newark, about twenty minutes from the Law School’s Center for Legal Justice and Constitutional Theory, Miguel grabbed a bookbag from the backseat of the car, opened it, and started looking for a black paper folder with a blank cover. He opened the folder and pulled out some documents. He took a paper out of the folder and tore it in half, then tore the halves in half, and then the halves of the halves in half until all that was left were law school resignation forms turned to black and white confetti. John looked over at him, but then turned and kept his eyes on the road. A Newark police officer mounted on a large horse strode next to them at a red light.
 
“Can you pull over here, real quick?” Miguel asked.
 
“You mean, right here, on Bleeker? There’s no parking.”
 
“Put your hazards on, it’ll be quick.”
 
John stopped the car and parked on the side of the street near a bus stop. He waited until the police officer on the horse crossed the street; and turned his hazards on. Miguel opened the door to the car and ran over to a trash can near a small Portuguese bakery. He threw the torn shreds of paper inside and watched them all fall to the bottom of the container. He took a bottle of pills and dumped them all inside. Miguel could hear it, feel it, in his skull, in his heart, buried deep in there, coming from Abuela, her voice piercing through the nothingness, inviting the dead and their thoughts and their grievances, reminding him of the many voiceless whose flames no longer burn. Before him, in the middle of Newark, he could see them all turning a corner, dead men with bullet wounds in their shirts, their faces bludgeoned by machetes and rifles, naked women with their throats sliced open by military issued knives, children holding hands, wearing charred hats. They carried their scars, their words, their memories kept long secured in graves, mouthing messages to him about bones that never saw the light of day, of all the ones that never made it out because their freedoms were extinguished by the hatred, by the fear, and by the feckless nihilism of human apathy. Miguel took a deep breath. “Abuela, aquí estoy, no me abandones.” He thought about his professors, his deans, the Cuban Surfer Dude. He thought about Braulio Hernandez perched atop a mountain with a rifle taking men out as they ran across the hills. He thought about the coming week, the coming test. He was gonna rock that shit, he fucking knew it, he fucking had to.

Diego Alejandro Arias is a Colombian-born writer from New Jersey. He is a civil rights attorney, former U.S. diplomat, and member of the Latino Coalition in Monmouth County, New Jersey. He served three tours of duty in The Dominican Republic, China, and Costa Rica. He was awarded meritorious honors by the United States government for his part in evacuating Americans from China in 2019, and for a small part in aiding negotiations with the Taliban to liberate Afghanistan families during the 2021 evacuation. His work has been published in the U.S., the U.K., and Colombia. He is a lifelong advocate for civil rights in both the United States and Latin-America, and speaks Italian, Chinese Mandarin, and Spanish. 

by Robert G. Retana

​The card was made of white construction paper and had a small flower on the front drawn with crayons. Each petal was a different color, and “Happy Mother’s Day” was neatly written across the top of the card. The handwriting was that of a child but neat and precise, nonetheless. Inside the card, the words “from Victor” were written in blue ink. Victor brought it home from school right before Mother’s Day and showed it to his Aunt Dolores.
 
“Can I send this to my mother?” he said.
 
His words pierced Dolores’s heart because she knew how much pain this poor child carried around and how much he would suffer for the rest of his life for things he had no part in.
 
“Yes, you can send it to her,” Dolores responded. “We’ll find an envelope for it and mail it tomorrow morning. She should get it in a few days.”
 
“When can I see her?” Victor asked.
 
“We can go for a visit soon. But she is in Chowchilla, a long way from here, and I don’t know how soon we can take a trip there.”
 
“When can she come home?”
 
“Baby, she might never come home,” Dolores responded. “But she thinks of you every day, and you can visit her there. It’s far, and we can’t go that often to see her. My car gives me a lot of trouble, and it takes forever if we take the bus.” Dolores hugged him, and he hugged her back. Then he went upstairs to change his clothes and play video games before he had to do his homework.
 
Dolores wondered whether she would have it in her to heal this child’s heart or whether the pain he felt would become rage, and he would wind up in prison like his mother. She prayed he would not change and that God would help her know what to do to make things better. Dolores had her own two children and never expected to raise a third. But now that he was hers, she could not help but want to take care of him. No one should start off in life with so much pain and sadness.
 
She looked at the framed picture of herself and Marisa, her younger sister, and Victor’s mother, which she kept on the living room wall. It was taken when they were little girls, four and five years old. They were clinging to their mother, who looked so happy and beautiful. She had long, brown, wavy hair and large expressive eyes, just like Marisa. Both girls were smiling and holding on to their mother for dear life. Behind them stood their father, a tall, handsome, nicely dressed man with thick black hair combed back and a neat mustache that framed his broad smile. Little did they know that soon after this picture was taken, their father would leave home and never return.  
 
People said he had another family in Mexico and decided to return there. Others said he was spotted wearing a fancy suit in the bars with a new woman by his side. Whatever the story was, they never saw or heard from him again. It was too much for their mother to take, and soon after he disappeared, she killed herself, overdosing on sleeping pills.
 
Marisa was sent to live with her grandmother, who was too old to control her, and just prayed a lot for her salvation. Dolores went to live with an aunt who took good care of her but could not afford to take them both. The girls cried for weeks when they were separated. Although they kept in close contact, they went their separate ways in terms of lifestyle. Marisa always had boys chasing her, but she never found a healthy relationship. Men just brought her more problems. Dolores was more serious and had a stricter parental figure in her aunt. She could not run with the same crowd or tag along when Marisa skipped school or got a fake I.D. to go nightclubbing even though she was underage. Marisa quickly learned that any shyness or awkwardness she felt would go away when she had been drinking and doing drugs, and her self-esteem was boosted by the attention she got from men, even if it turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. There was always room at the parties for a pretty girl who liked to have a good time.
 
The pain of losing their mother and father and then being separated from Dolores never seemed to lessen for Marisa. She lied, made everything seem great, and gave Dolores expensive gifts and clothes that she could not afford to buy for herself, never explaining how she got them. Marisa could never look her sister in the eye and tell her everything she was caught up in. People said she used men and women to get what she wanted. Marisa would always drive nice cars but never had a job that would allow her to afford them. She dressed in nice, new clothes and always had her hair and nails done. She looked vivacious, but when she drank, the sadness in her eyes was unmistakable.
 
When she visited Dolores, she sometimes slurred her words like she was high but denied she had a drug problem. Dolores begged her not to use drugs when she became pregnant and feared the baby would be born with birth defects. Luckily, he was born a healthy baby boy. Marisa never said who the father was and gave the baby her last name. She named him Victor, after their father, which surprised Dolores since Marisa always said she hated him. “At least this Victor will never leave me,” Marisa explained. “He will always be mine.”
 
Marisa cared for Victor as a baby, but as soon as he could walk, she started partying again. She would leave him with friends and family as often as she could. She would ask Dolores to watch him for a few hours and then not pick him up for a week. Marisa’s heart was not right, and having a baby did not change that. She always showed up with money, a nice toy for Victor, and a long story. Dolores knew Marisa was headed for trouble; however, she never imagined how much trouble was ahead.

***

​The drive home that night began in the Mission District of San Francisco. Marisa and her husband, Rob, had dinner on Valencia Street. When she took the driver’s seat of their new, black BMW 525i, she made a quick call on her cell phone and then hung up when the call was answered without saying a word.
 
“Who are you calling?” Rob asked.
 
“I want to see if my friend is coming over tomorrow to take me to apply for a job. But I didn’t realize how late it was, so I’ll call her in the morning,” Marisa responded.
 
“Okay. You don’t need to work, but if you want to, if that makes you happy, then you should do it.”
 
About half a mile away, Marisa stopped the car and said the check engine light had come on. “Don’t stop the car here,” Rob said. “This is not the best neighborhood; we can still make it home with that light on.”
 
Just then, a car pulled up behind them. A man quickly approached the vehicle’s passenger side and told Rob to get out. He held a gun pointed at Rob.
 
“Just do what he says,” Marisa told him. He got out of the car and tried to cooperate, not wanting any harm to come to him or his wife. Seven shots were fired as soon as he was out of the car. Three bullets pierced his skull while the rest entered and exited his chest.
 
When the police arrived, Marisa was crying, saying that Rob was her husband and that someone tried to carjack them and they shot Rob. But the car was still there, her purse was still inside, and she was still wearing the expensive diamond wedding ring Rob gave her. Marisa said she had no idea what the suspect looked like or what kind of car he was driving. She had no bruises, although she claimed the suspect hit her and pushed her to the ground so he could take the car. Her demeanor was also strange in that she did not ask about her husband’s condition or come close to his body, maintaining her distance from the crime scene instead. At the police station, she seemed confused and a little bit disinterested. She gave a vague statement to the police but became impatient when pressed for more details.
 
The police did not believe her from the start but had no basis for placing her under arrest. The facts, however, did not match up, as the route she took home was not the most direct route to the freeway entrance, which would lead them to the Bay Bridge and then to their home in the Oakland Hills. Something was up, and Marisa was not a persuasive grieving widow.
 
Rob died from gunshot wounds in the ambulance on the way to San Francisco General. When Marisa was told about his death, she did not cry. She looked more dazed than sad and said she wanted to go home. The police wound up notifying Rob’s family. They would soon learn that he was a 45-year-old executive at a software company in San Jose. He was a shy bachelor for most of his life and never dated much until he met Marisa. He met her at Golden Gate Park one day, where he was walking his dog. She approached him to pet his cocker spaniel. The dog seemed to like her, and Rob let her play with him for a while so he could get a closer look at her. She had long brown hair that was pulled off her face. She was petite, had curves in all the right places, and knew how to show them off. She was someone that people noticed. She was at ease with herself and struck up a conversation with him that flowed in a way his conversations with women never did. Before he knew it, she had given him her phone number, and they agreed to meet for a drink.
 
A drink led to her moving in with him quickly and then getting married in a civil ceremony at City Hall in San Francisco three months later. Rob bought a house in the Oakland Hills for them and gave her use of his credit cards, which she had no problem using. She bought expensive clothes, never worked again, and had frequent calls on her cell phone that she had to take in the other room. He never pressed for details of how Marisa spent her time or his money to prevent her from getting upset. In his eyes, she was a very emotional person with a strong personality and a quick temper, but also capable of moments of great tenderness.
 
Lonely nights alone at home in front of the television with fast food seemed worse to him than putting up with her mood swings. “Everyone can think you’re successful,” he would say, “but when you end the day at home alone, it sure doesn’t feel that way.” His family warned him about her, and she hated his family, saying they thought they were too good for her. Rob tried to keep the peace and wanted to make things work no matter what. He ignored her drinking and tried to bond with her son, hoping that being a good stepfather might score some points with her. It never did.
 
He never knew she was still seeing her old boyfriends, even after their marriage. Nor did he know or want to know who she brought to the house when he was at work. She partied with friends and lovers at home, impressing them with how she lived and telling them that she did not love Rob and would divorce him and collect alimony. They laughed and partied with her, had sex with her, but never imagined how far she would go.
 
The pain and abandonment she felt as a child and the men who used her along the way and then discarded her had caused a change in her. She was once a sweet, sensitive girl looking for someone to love her. Now, she only cared about partying and easy money. An expensive dress, nice jewelry, and money in her pocket validated her in a way that she never felt validated by other people. The pain she felt due to repeated abandonments made her do whatever was necessary to lessen the toxic energy she carried around inside despite the party girl vibe she projected.
 
She had no safety net, so she was not afraid to use any means necessary to get what she wanted. The drugs and alcohol eased the pain but blurred her sense of reality. Her old friends included several shady characters who fancied themselves as con artists and criminals who had gotten away with a lot, even if they wound up doing time for some of it. They would tell stories of schemes that had been successful and large amounts of money that could be made with the right planning and execution. When she told them she did not love Rob and was using him for his money, they encouraged her to get rid of him and cash in, as they were eager to keep her interested so she would continue to supply drugs and alcohol.
 
When she was high, it all seemed to make sense, and she had a feeling of invincibility that a sober Marisa would not have. She just needed to figure out how to get rid of him without getting caught. She spent many hours thinking about how to get it done. When an attorney told her that if she divorced him, she would not be entitled to very much, given the short time they had been married, she began to think that there was no other way to cash in but to kill him. She was not leaving this marriage empty-handed. She would not return to her old life with nothing to show for the time she was married to Rob. 
 
Eventually, she persuaded Rob to agree to purchase life insurance policies and mortgage insurance for the house, with her as the beneficiary. Then, before she knew it, the drunken conversations about hiring someone to kill her husband and collect the insurance proceeds turned into a plan of action. Her ex-boyfriend, Alex, who left her several times for other women, was back in her life and was seeing her at her house when Rob was working. She seemed to forget all the times he abused her and left her without explanation. She needed his approval, even after everything he had done to her. His return meant he was wrong when choosing someone else over her. At least, that is the story she told herself each time she took him back. Each knew that even though they both looked good, their days of trading off their looks were ending, and they needed a score to set them up.
 
Rob’s family began to ask questions about Marisa and told him to divorce her before it was too late. Rob’s demeanor towards her changed, and she found out that his parents had arranged a consultation with a divorce attorney. The end was coming, and she needed to act quickly. Marisa and Alex agreed to kill Rob on a dark street in the Mission District and make it look like a carjacking. Marisa would keep the house and the car and most of the insurance. She would give Alex one thousand dollars and the proceeds of one of the life insurance policies Rob had purchased.  

***

​As they rode the bus to Chowchilla, Dolores and Victor tried to keep cool in the sweltering heat. It took several hours to reach the Central Valley. As the bus exited Highway 99 and went east on Avenue 24, Dolores was glad the trip was almost over. Victor needed to use the restroom, and she needed to get this over with. Some things needed to be said, and she hoped she had the strength to say them without making things worse. The bus was filled with families of prisoners who seemed anxious to get there. However, their collective enthusiasm was tempered by the realization that they were headed to prison.
 
Above the almond trees, they could see the large complex, Valley State Prison for Women. It looked almost like a campus if it were not for the razor wire. It took them an hour and a half to work their way to the front of the line so they could be “processed.” As they passed through the metal detector, they removed their shoes and were searched by prison guards. Dolores almost did not believe they would search Victor, an eight-year-old boy, but figured they had seen it all and had no reason to trust anyone.
 
They were assigned a visiting table, and when Dolores first saw Marisa, she was shocked. Her hair was cut short and combed back off her face like a man’s. The baggy orange pants and top were in stark contrast to the stylish way Marisa dressed on the outside. All the make-up and embellishments she thought she needed were gone, yet the beauty of her bare face was still unmistakable.
 
“Mom!” Victor shouted when he first saw her, apparently not noticing the change in her appearance. She hugged him awkwardly and sat him right next to her. Marisa was happy to see her son and sister but was ashamed that they would see her like this. Marisa asked Victor about school and his friends and whether he was minding Dolores.
 
He then asked her, “When will you come home?”
 
After a long pause, Marisa responded. “I don’t know, mijo. Not for a very long time.”
 
“Why do you have to stay here so long?”
 
Marisa froze for a minute, not knowing what to say. When she was arrested, Victor was being cared for by a friend. Although he had visited her in county jail and had been to Chowchilla once before, she never explained why she was incarcerated. She never asked what Victor had been told by family and friends. She tried not to think about it and prayed that one day she would find a way to explain to him why she had been sent to prison. “It’s complicated,” she told him. “They said I did some bad things, and I’ll be here until the situation gets straightened out.”
 
Tears began to fall from Victor’s eyes as he listened to his mother. He knew what she had done because the neighborhood kids had no problem telling him, having heard about it on the news. He knew Rob was dead and that his mother was the one who had him killed. He heard it many times from various people but never told anyone that he knew. This caused bouts of sadness and anxiety which made him introverted.
 
“People say bad things about you, but I don’t care what they say,” Victor told Marisa. His voice was trembling. “I want you to come home so we can be together like before. I miss you.”
 
Marisa did not know what to say. She hugged him until she was told to stop by a prison guard. Here, visitors may briefly embrace their loved one upon greeting and again upon exiting the visiting room. Anything more was deemed “excessive.”
 
After a long silence, Dolores told Victor to get some food from the vending machines. She gave him several dollar bills to buy junk food, the only thing available to the prisoners and their visitors. “Bring your mom something to eat,” she told him. When he ran to the vending machines, a small line of people was waiting their turn. Dolores hoped this would occupy him for a little while so she could say what needed to be said.
 
“He misses you so much.”
 
“I know he does,” Marisa responded.
 
“He writes to you and makes cards for you, and you never respond.”
 
“You know I was caught up in the trial. Then I was sent to the reception center for ninety days to be evaluated. Then they sent me here. I had to get used to being here. It’s not easy for me. Don’t make it worse by coming here to give me head trips.”
 
“You’re his mother,” Dolores responded. “You didn’t think about him when you were scheming with Alex. You just thought about yourself and all the things you wanted. Now those things are gone, and all you have left is a little boy that misses you.”
 
Marisa remained silent, not knowing how to respond.
 
“Listen, I am not here to give you a hard time. You know you can count on me to care for him and be good to him like he was my own son. But I’m his aunt, and he still needs his mother.”
 
“What good am I to him behind bars?”
 
“I don’t know what to tell you, but you can’t keep trying to take the easy way out. He’ll grow up angry and hate you if you keep ignoring him. You have to be a mother to him from inside here because you may never come back out. I am telling you this so your son can know who his mother really is. He’ll find newspaper articles when he gets older, and, as you heard him say, people will tell him what happened. Is that what you want him to know about you?”
 
“But I told you, I didn’t kill him.”
 
“Marisa, it doesn’t matter; you were mixed up in it, and Rob is dead. You were convicted. Alex testified against you to save himself. Things might have turned out differently if you had spent more time taking care of Victor instead of looking for your next score. Have any of your friends visited you?”
 
“No,” Marisa responded. Tears began to flow from Marisa’s eyes, and she began to look at the floor.
 
“You were the lucky one,” Marisa told Dolores. “My aunt loved you and took good care of you. My grandmother didn’t want to raise me. She did it because she had to. She always wanted to be in church. She never talked to me. She just kept telling me to get saved and accept Jesus. You have no idea how many times I have been abused. I finally decided I wanted to be the one to take advantage of others. It all made sense to me when I was using. But I know I was wrong, and I’m paying for what I did.”
 
“I didn’t come here to make you feel bad,” Marisa responded, “but being a mother to Victor is more than just tattooing his name on your chest. He needs to know you love him and care how he is.”
 
“I just don’t know how. My mother wasn’t around, so I never learned how.”
 
“Well, you have plenty of time on your hands to learn,” Dolores said.
 
Victor came running back, his hands filled with bags of potato chips, candy bars, and soda. “Mom, here are some Cheetos for you. I know you like them.”
 
“Thanks.”
 
“Why are you crying?”
 
“I’m crying because I am happy to see you.”
 
“Did you get my card?
 
“Yes, it made me very happy. It made me have a nice Mother’s Day even inside this place.”
 
“My teacher said I’m a good artist.”
 
“You are. Thanks for thinking about me. It’s hard for me to write to you because I sometimes don’t have much to say. Nothing good happens here. But I will try to write to you. Send me some pictures of you when you have a chance.”
 
“I will, Mom.”
 
Dolores looked around the visiting room and saw several inmates who seemed to be visiting with their children and other family members. Some kids were younger than Victor; others looked like teenagers, almost ready to become adults. She thought about the amount of hurt that gets passed down from one generation to the next.
 
She often wondered how intense the pain must have been for their mother when she swallowed the sleeping pills and made her two daughters orphans. Had she known that one of those daughters would wind up in prison for life, would she have found the strength to survive? Would she have continued to be a mother to her daughters and keep them on the right track? She wondered if Marisa had considered all the pain and sadness that Victor would endure, would she have stopped herself from getting caught up in a man’s murder?
 
Marisa had a lot of time to think about these things while behind bars. She realized that she had left her son without a mother, much like what happened to her when she was a young girl. It was the last thing she would wish on anyone, much less her own son. Love, it seemed to Marisa, was transitory. You can’t count on it from one day to the next. Victor was the exception to that rule, yet she had ruined his life with her actions and did not know how to make it right. The guilt for what she had done to Rob and Victor was almost unbearable.
 
Just then, Dolores saw Marisa peering at her through the brown eyes she had always used to her advantage. She was stripped of all embellishments now, and all that was left was a battered soul in prison clothes. Next to her was a little boy who looked a lot like her. His happiness at being with his mother would be replaced by tears when he was in bed tonight, knowing that his mother would probably never come home.
 
The three of them sat silently for a few minutes, not knowing what to say. They heard the loud voices and chatter of the other inmates and visitors around them. They all seemed to know what to say and could be heard carrying on. But the three of them sat there and looked at each other, unsure how to relate to each other under these circumstances. When it was time to leave, they hugged each other tightly, and Victor did not want to let go.
 
“Thanks for bringing him and coming to see me,” Marisa said.
 
“Of course,” Dolores responded. “Let’s take this one day at a time. Un día a la vez.”
 
Dolores took Victor’s hand and walked toward the exit. The Central Valley’s overwhelming heat was waiting for them outside. She wiped the perspiration from Victor’s forehead. The heat was nothing compared to all the pent-up emotions in the visiting room. “Don’t worry mijo,” Dolores said to Victor. “If there is anything this family knows how to do, it’s getting through hard times.” 

Robert G. Retana is an attorney living and working in San Francisco. He is Chicano, originally from the Boyle Heights neighborhood of Los Angeles, as well as a Tribal Member of the Texas Band of Yaqui Indians. He lives with his husband, Juan Carlos, and their faithful companion, Tigre, a dachshund mix.  Robert’s short story “Leaving Boyle Heights” was published in the Latino Book Review Magazine in 2021. He is a fan of the arts and currently serves as a Board Member of the Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts in San Francisco.  As a writer, he seeks to tell stories from marginalized communities that are often left untold.  

by Russ López

“Watch out,” my sister Elena warned me, “Abuelita Marisol has decided you are too old to be single. She’s hired Señora Alba to fix you up with a suitable young man.”
 
Grandmother wasn’t the only one who thought I needed a partner. My mother gently told me last month, “I keep looking for a saint we could ask to help you find a novio.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the chances of the Catholic Church creating a patron saint of queer relationships was infinitesimally small.
 
It didn’t matter who or what you were, my family thought no one should be single. My Aunt Davida kept pushing me to go out and meet guys. “Sleep around until you meet one you like,” was her advice. “That’s the best way to find true love.” This from a woman who married my uncle when she was sixteen and was still blissfully with him nearly fifty years later.
 
One cousin suggested I should sign up for a dating service, not knowing all the apps I had on my phone, and another told me it was time for me to think about children. “You aren’t getting any younger,” he admonished. They preferred I meet a nice Mexican man, of course, or at least someone Latino. But that wasn’t necessary. Everyone just wanted me to be with someone.
 
I had four siblings, all of whom had at least embarked on a long-term relationship even if they didn’t last. It was my turn, if only to give everyone something to gossip about. “I’m sure there is someone wonderful out there for you,” Elena promised me. “And we will all talk behind your back about why he puts up with your annoying habits.”
 
I was twenty-six, out of school, and living on my own. I had graduated with a business degree and was an independent adult gainfully employed. On paper at least, it was time I acted like an adult. While my family was otherwise proud of me, Mom still had a picture of my league champion soccer team from my high school up in the hallway, they thought that being single made me incomplete.
 
On the other hand, I felt like I was just starting out in life. Despite the low-cost education I received from the California State University system and living at home my first two years, I graduated with huge student loans I can barely make the payments on. I drive an old car that embarrasses me and live in a studio apartment my brother Mike calls the smallest in Silicon Valley. I have far too much Indian blood in me to pass for anything but Mexican so if that isn’t a guy’s taste, I am out of luck. An accountant for a real estate company, my only luxury is my gym membership. Now that I think about it, maybe I was too dull to be marriage material.
 
If you want to hire a matchmaker, Señora Alba is a great choice. Not only is she a well-respected bruja, she also dabbles as a curandera, and during tax season prepares returns for half the neighborhood. Thus, she knows everyone: the good, the bad, the broke, and the single. In my family alone, she found Uncle Rodrigo his second wife, cured my cousin Manuela of hiccups by brewing a special herbal tea, and helped Elena straighten out her 401(k) roll over. “You weren’t too proud to go running to Alba to have your taxes done,” Elena taunted me. “What makes matchmaking so different?” Still, the idea of Alba assessing my physical, emotional, and financial strengths and weaknesses disturbed me. And though Alba has excellent taste in men, her love life is legendary, I was put off by her meddling. Angry that they thought I was a pathetic loser at romance, I vowed to Elena, “I am going to reject anyone that Alba picks out for me.” Childish, but they had hurt my feelings.
 
The next evening at the gym, I found out my humiliation had gone public when Mike and his buddy Alejandro teased about the matchmaking going on all around me. “No ring yet,” Michael reported to Alejandro as he held my hand up. “I’ve heard Alba has interviewed over a hundred men in three languages and none have agreed to woo my hermanito.”
 
“It’s his baby face,” Alejandro suggested as he pinched my cheek. “He’s cute in that muchacho next door kind of way but dating him would be like going out with a puppy dog. That’s not everyone’s taste.” Michael and Alejandro laughed while I turned red. They were best friends, having met when they started working at Mayfair High School where Mike taught Drama and Alejandro ran the ESL program. Though Alejandro was handsome and gay, I never paid much attention to him because he never expressed any interest in me. However, he had the key as to why Abuelita had made my love life her priority.
 
“Last Saturday, your grandmother was at Pancho González and Julian Chávez ‘s wedding. You should have been there, it was spectacular,” he explained. “They wore matching tuxedos and arrived in separate coaches drawn by white horses. There was a sit-down dinner at eight prepared by a chef from Oaxaca, and a midnight buffet that featured sushi and a taco bar. They had a band inside rocking the best norteño music I’ve ever heard, and a DJ blasting party tunes out on the patio. Your grandmother danced for hours. Everyone did. Sometime after her third glass of champagne, Abuelita told me you were her only chance to have an over-the-top gay wedding in the family.” I was doomed.
 
Over the next several days, I kept my eyes out for a setup, but nothing happened until Friday when Abuelita asked for a favor. “I bought a new television online and didn’t want it stolen off my porch, you know how bad the crime is on my street. So I had them deliver it at Santiago’s Market where I need you to pick it up for me. When you get there, see Tony, Santiago’s son. He’ll help you get the TV into your car and then come over with you to bring it up the stairs to my apartment. I arranged it all.” This was so obvious that I had a hard time not laughing. Still, if Abuelita asks me to do something, I do it.
 
Again, my humiliation was public and there was a crowd at the market when I got there including my mother, two aunts, my brother, and Alejandro. It was as if someone had sold tickets. “This is too entertaining to pass up,” Alejandro said, smiling.
 
To punish him and to thwart Alba’s machinations, I asked Alejandro to help me with the television. I admit I was tempted by Tony. He was mad handsome and still as built as he had been during his high school wrestling days when I had drooled over him. But I was determined not to let Grandmother run my love life and refused Tony’s offer to help. Abuelita must have been surprised when Alejandro and I carried her television into her apartment, but she didn’t say anything. I had won the first round in this war, but I didn’t gloat.
 
Afterwards, Alejandro and I went out for burgers to dissect the setup. “You know Alba would lead with a Dominican, she loves their music,” he teased. “Let’s face it, your family could use some outside blood.” That was true. Just about everyone in the family had married someone from Coahuila. Abuela had married a second cousin from her little village while Mom and Dad had lived across the street from each other growing up. My family never went too far afield to find our mates.
 
“Nothing against Tony, I’d have a roll in bed with him anytime.” I wondered why we had never hooked up. Maybe I was too timid to act on my crushes. “But he has no ambition beyond running his father’s store. I want someone who wishes he could go to Mars, even though he knows it will never happen,” I told Alejandro. “I want a guy who lives in his dreams. Tony is too literal.”
 
“Dang, you are tough,” he replied. “I’m lucky that Alba isn’t pushing me on you.” We both laughed.
 
Thanks to Alba, I started getting all sorts of strange requests. A guy I barely knew wanted me to be his date at his sister’s quinceañera party, a one-night trick from two years ago suddenly resurfaced to ask me to dinner, and a man at the gym invited me to go home with him. “You’re hot as hell, bro,” he said as he stood next to me in front of one of the wall mirrors by the free weights. “I want it right now.” Fortunately, Mike and Alejandro didn’t see us leave together. Gym guy was not one of Alba’s setups, however. Though I had a good time, it turned out he had a boyfriend.
 
The hits kept coming. A guy on Grindr texted me that he was “Grandmother approved” while a bartender asked me how the matchmaking was going as he slipped me his phone number. “I am exhausted from all this,” I complained to Alejandro the next evening at the gym.
 
“Cheer up,” he said as he hugged me. “Now you know everyone wants your hot body.” His arm around my shoulder felt good.
 
The next Thursday, everyone went to see Mike’s students perform Romeo and Juliet. With a party of thirty in an open seating auditorium, it was chaos with people trying to figure out where to sit. At the very last second, Alba ordered Kyle Moon, a gym coach, to take the seat next to me. This may have been innocent, but with Alba in action, I suspected everything. As far as I knew, Kyle was straight and I was pretty sure that Abuelita would prefer me to date a Latinx guy, but under the circumstances, I was annoyed by this blatant setup. To make matters worse, Alejandro was sitting on the other side of Kyle, rather than next to me, and by this point, I was convinced that he should be the one I go out with. But of course, he wasn’t anyone’s idea of a proper boyfriend for me. Keeping my anger hot, Abuela and Alba sat behind me, and before the play started, they loudly assessed the romantic potential of every young man in the audience. I seethed.
 
The family had found out I was gay ten years ago when I stupidly left a Valentine’s Day card from a classmate on the kitchen counter. Billy Martínez was a dream and had worked for a week to create a giant card that opened up into a three-dimensional football stadium with our names in a pink heart at the fifty-yard line. My parents were cool, though I was mortified when they put the card up on the mantle to show off. Elena helped me through that time. “Be grateful,” she told me. “Mom is trying to tell you the family loves you more than anything.”
 
Not everyone was nice about my being gay. Aunt Julia’s boyfriend is always making crude jokes, and a cousin pointedly told me that I was never allowed to be near her kids. There were guys at my high school who threatened to kill me, and a group of girls nicknamed me mariposa rosa and painted pink butterflies and obscene drawings on my locker. I was happy to get out of there alive.
 
Watching the doomed romance unfold on stage, I kept wondering why I was single and ultimately decided I was too shy. There were several men that in hindsight would have loved to become involved with me, but nothing ever happened because I was too scared to initiate a relationship. When this matchmaking ended, I vowed, I would go out there and act on my feelings. Then I decided not to wait. I abruptly asked Alejandro to go on a date as we walked out of the auditorium.
 
“Sure, if you want,” was his response. I didn’t find that reassuring.  
 
Regretting my spontaneity and fearing more public humiliation, I said, “Please don’t tell anyone about this. You know how everyone is watching me.” He agreed to keep it quiet.
 
Alejandro is so handsome, he makes me nervous. He is two inches taller than me with a perfectly proportioned body, well-muscled arms, and a widow’s peak that draws attention to his big sparkling eyes. We are about the same dark shade of brown and he has a way of talking with his hands that I find irresistible. Three years older than me, he was much more grounded than I could ever be. Though he likes to laugh and is always full of jokes, he is serious while I am all giggles. Thus, I didn’t have high hopes for us going forward. I figured he was only going out with me out of pity.
 
It turned out to be the best date I had ever been on. We were blissfully happy and totally in sync with each other. At one point I was suppressing the urge to laugh and tell him I was having a great time because I didn’t want him to think I was a gushy romantic when Alejandro leaned back, laughed, and said, “This dinner with you is so wonderful, I don’t want it to end.” I was hooked.
 
He spoke a lot about his family. “As the youngest, I am the only one with status; everyone else stays in the shadows so they don’t get picked up. From the start, I had to interpret for them and represent them when we faced the outside world.”
 
I felt all of my privilege for being born in the US, but I also knew the pushes and pulls he had experienced. “We all have to work together to protect the most vulnerable of us,” I told him. “A lot of folks are here without documents. We live intertwined together, we share our lives. If we lost any one of them, we all would suffer,” I felt helpless as I always do when the topic is immigration.
 
“I teach ESL to help the kids who are like me when I was young,” Alejandro told me. “There is so much pressure to get ahead, yet at the same time, their families so depend on them that they can’t keep up.” Mike had told me how Alejandro’s students adore him and how he is always helping them navigate the bureaucratic mess that ensnares non-citizens.
 
“I know how our families frame our lives,” I said. “My father wouldn’t let me become a social worker or a community organizer. No. I had to major in something practical like business. ‘We gave up your brother to teaching to help our people. You have to look for other ways to make something of yourself,’ he told me. You’ve met my father. I couldn’t ever go against his wishes.”
 
“I understand. We are all still trying to figure out our way between our families and the world,” Alejandro nodded. He still lived at home, though Mike told me he wanted to move out. “I’m always second guessing myself. I wonder if teaching is the right way to go. Sometimes I think I should run for office to change things. My father thinks that I am crazy when I talk about that, but I like to aim high.” I just stared into Alejandro’s eyes, lost in their possibilities.  
 
After a brief silence, Alejandro said, “When you give me that cute puppy dog look, I have to ask if your apartment is really as small as your brother says it is.”
 
“It is pretty cramped,” I answered. “When I have a guy over, we have to be on top of each other all night long.” I let that sink in as I explained, “I moved out of my parents’ place when my sister and her three kids came to live with us. I was too old to sleep on a couch every night.” Then I took another bold step. “Want to come back with me?”
 
When Alejandro looked around my tiny apartment, he smiled and said wistfully, “You are so lucky. I wish I had a place like this.” Then he pushed me down on the bed.
 
Within a week Alejandro was spending every night with me. By the end of the month, he had moved in. We alternated Sunday dinners, one with his family, one with mine, and we did everything together: the gym, soccer, and knocking on doors to get our candidate elected to the city council. Still, as far as I knew no one had a clue we were seeing each other, and I was happy I had outsmarted Alba. I wanted to keep things quiet but the news of our relationship began to leak out. Elena saw Alejandro’s car parked in front of my apartment early one morning, and Mike caught us sharing a drunk sloppy kiss after our soccer team went out to celebrate a big win. He confronted us when he saw me wearing Alejandro’s beat up Mayfair High tee shirt at the gym. “Listen up, lovebirds. Either you go public, or I am going to tell everyone. I can’t keep a secret.”
 
It is hard to overstate the status of Mexican grandmothers. Fathers may love us to pieces, but they always have unreasonable expectations. We have to have perfect in every way. My father even had an opinion on what car I should drive. “Get a dark sedan. Cops always pull over a Mexican driving a red SUV.” Daughters have it even worse. Mexican fathers’ primary role in life is to make their daughters miserable by being overprotective. They hate every boy who even glances at their virginal little girls.
 
Mexican mothers are similarly ambiguous. They will fight to the death to protect us, but they also feel it is their duty to wheedle, threaten, prompt, and cajole their sons to do what they think is right. It drove my mom to madness if I left the house in a wrinkled shirt, for example. “If the teachers see you disheveled, they will blame me,” she said, tears running down her cheeks at the thought of the humiliation. Again, Mexican daughters have it worse because their mothers try extremely hard to prevent them from making the same mistakes they did. Daughters are too much like their mothers to get along.
 
Grandmothers, however, are the warm source of unconditional love. There are never any fights, never an argument or raised voice, and they never hurt our feelings. Abuelita would slip me cookies when my parents weren’t looking, and she let me stay up late to watch spooky movies when she babysat me. I admit to being annoyed when she made me say the rosary with her, and I grew bored the hundredth time she told me how bad things were in Mexico before she left. But those were minor quibbles.
 
Abuelita was the tough matriarch of our family. Denied the opportunity to go to school, she had taught herself how to read and write Spanish and after she moved to California, learned it all over again in English. She organized everyone to come to the United States, and when the window to citizenship opened up in the eighties, she had everyone apply. She and Abuelito raised seven children, and thanks to their force of will, none of their children or grandchildren succumbed to gangs or drugs. After a lifetime of hard work cleaning hotel rooms, Abuelita was at last retired, but only because her children demanded she rest. We all did whatever we could to please her.
 
Imagine my fright that I was going to confront her, perhaps the first time since the time of the fifth sun—the Aztec creation myth says we are in the fifth world—a grandson was going to directly contradict his grandmother. But I owed it to her. I couldn’t let her keep spending her money finding me a match.
 
My opportunity came while we were at Tía Agueda’s house. Alejandro was out back teaching Mike’s four-year-old and the other kids how to merengue; by now he had spent so much time with my family that if I showed up someplace without him, everyone asked where he was. My parents and their siblings were playing cards around the dining table while arguing over who was responsible for the latest defeat of the Mexican National Soccer Team. Abuelita and I were cleaning up in the kitchen. She is a tiny woman; I could easily lift her up over my head. Her short hair had turned gray before I was born; now it was mostly white, which made her dark skin glow. While she talked about her volunteer work at the parish, I kept looking at her to assess her mood. But she is as undecipherable as a marble statue. No one knows what Abuelita is thinking, but we always know what she wants. And here I was about to go against her wishes.
 
Surprisingly, it went very well. “Alejandro is a good boy. His family is very proud of him.” That is the greatest complement Abuelita has for anyone. “Es muy guapo,” she added. “Though both of you need to put on some weight.”
 
“No hard feelings?” I asked. “I am so sorry you were worried about me. I apologized for making you go through all this.” It was heartfelt.
 
“Pues, it was worth a try. I only wanted to help,” she said with a smile. I offered to reimburse her for Alba’s fee, but she refused. “This is a business transaction between the Bruja and me. Don’t go poking into it.” I backed off and put it out of my mind because I was excited that I was in a full blown, open, happy relationship with Alejandro. And I was with him on my own, without anyone pushing us together.
 
My sister finally told me what happened. “You really are a fool,” Elena rolled her eyes at my innocence. “No one can outsmart a bruja. It’s impossible to stop an abuela when she sets her mind to do something. Everyone knows that Alba planned to set you up with Alejandro from the beginning.”

Russ López is the author of six nonfiction books as well as book reviews and journal articles. After an extensive career of community organizing and social justice advocacy, he is the editor of LatineLit, a magazine that publishes fiction by and about Latinx people. “Matchmaking and Taxes” is part of a planned collection of short stories tentatively titled, The Lesser Saints of Silicon Valley. Originally from California, López has degrees from Stanford, Harvard, and Boston University. He currently divides his time between Boston and Provincetown, Massachusetts.

​I’ve just returned from my very first visit to Magdalena de Kino, Sonora, México where I attended the most spectacular birthday celebration for the miraculous San Francisco, the town’s patron saint. Magdalena was the town where both my mother Dolores and my grandmother Conchita had been born and raised. And in this same town in 1923, my Nana Conchita busted my grandfather’s antique black clock with a hammer, divorced him and with just my ten-year-old mother and a mochila, came to Nogales, Sonora where my grandmother’s two sisters, Carmela and Dolores, lived. After a short stay, my Nana Conchita found work as a laundress in Arizona and she and my mother ended up in Barrio Anita, one of Tucson, Arizona’s poorest barrios, and that’s where my four older sisters and I were born.
 
I sincerely believe that if you’re very lucky, in your life there is someone whose words you will never forget, and for me, it was my Nana Conchita. She may have never told me that she loved me, and I may have never told her that I loved her, but in both of our corazones, in our hearts, without these words, we knew. So, right here I have to declare that I truly love and remember everything that my grandmother told me and I will never forget her words. I no longer have her in my life, and I do not remember exactly when she gave me this advice, but here it is: She said that when a very esteemed person in your life leaves this earth and you can no longer see them, their spirit, their essence, will continue to visit you in your dreams, your memories, and they will even walk right next to you even though you will probably never actually see them; but if you’re really lucky and have faith, sometimes you can feel their presence.
 
And if you find yourself all alone in a desperate, dangerous situation and in need of guidance and help, that’s when you will hear and maybe even see them because they will always come to help you. When she said this, I almost wanted to ask her if she would be by my side and come to help me if I ever needed it, but I thought it would be disrespectful so I didn’t say anything. She did not say anything either, but she looked intently at my face and the next thing she did was smile and pat my shoulder, the very same shoulder that she always used to hoist herself from any sitting position.
 
I thought that with my crazy imagination I would surely see spirits like Lola, my mother, sees Dusty, her best friend long gone, but I never saw any until tonight. And it could very well just be a myth, but like I read somewhere what a folklorist wrote about myths: If you believe that they’re true, then they’re true. So, for me, this is true: I believe that my grandmother will always be by my side forever, and she will come to help me if I need her just as she did tonight when she appeared and helped me save that little girl at the dry riverbed in Magdalena, Sonora, Mexico.
 
And tonight, right before I go to bed, I am remembering very clearly my grandmother’s precise description of the fiesta that she told me about over fifty years ago when she was around sixty years old; I was around twelve, newly-arrived from Salinas, California where I had lived the last four years speaking only English. But even so, my grandmother and I had many long conversations because she understood my English perfectly and I, slowly, eventually, learned her Spanish.
​
In my saved-memories, very vividly I can picture my Nana dressed in a faded flannel nightgown and robe and praying the rosary every single night before she went to bed. She would slowly kneel next to her dresser where she had an improvised altar with her eight favorite saints. In between the rosary’s misterios, she would abruptly stop her praying and with her soft, sleepy voice and in great detail, she would describe Magdalena’s wondrous fiesta and the authentic Sonoran culinary delights that no other state in Mexico or Tucson restaurant could ever hope to duplicate or beat.
 
These two were her fondest memories and she never stopped telling me this. “¡Pos sí, Quinta, créyemelo o no, pero de veritas, anque hiziya un pinchi calor de la tiznada—y esto anque juera o no juera ya en el mes de octubre—no cave duda que la fiesta del milagroso San Francisco en mi pueblito de Magdalena de Kino, Sonora, era la fiesta más grandiosa de todo el mundo y con la mejor comida en todo México!”
 
Yes, these were my grandmother’s exact words in her very own distinctive and unique “imperfect” Spanish which included a truly impressive range of misuse, mispronunciations y las muchas malas palabras that I surely hope won’t offend anyone. And guess what? I now have to totally agree with my grandmother: The fiesta for San Francisco is the grandest celebration in the whole world and with the most delicious dishes in all of Mexico, especially the pozole de gallina pinta which is made with beef, pinto beans and hominy, and it is absolutely not a painted chicken! ¡Pero, híjole, Chihuahua, it was just like she’d said, for it being the month of October, it sure was tiznada HOT!!! 

​What you will never ever imagine when you see me standing anywhere looking toda rascuachita, chamagosa, y cochambruda, holding onto my notepad, my beat-up and battered famous quotations book, thesaurus, and Spanish and English dictionaries in my hands, is that I have the audacity to call myself a writer; but honestly, I do!!! I do!!! I mostly write about my good, bad, joyful and sad memories; lots of descriptions of my days, music that I love, my crazy relatives, my typing clients and all of our inane nonsense and shenanigans. I started writing the day that I got my book of famous quotations and my English and Spanish dictionaries sometime before my twelfth birthday. I remember when I told my Grandmother Conchita that I wanted to be a writer, she told me with her usual enigmatic words whenever I came up with an impossible, quixotic goal: “Ay, Quinta cabrona, ¿pos cuantas veces te voy a dijir que ‘del dicho al hecho hay muncho trecho,’ eh?” Which crazily translates to something like this: From the saying/statement to the action/deed there is a very long distance/space.
 
My Nana always felt that my writing (grouped along with my reading, daydreaming and my obsessive counting) was nothing but another one of my “puras bavosadas y pendejadas despilfarradas,” saliva-drooling nonsense that would make me waste and fritter away an entire day doing absolutely nothing. But anyway that didn’t stop me. First chance I’d get I would sneak away somewhere to write, but without fail my grandmother would find me, then she’d sigh, sniff and snicker, and—THUNK!—right there’s when she’d smack me on the head with her shoe or with the end of the broom or with whatever else was in her hands.
 
Well, believe it or not, in spite of the literal and figurative chingazos that life and my grandmother gave me, I still continued to write every chance I got because I wanted and needed to make some sense of my life that was filled with empty blank areas and horrific nightmares and of course this has turned out to be a super-long and difficult endeavor without a final resolution in sight.
 
Well, besides claiming to be a writer, I have another delusion of grandeur: I could’ve become a photographer like the woman who went around 14 La Quinta Soledad taking pictures of very sad and very poor people during the Great Depression. I forget her name—but it’ll come to me when I least expect it—anyway, just like her, I would have plenty of these gloomy subjects around here, except that I would prefer to take photographs of smiling people if I could find any.

And I would’ve been a good photographer because I have a tendency to view life like as if I was holding my hands out in front of me, my two thumbs together making a square, but missing the top line, and I am always checking out the lights and shadows and colors. For dramatic and most gripping effect, I especially like either the stark blacks and whites like in negatives, or a kaleidoscope of the latest-invented eighty-four Crayola rainbow colors to place over people’s heads.
 
With the camera in my mind I can very expertly create the most riveting dramatic images and scenes to either photograph plainly or to film with plenty of freezes, slow and fast motion speeds, super-impositions, compressed times with rolling white meringue clouds, deliberately out-of-order flash-backs to the past, flash-forwards to the future, intentional blurs for dramatic effect, and instant replays for the dumb ones who missed it the first time.
 
And because I like to write, I can even write the piquant and racy dialogue and deep-voiced narrative voice-overs, or else the people can talk sentences with just their eyes or with their words in bubbles over their heads like in the comic books. Or in contrast, I can even imagine the most tranquil inky-dark absolute silence like in a black bottomless abyss where a giant octopus awaits with its eight lazy floating tentacles.
 
Plus, not only that, but to accompany these scenes or images, I always then select the background music that will perfectly fit the mood, themes, or even the wild pacing of my photographs or films like from the most soporiferous sleep-inducing gringo classics like from Brahms’ “Waltz in A Flat Major, Op. 39, No. 5,” to any of the raunchiest and liveliest Mexican corridos norteños like from Los Alegres de Terán, or even the beer-drinkers’ favorite anthem: “Volver, Volver,” sung loudly by just about any drunk chorus of borrachentos desentonados right before the serious fistfights begin.
 
Needless to say, if you’re going to have delusions, you might as well go to the very top pinnacle, like up to Mount Everest, and that’s precisely why, in all of my daydreams and fantasies, I myself could’ve become a famous photographer just like Dorothea Lange—somewhere in my memory bank I found the answer that I needed: Dorothea Lange was the Depression photographer’s name and the name of the woman in her most famous photograph was Florence Thompson.
 
Or, you know, I could’ve even become a movie director like Alfred Hitchcock and I would give myself lots of cameo roles, and then I’d unobtrusively stroll in and out of all the different murder scenes, like maybe I could be a detective taking copious notes in a red spiral notebook, and plus I would get to mingle with the real actors and eat the fabulous catered meals under a rented tent.

At present time, I am a typist for my relatives, friends, felons, juvenile delinquents and a few law-abiding citizens, and I like to introduce myself as a “writer” to them. Although to be sure you could rightly say that calling myself a “writer” is quite a hyperbolic exaggeration because I truly believe that my command of both the English or Spanish languages is almost non-existent due to the fact that I have a very wonky manner of speaking and writing in a very mixed-up hodgepodge manner with improper bad English, pocho-mocho Spanish, Spanglish and code-switching.
 
But before you know it, like an uninvited intrusive comadre mitotera butting into the conversation, my Past always inserts itself into my Present every chance it finds, and then I can’t find margins or seams to separate the two. At these times I even think that I could be like Joanne Woodward in the movie “Three Faces of Eve,” where she had multiple personalities because when she was a little girl she was forced to touch her dead grandmother. But I know for a fact that I never touched my Nana Conchita to give me this kind of trauma because I never even went up to her coffin. And besides, to be honest, sometimes I think that I don’t even have one personality, much less three!!!
 
And added to that is the bad habit that I have of always hesitating before answering anything because I have to first, calmadamente, translate the words in my mind, Spanish to English, or English to Spanish, until I form a mental picture of them like as if I was going to take a photograph of them for my favorite Graphic Arts class at Tucson High way back in 1955 to 1956 when I was almost sixteen years old, in the ninth grade, and right before I dropped out of school for the first time.
 
Because of my high vocabulary score on my last exam when I ended the eighth grade at John Spring Junior High in 1955, I was mistakenly placed in Miss Benvenuto’s Advanced Reading and Writing English Class at Tucson High School where I surely had no business being there. In Miss Benvenuto’s class I had to read novels and short stories, write essays, and learn grammar and punctuation. Of these, what I did learn to enjoy the most was the reading of the assigned short stories and novels and then writing what I thought about them.
 
But learning the punctuation and the grammar gave me the worst headache that not even my Nana’s sliced raw potatoes on my forehead could take away. Las desgraciadas commas, I just tended to willy-nilly insert them like as if they were raisins in the oatmeal cookies, and I walked out of the class before I learned what a semicolon or a colon was really good for. But I do love the dashes that interrupt whenever and wherever they want—just like I do—and the parentheses that I stick in anywhere and anytime always remind me of those know-it-all viejas chismoleras that you can always count on to give you that extra, sometimes trivial, information. As for the exclamation marks, Miss Benvenuto insisted that only one was needed, but sometimes if something’s exciting, frightening or terribly important, I use three!!!
 
So without any nalgas huangas excuses or apologies, in April, 1956, I walked out of Miss Benvenuto’s class and dropped out of school before I even finished the ninth grade. In September, 1956, I did start the ninth grade all over again at Belmont High in Los Angeles, but I only lasted almost two months and around the end of October I dropped out for good this time and I returned to Tucson. And to be honest, I can sincerely say that in both of those ninth-grades, except for maybe the Typing and Gregg’s Shorthand classes, I didn’t learn anything even remotely worthwhile.
 
But now, in my writing, like as if it was a fence separating any of the feuding barrio neighbors, I just stick a semicolon in wherever I want; and the colon I use like as if it was a trumpet announcing a list or something important, or else it’s right before a famous quotation. To this date I still forever use the sacred punctuation marks without respect or boundaries or even omit them completely, but, really, put simply, what almost anyone really needs is two things: a question mark that wants an answer and a period that stops everything in its tracks, like this: period.
 
There’s lots of things that I’ve forgotten, thrown away or left out intentionally, and there’s still many more things that I’ve confabulated, obfuscated, sugar-coated and glossed over and which surely proves or confirms why Miss Benvenuto called me an unreliable narrator who had no form or structure!!!
 
And sorry, here I’m not “copping a ‘tude,” an expression that my juvenile delinquent clients always use, but I don’t even give a tiny rat’s pizzle about my sentences that tend to run-on untethered like cucarachas when you turn on the kitchen light with a can of Raid in your hand, and I ignore all of the rest of that boring English chicken-cuacha which included all the pendejadas like predicates, split infinities, dependent and independent clauses, sentence fragments; past, present and future tenses, transitions, points of views, diction, active and passive verbs and all the other chingaderas that never agreed and that I either violated, abused, mis-used, mis-placed, or like as if they were limp huevos boludos, I just simply left them somewhere dangling.
 
Right off, no matter how much I try to learn what Form and Structure means in writing, I obviously have no grasp of whatever that is. So, I do have to admit that I am just like as if I was a chapulín hopping around with all the other grasshoppers in a green alfalfa field. I have a tendency to either over-write or under-write and I do repeat a lot of senseless things or jump forward and backwards with the subject, point of view, time, place, mood, transitions and dates all out of order. I also create a very confusing syntax where the arrangement of my words inevitably either leads to muddled confusion or to scornful disdain. I don’t know how or why, but I even somehow manage to turn my statements into questions. Like this, you see?
 
But anyway, who cares what I violated to my heart’s content and even though I may not have learned the perfect punctuation and grammar before I walked out of Miss Benvenuto’s class, for sure what I learned was how to take very good notes because to this day I sagely and diligently follow the advice of an Italian man named Dante Alighieri who in my battered book of famous quotations wrote: “He listens well who takes notes.”
 
I have a perfect photographic memory (eidetic is the exact word in my English dictionary and in the newspaper’s crossword puzzle). So, with my notes I can recall anything with the most exquisite details in either English or Spanish, and I can describe, almost word for word, the things that I see, hear, touch, smell, taste, or feel. And of course, inevitably, to spice things up, I add my own music, imagery and dialogue. Well, sometimes I do forget the names of famous people or movies or words to a song, and I mix up a few places on the map, and some dates and even some years. But when I really need or want to remember something, it just comes to me, and conversely or reversely, when I don’t want to remember something, it doesn’t.
 
To be honest, with any one of my stolen pens or pencils that I have an overwhelming compulsion to steal, I can fill up pages and pages with my writing. When I am finished, I put them in a folder and label them as “Chapter” and I add a number and a few descriptive words to help me find something without going through all the pages. Some of these “chapters” are long, some are short, and most are choppy and wacky! Then I stuff them into my Salinas suitcase along with the stash of pens and pencils that I bundle into groups of hundreds.
 
On my “feeling good” days, I take out some of what I’ve written and I try to bring things up to date or to provide more information. I label it with capital letters: “UPDATE” and add descriptive words like I do on the “Chapters.” I think it’s like when you write postscripts in letters or film flash-backs and flash-forwards in movies. Some of these are brief and some are long with more details, but still not counting as a chapter.
 
This, of course, wreaks havoc with my past and present tenses, and in some of the dizzying transitions where I jump from there to here or from here to there, and get my dates mixed up, but I believe that’s exactly how people talk, so why not in writing? Anyhow, in my defense, all I can say is that when I’m not purposely avoiding something or else leaving out important information, I try my very best to stay truthful and really, aside from the lies in the letters and forms that I have to type for my quasi-law-abiding or my truly-felonious clients on another one of my client’s stolen electric typewriter—and these surely don’t count because I only type what they tell Mack or me—I never knowingly tell a lie, and so, on this you can trust me completely and implicitly.
 
But not to brag, I really think that if anyone will give me a word and its meaning, I can easily write a sentence with twelve or more words and it will be perfectly coherent and intelligent-sounding even if I can’t pronounce the word itself, and which is why I never could appear on “Jeopardy,” and that’s irregardless—yes, I do know that’s not a word—of how much I adore the handsome Alex Trebeck, but there really wouldn’t be one solitary interesting thing about me that we could discuss when he comes back after the break to chat with the contestants.
 
And although I’ve probably been speaking English all my life, I still speak it with an accent, and this I only know because when I was a student at Belmont High in Los Angeles, I applied for some kind of student/worker telephone operator job, and after the woman extolled my high test scores, she told me I couldn’t be hired because I had an accent! Well, I don’t know where the accent came from, but I suspect that it is in the genes before we are even born. So, yes, it’s an example of bitter irony at its best because when have you understood what any foreign telephone operator in New Delhi tells you nowadays? And sometimes, can you believe this, I’ve even been asked by some jackass what country I’m from?!!!
 
Well, if my English is horrid, you can bet for sure that my gobbledygook Spanish comes close to jack-shit, and I always like to make jokes about it because I surely cannot explain all that baloney about the assimilation and acculturation process; I just know that I am a product of a school system where speaking Spanish was forbidden, Treaty of Guadalupe or not.
 
So, anyway, pues, here’s where I think that I started to speak Spanish. In July, 1952, at age eleven and seven months, I came back from Salinas, California to Tucson, Arizona to help take care of my grandmother at 937 North Contzen in Tucson’s Barrio Anita. My Nana Conchita had just had an operation on her hips, and she had a cast on her left side from her waist to the beginning of her thigh, and on the right side, the cast went from her waist to her knee. Since she couldn’t move up from her bed for around six weeks, I was there to attend to her needs which were quite extensive, but the main one was to keep her entertained with lively conversations so she wouldn’t get into a bad mood or all sad and melancholy about the Mexico she’d left behind in 1923.
 
I don’t remember what language I spoke the first eight years of my life here in Tucson, 1940 to 1948, because those years are a total blank, but for the next four years, I had lived in Salinas, California from 1948 to 1952, where no one would be caught dead speaking Spanish for fear of being mistaken for a piojoso bracero field-worker from Mexico. In turn, my Nana Conchita was from Mexico and in the United States since 1923, but she wouldn’t be caught dead speaking English and be mistaken for an officious social worker from the welfare department even if it meant being called a guacha, or one who still wore guarachis on their feet and the cotton calzones de manta underwear, like as if she was a peasant soldadera in the revolution with Pancho Villa.
 
At first my Nana’s Spanish, even before her sleeping or pain pills started to work, had sounded like plain gibberish to me, but it seemed as though since my arrival that hot and windy afternoon, by pure force, but most likely because I had spoken Spanish in the first eight years of my life when I had lived before in Tucson, already I was re-learning Spanish by the minute, and by constantly interrupting and asking questions and forming mental images with the answers, I could instantly translate to English the gist of what my Nana was saying in Spanish, and somehow she always understood what I said in English.
 
To me, young as I was, some things that my Nana said made sense, others didn’t, and some I may have invented as the years went by because my memories always tend to jump around like pork chicharrones on the hot grill. In some strange way, I managed to memorize most of what she told me, and that’s why even now I try to write her words exactly as I heard them, and I don’t care who objects to them or who dares to correct me. And for sure, I really don’t care if someone tells me that they are “imperfect,” or that they don’t know what they mean because like I always like to say: that’s precisely why dictionaries were invented. (Hint. Hint.)
 
Anyway, I could talk to her and jabber away as much as I wanted to in English and she would answer me in Spanish, and if ever I had become a movie screenwriter and had written the dialogue for the scenes with my Nana Conchita, the actor portraying her would only speak Spanish and my grandmother’s words would be shown in English subtitles at the bottom of the screen, like in those foreign movies where you have to read really fast so you won’t miss seeing the actors’ dramatic facial expressions or subtle movements, and her bad words would be like this: @#%$^&*%# like in cartoons where someone smashes their fingers with a hammer!!!
 
I never really wanted to speak any Spanish, but not understanding my Nana when she told me that when I’d gone to California I’d left Guatemala for Guatepeor, made me resolve to pay more attention to the Spanish because, who knew, maybe, unlike the people in Salinas, California, here in Tucson, Arizona they were so backwards that that’s all the people spoke. But still, my Spanish must’ve been good enough because anyone in Barrio Anita that was allowed to be my friend spoke the same “improper and rascuacho” Spanish that I did, and so without going into details, that should tell you enough.
 
So, in less than a month after arriving in Tucson, I start to speak Spanish effortlessly—well, almost effortlessly—and soon I could easily switch from English to Spanish and from Spanish to English. Maybe it was like I remember René Martínez, the dishwasher in Salinas who started to speak English from one day to the next like as if he always had the English stored in his brain without his even knowing it; or maybe it was because I must’ve spoken Spanish earlier in my life; or maybe it was just because I was surrounded by it, here in this Tucson Barrio Anita.
 
That same summer when it was raining so hard that I could not go outside, not even to feed the chickens, and I only had the “Confidencias” magazines that my Nana Conchita’s two sisters sent to her from Nogales, Sonora for reading, so I taught myself to read in Spanish, slowly and by mouthing the words. In these “Confidencias” magazines, my Nana detested the monthly horoscopes that she called “puras brujerías fraudulentas,” but which I avidly devoured. Eventually, though, I believed these horoscopes had to be the most stupidest things I’d ever read, because even if the “Confidencias” had been up-to-date, and even when I cheated and tried three different Zodiac months, the actual December, and then November and January, none of the horoscopes even came close to fruition for me.
 
These magazines consisted mostly of what my Nana called las vaquetonadas y sinvergüenzadas indecentes, but which really just described nicely and circumspectly the latest escapades of the beautiful movie star María Felix and the results of the latest crooked political elections and what the newly-elected officials were already planning to steal next after they dedicated a new dam for the applauding campesinos. The two things that my grandmother really liked to read were the maudlin and soppy advice for the lovelorn, but only if she agreed with it and if it didn’t call for any of the forgiving “mierdero,” and the recipes that didn’t require strange ingredients like plantains and alcaparras and habichuelas, ingredients that were unknown to the Chino grocers, so she never made any of these dishes.
 
Well, I did manage to learn Spanish, as the saying goes, something like this: “de el trote y al moche,” and today I can brag that I can speak, read and write Spanish, albeit very badly—so, go ahead and call it an “improper and rascuacho” Spanish. And even so, by stretching the definition somewhat, you could say that I’m bilingual, which supposedly is a good thing to put down on any employment application, especially here in Arizona where probably over half the population speaks Spanish, or at least until some tapados get it outlawed.

​A native of Tucson, Arizona, Silviana Wood received her M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has been involved in the local theater community since the 1970s. She is known for her bilingual comedies and dramas as well as for being a professional storyteller, actor, director, and teacher of literature and Chicano theater. Silviana has twice won the Chicano/Latino Literary Prize from the University of California, Irvine: once for short story, and once for drama. She has also received playwriting fellowships and done several residencies at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center in San Antonio, Texas. She has been a member of TENAZ (El Teatro Nacional de Aztlán), Teatro del Pueblo, Teatro Libertad, and Teatro Chicano and is a founding member of Mujeres Que Escriben, a Latina writers’ group that was formed in 1991 and is comprised of professional women whose poetry and fiction have been published in various anthologies. In 2016, Barrio Dreams: Selected Plays by Silviana Wood was published by the University of Arizona Press.

by Tommy Villalobos

Giggles walked like she was dancing to Oldies But Goodies, Volume One. But she also looked sad all the time. It was like she wanted to be sad. Her friends already had a Sad Girl so they called her Giggles.
 
People called me Gordo. I wasn’t fat. Maybe just a little.
 
But let me get back to Giggles. She was the finest one in the Projects, 1950’s.
 
One day, Lil’ Chango, skinny with a face that not even a madre could love, tried talking to her. He was barking like a seal up the wrong playa. I looked at her face when she was listening to the bato. Her lips were twisted. Like he was making funny noises with his nariz.
 
He walked away with his head looking down, like he didn’t care if a carucha hit him. She looked at me and I made a serious face. Inside, I was laughing like when I saw that cartoon where the coyote gets hit by a giant rock when he’s chasing the pájaro loco.
 
Giggles started walking again with that special wiggle. I wanted to tell her something like a priest. I walked fast.
 
“Hija, you can tell me,” I said.
 
She turned to look at me like I was a cucaracha walking around her sopa.
 
“I don’t know you.”
 
“I want you to.”
 
“I like someone.”
 
“Never saw you with someone. Never saw you with anyone.”
 
She looked at me like I was another cucaracha but this time in her sopa.
 
“Are you following me around?”
 
“Even when I sleep.” I was trying to sound romantic like in a song.
 
“Don’t!”
 
“All girls like being looked at.”
 
“Not me.”
 
“We’re meant to be.”
 
“Uh-uh.” She walked quickly away. Almost ran.
 
People could ask me why I didn’t give up. You know, chase other girls who liked gordos.
 
I would tell them that girls act in different modos. They can hate you but then you say or do something they really like, they grab you and put your arms around them. You feel like an octopus wearing a Pendleton.
 
“Where have you been, Felipe?” said my mother as soon as I walked in the door.
 
“Getting fresh air.”
 
“There isn’t any.”
 
I wanted to tell her about Giggles but she might not like her walk.
 
“Áma, I like this girl and—”
 
“She won’t be the last.”
 
“This one is the first and only. She is special.”
 
“She lives in Beverly Hills?”
 
“Huh?”
 
“Take out the garbage.”
 
I took the garbage outside. A chavalo called Freddie saw me.
 
“Hey, Phillip,” he yelled. He was the only one who called me by my name.
 
“What?” I said to the mocoso.
 
“You want to play baseball?”
 
He didn’t see that I was grown up. Baseball was for chavalos. Girls were more fun now.
 
“Freddie, I like girls now,” I said like I was confessing to a priest.
 
“What?”
 
Freddie was stunned, making a cara like I said I liked wearing dresses now.
 
“One day, you’ll throw your baseball to your sister because you won’t be able not to.”
 
I really thought of saying that because his sister Lydia was a better baseball player than him and she was only seven.
 
“You’re talking crazy, Phillip. Go get your mitt, let’s play.”
 
“Maybe later,” I said, knowing “later” really meant never.
 
He turned and walked away. He turned back to look at me as if he wasn’t sure who I was. Then he disappeared into the Projects. I felt kind of sad. Like my childhood was disappearing with him.
 
Then I thought again about Giggles and I wanted to kick Freddie and my childhood further into the Projects. God made something more fun than baseball.
 
Then my friend since I forget how long, Jimmy, saw me. We were the same age. He was more serious than me. Of course, my mother would say everyone was more serious than me.
 
Jimmy loved math and collecting baseball trading cards. His cards took up most of his life.
 
And the girls all looked at him like he was Elvis. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He spent his time with his math books and cards. Everything else was for other guys.
 
“Gordo, why are you standing there?” he said.
 
“Thinking.”
 
“About what?”
 
“Not sure. Where are you going walking all fast?”
 
“My mom needs butter.”
 
“You still run mandadas?”
 
“Sure. You don’t?”
 
I nodded slowly.
 
“Jimmy, oh, Jimmy!” said a high voice belonging to a running flaca with flying pelo.
 
It was Lorna Ritas. She was in a race for Jimmy with Sally Lomenez, Linda Mistasosa and Maria Lobermie. They had a better chance with the real Elvis. Jimmy barely said “Hi” to them but each time they took it like he wanted to make out with them at Belvedere Park.
 
Like that song, Jimmy only had eyes for Rachel Apenuz.
 
Rachel Apenuz had no personality I could see. Jimmy saw something the rest of the world didn’t, like in those spooky movies.
 
Compared to Rachel, Giggles was a shiny pair of spit-shined calcos. Rachel was like my sister’s paper dolls she used to play with. She was like cardboard. Her hair looked tired. In fact, she looked tired.
 
But I was glad Jimmy didn’t see Giggles. Then I panicked, my mouth turned dry. Maybe he hadn’t seen her glide like a lowered carucha down Brooklyn and Mednik.
 
“So, are any new girls waving at you?” I said, my mouth even drier now.
 
He looked at me like I said something in Chinese real fast.
 
“New girls?”
 
“Yeah, like hot off the comal?”
 
“What are you talking about?”
 
“Is Rachel still your, you know…?”
 
He nodded with a strange smile.
 
“I still like Rachel.”
 
I could breathe normal, again.
 
Jimmy’s sister whistled for him from away off. She had the loudest whistle in the Projects.
 
Jimmy ran off. I went back inside.
 
I played “Earth Angel” by the Penguins on my sister’s record player. I played it over and over. The title said what I wanted to sing to Giggles. Then I fell asleep on my sister’s cama. The record player needle was stuck on the end of the record.
 
“What are you doing?” my sister screamed, making me jump. My heart wanted to leave my chest and jump out the window to find somewhere better to live.
 
“Man,” I screamed back, “you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
 
“And I hate to fail. Now I’m really mad.” She got good grades in school. I think that’s why she said that. But she also had a big mouth my mother was always trying to slam shut.
 
Hearing my sister’s big mouth, my mother came running like my sister was on fire.
 
“¿Qué está pasando?” she screamed louder than even my sister.
 
“I have to wash everything,” my sister said, looking around the room like I spread pulgas all over.
 
“Don’t exaggerate,” my mother said.
 
“He’s a pestoso,” she screamed in her chavala voice so all the Projects could hear. I think all the people in the Projects were smelling the air.
 
My mother was quiet as if my sister said something like the president.
 
“I was only playing a record,” I said, explaining things to the judge, my mother.
 
Like a bailiff, my mother escorted me out of the room. My hermana had a crooked smile. The door slammed behind us. I would aim pedos into her room next time she wasn’t home.
 
To feel better, I went back outside. In the Projects you always ran into someone who either made you laugh or was madder than you.
 
Right now, it was Pete. He never made you laugh or mad. But he always had a problem to share. I tried telling him that was why he had a mother. That’s how they got gray hair.
 
But today, I think I caught him at a moment when people feel like unloading a problem on the first person they catch.
 
“Gordo,” he said, “I have a problem.”
 
“You’re the last bato I would guess had one.”
 
“What?”
 
“What happened?”
 
“I met the finest weesa ever made.”
 
“Ever?”
 
“Ever.”
 
“Why?”
 
“When you see her walk, it’s like seeing the ocean at Long Beach.”
 
“Go write a poem.” I said. It sounded like he was talking about Giggles and I didn’t want to hear.
 
“I have to win her heart first.”
 
Pete wasn’t a bad looking guy like some of the truly ugly ones around, but right now he looked like the ugliest feo of all time.
 
“I love Giggles,” he continued and I wanted to give him a Popeye-sized cachetada.
 
“Who is ‘Giggles’?” I said with a shaky voice. I was a nervous liar.
 
“She is a walking angel, like in the song, ‘Earth Angel’.” He said this with a stupid, faraway look.
 
“You okay?” he then said.
 
I felt mad then sick then mad again.
 
“Sure.”
 
“Are you sure-sure?”
 
“Sure.”
 
“My problem is that she is related to Jimmy and likes Loco.”
 
I sat on the sidewalk. I saw Loco’s crooked right eye. I think he hated the world and everyone in it because of that eye. He was born that way. God wanted him to look loco so he took the hint and became one.
 
“You look weird, man.”
 
“Why Loco?” I croaked.
 
“That’s what I want you to tell me. He is one ugly bato with an even uglier way with people.”
 
“And she is Jimmy’s cousin?”
 
He nodded weakly.
 
“How do you know that?”
 
“My sister.”
 
“Oh, yeah. Your sister Rosie talks with everyone about everyone. The Queen of Maravilla Chisme.”
 
“Hey, that’s my hermana.”
 
“Everyone knows Rosie, Pete.”
 
“Yeah, but you’re wise.”
 
All those times talking to Pete, I was mostly trying to get rid of him.
 
“So, what do you think?” he said. He wasn’t going nowhere till he got an answer.
 
“Loco has that name for a reason. Jimmy is probably thinking of a way to stop his prima from getting hooked up with him.”
 
I said that for myself.
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“He wants to stop him.”
 
“Oh.” I always liked hearing Pete say “Oh.” It meant he was accepting what I said and would go away. Not today.
 
“You know, Jimmy invited Loco to the show with Giggles?”
 
I lost my words and thinking.
 
Pete batted for me. “I saw them walking back to the Projects after they got off the Kern bus. Loco was laughing like a hyena.”
 
My mother said life has surprises. One just kicked me in the head.
 
“Should we jump him?” said Pete.
 
“He would wrap you around me like a pretzel.”
 
“So, what are you going to do?” he said.
 
What I wanted to do was pluck Loco’s good eye out and do a pachuco hop on it.
 
“It’s up to you.”
 
“Then what should I do?”
 
I felt like I was running his life when he should be running his own.
 
“Find another one.”
 
“Another what?”
 
“Chavala.”
 
“There ain’t no other around,” said Pete, looking around as if to prove it.
 
“All good times don’t lead to Giggles.”
 
At this point, I think I was again giving advice to myself.
 
“Yes they do.”
 
“What if she hates you? And your family? And your dog.”
 
“She don’t know me. Or my family. And this is the Projects, we can’t have a dog.”
 
“Maybe she has a drinking problem. She’ll start making ojitos at other batos.”
 
“How do you know she has a drinking problem?”
 
“Just looking at all angles.”
 
“She could wet her bed, chew food with her boca wide open, have a voice like Jimmy Durante, and I would still like her.”
 
“What if she has a record?”
 
“Even if she was serving life at juvie, I would still visit her every day.”
 
He was almost as crazy over her as I was.
 
“Don’t you have a girl you liked? What about Edith?”
 
“Edith was in the second grade. Her family moved out of the Projects when I was nine.”
 
“Too bad.”
 
“Huh?”

He looked at me real let down. He walked away.
 
I went and sat on my porch. I saw a girl coming toward me on the sidewalk. She was walking like a wave at Long Beach, like Pete said.
 
It was Giggles.
 
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound like some actor I heard in a movie.
 
She kept walking like I had been a squawking perico.
 
I was hoping for a “Hello” back or at least her head to turn up all conceited. But she kept walking.
 
But then for a little bit, she turned her head toward me. Not mad or happy.
 
Jimmy would make everything right. He would talk to his cousin and tell her that he and I were closer than gum under a zapato and she should grab me, crying.
 
Jimmy said that they were cousins when he came to the door.
 
“So, she just likes him like a cousin?” I said.
 
“She and Loco are closer than gum in your hair,” said Jimmy.
 
“So she likes him like a favorite cousin?”
 
“She likes him like she likes to kiss him.”
 
“That’s all?”
 
“He kisses her back.”
 
“You know Loco. You know what he’s like.”
 
“Since we were babies.”
 
I swallowed hard. Then I swallowed hard again. Then a third time and maybe a fourth.
 
“You look like you swallowed a moco,” he said.
 
“Why do you even know him?”
 
“He’s my step brother.” Jimmy didn’t even say that like he was sorry.
 
“Why?”
 
“I don’t make the rules. Loco’s dad married my mom years ago. My mom had kids. He had one, Loco.”
 
“So he can’t love Giggles?” I said.
 
“Why can’t he?”
 
“Because.”
 
“She is my cousin but she is nothing to Loco. Well, that could change, but that doesn’t keep them from liking, maybe loving each other and making a whole bunch of kids to spread around Maravilla.”
 
“That shouldn’t be allowed.”
 
“What?”
 
I walked away, stomping on the ground like it was Loco’s ugly ojo.
 
I went to Pete’s house to report.
 
He opened his door then smiled like if I was going to say that Giggles loved him.
 
I broke the news over his head. But it was my own cabeza that hurt.

by Olga Vilella

​It happened sin darse cuenta apenas. One minute, Josefina Corrada was the exceptional mujer she had always been. A responsible professional. Puntal of the eight o'clock Mass de San Aloishús, even in the worst snowstorm in February. A mother who never disappointed. And the next day, she consigned everybody to hell.
 
“Se me van a hacer puñetas, todos. Y el que me esconda las llaves, me va a oír.”
 
Which is how she came to be waiting for Dr. Haddad, that day. Maybe she should send la familia that funny meme of the cat. Pa’l carajo…a mí nadie me manda. Even Joey, the only among her relatives she could stand these days. But el guaifi seemed to be down.
 
Certainly not to Josie, there was no reasoning with Josie lately. When Josefina thought of her eldest, she had to ask los cielos what sin was she paying for in this life, to have been saddled with such an ingrate of a daughter. Who never called, unless she needed something. Trite, trite, and verging on the caricature, but oh-so-true.
 
A flash of memory sparked in Josefina's mind. She blinked then, assaulted by a draught of icy air and un recuerdo. The pinkie finger in Josie’s left hand, curved slightly inward. The dedo that was a replica of her own. And then she closed the screen pa'quick. No thinking of la Josie. La que me va a armar cuándo se entere.
 
Swipe screen left. Not for anything Josefina was the only one among her friends that Twittered and Instagrammed and Facebooked and TikToked. A brief smile lifted the corner of her perfectly drawn mouth!--Cherris-in-de-esnow de Reblon—with the next image popping up in her head. A circle of silvery heads, jostling around, whenever she showed las amigas how to get on? in?—maldito inglés—social media. Yet again.
 
A small whoosh brought her back to her surroundings. Another blast of frigid air fell on her shoulders from above, like a shower at Varadero Beach Club, on a morning in August. Dios mío, ese aire acondicionado me va a matar de pulmonía. Y esta camilla.
 
A little face, all eyes, peered then from around the curtain of the cubicle. An orangey tube—¡cómo el presidente!—was poised firmly between his lips and a bag dangled from a grubby paw. ¡Un Chito! Food from the gods. Now forbidden by Josie. The sight made her stomach rumble, not for the first time. Josefina tried her nicest smile. Kids usually responded to her abuela charm, but this one was not parting with one curly bit.
 
El niñito left quickly, but the curtain of the cubicle had parted long enough for Mrs. Cou-rra-dah to catch a glimpse of a group in scrubs planted around the nurses’ station. Call me “mom” one more time, anda. See what’s going to happen to you, mija. Will you look at the size of those culos? People are really unattractive these days.
 
“Body shaming, grandma.” “Don’t call her china, grandma, she’s Korean.” The list of her many social sins clacked like dominoes in her memory. Swipe definitely left.
 
But Joey’s gently reproachful face, a caramel Mater Admirablilis, refused to budge, once invoked. “Grandma, be nice. I love you, but be nice. Te quiero mucho,” repeated to signal no bad intent, pronounced in that cute gringuita accent of hers.
 
Joey, tan bella, mi niña. Joey qué no salió a su mamá, that’s for sure. “If those people are Italian, I’m china. Coreana,” Josefina spurted out loud, almost choking, on a breathy yelp.
 
Look at the time, caballero. Deja, que estos van a trinar cuando yo termine con el presidente del hospital. ¡A mí! Qué me hagan esperar a mí, Josefina Corrada, la primera doctora hispana de Jersi Sity.
 
But the memory of her granddaughter’s brown eyes still hovered, stubbornly, before her. It was getting late. And Josefina was so tired. And more shook up than she had thought when the car stopped spinning. Tired, hungry, in need of reviving. “Latte with an extra shot,” she heard Joey order in that papery hoarse voice of hers. Even Joey, even her.
 
“Un café con leche, mijo. Cargadito.” These days, saying those words, en español, felt like an act of resistance. En español, like it or not. Café con leche. Y tu MAGA que te la metes por dónde no te da el sol. Besides, calling out for a café con leche at el Estarboc also conveyed, loudly she hoped, what she thought of people willing to pay más de cinco pesos for a latte. Café con leche, guanajos.
 
“Well, dear heart. It is a fallen world,” as Catalina always repeated, while dusting her bolster of a chest. She knew las niñas would worry about her when she didn’t show up. But she was also sure they went ahead and ate. At this point in their lives, not one of her friends was going to delay ordering lunch because one of them didn’t show up. They would never eat.
 
Maldita vejez. ¿Quién te prepara para esto? ¡Nadie! As if there were any medical textbooks that could prepare you for the indignities of old age.
 
The carefully calibrated contempt in the voice of los jóvenes at the cellphone store. The looks of disdain when you don't put away your wallet fast enough. As if they were never getting old. As if. As if. That movie with la rubita de Beberli Jills. How they had laughed, she and Joey, escapadas, both of them. “No PG-13 movies for her until she's old enough, mom.” As if Joey didn't hear worse every day in school, so guanaja.
 
I wonder what's taking Dr. Haddad so long. Had she been in her right mind, she would have refused the ride to the ER. What had she done instead? Let them wheel her, in while making un chistesito. And not even a good one. “What happened to la ambulancia de los guapitos?” At least, one of them—dominicano by the looks of him—had laughed. “Lady, that's the next crew. And they won't be here for a while.”
 
“You think you’re really funny, don't you, abuela?” As a matter of fact, yes, she thought she was pretty funny. Even Joey turned on her these days.
 
For nearly seventy years, she had been a good girl. Not anymore. ¡Se acabó! She was now primed for war. Ready a dar guerra like the warrior she had once been. The buena hija who told her father she was going to medical school during that lunch, so, so many years ago. Dios mío, cómo se puso, loco furioso.
 
Contrarian, contrarian, cómo eres, Enrique used to say. The faces from other days of conflict crowded the small space around the gurney. Her father hitting the lunch table with a fist, the afternoon she told him Enrique was coming to talk to him. Certainly, she was marrying him. And she was moving to La Habana con él. Y mamá, llora que llora. Why couldn't she understand? She left México con papá.
 
Igualitica, igualitica que tu padre, Enrique used to say. David Juño, cerrado cómo un puño. The man who refused to ever go to el paseo once the war was finally over. “Cara al sol/con la camisa abieeeertaaaaa.” Somebody would intone the anthem of the Nacionales in the middle of la Alameda and the crowd would pause, as if paralyzed. Shifty eyes taking note. Black shirts and a sea of raised hands, saluting. An arm lifted, stiff like a gravestone, like el Caudillo's, meeting Hitler in Hendaya.
 
Not that don David had any use for the other side. Not after what they had written on the doors of the apartment building in Madrid. “Muerte al dueño de este edificio.” And Lelia's daughter dying during the siege. She died of a pneumonia, they said. We knew it was hunger.
 
“Recuerda, Pepiña. En este pared, unos españoles asesinaron a otros españoles.” Y el hambre por todos lados. As many maids as any house would want, to be had for a pair of alpargatas and their keep, during those years of darkness. Niñas, niñas todas. And then the years of that other war. Grey uniforms, all over the city. The whole of the province, all of Galicia, was overrun by them. On leave from the German submarine base in El Ferrol, la tata Rosalía would whisper, moving away from their Nordic raptor eyes. And Amelia, all blonde trenzas and blue eyes, pretending she was a refugee. “Kinder, kinder, schokolade.” After all these years, those words remained fresh in her memory, as bittersweet as the taste of that chocolate long gone.
 
Better make sure next time Joey took her to el Cosco she bought enough garbanzos. And a big bag of those small Esniqers.
 
“My dear colleague, what is this I hear about you still driving?” El doctorcito Haddad. Here we go....

A native of Río Piedras, Puerto Rico, Olga Vilella is currently at work revising Los que llegaron, a historical novel based on the unsuccessful attack by the English to San Juan, Puerto Rico in 1797, a work that seeks to upend Caribbean notions of race, religion, and ethnicity. 

​by Shaiti Castillo

My grandmother would tell me about the little bug people that would roam her garden back in her small pueblo deep in México. This was only when Mamá wasn’t in the room because she’d scold her from spreading tales of brujería in a house that worshipped God. Even as the disease ate away at what was left of my grandmother’s brain, her stubbornness had continued to grow. Rooted deeply within her like an oak tree. I would trade cups of cafecito for tales of the little bug people while Mamá was out running errands.
 
“Who were they?” I would ask in a whisper, as if Mamá would barge in at any moment and catch us exchanging sins.
 
“They didn’t have names. They didn’t speak either.” She would reply. I’d sit there patiently, processing the information before asking another question. Time with her was precious. The more questions I asked, the more lost she seemed to get.
 
“How do you know they weren’t just normal bugs?” I’d ask. She would sit there for a moment and take a small sip of her hot coffee, surely burning her tongue.
 
“Because they looked like people.” The answer was simple, but it wasn’t enough for a curious child like me.
 
“How so?” The slight tapping of my feet against the tile floor exposed my growing impatience. She didn’t seem to notice.
 
“They had faces. Eyes, a nose, a mouth…” She would go on to list general anatomy. I bit my lip.
 
“Bugs have faces.” I interrupted and she stopped speaking. Then a hoarse laugh escaped her thinning lips. It was an unpleasant sound, like tv static. Her childhood spent working in factories had caught up with her lungs.
 
“Smartass,” She said just loud enough for me to hear in her thick accent. It caught me by surprise.
 
“Nana!” It was my turn to scold her. She never cursed, always said it wasn’t very lady-like.
 
“As I was saying,” She paused to let me settle down. “They had faces. But not bug faces. They looked like you and I. Except they were little.”
 
She slightly pinched her fingers together to show me an estimated size of the bug people. I nodded.
 
“They had the body of the bugs, but they all could stand on two feet. Like you and I,” she explained, pushing herself off her seat. I scrambled next to her in case she fell but she swatted my hands away. She set down her mug and proceeded to put her hands on her hips. Stretching her back just a bit to stand proudly. I couldn’t help but giggle at her display.
 
“How’d you find them?” I asked as she slowly sat herself back down. Retreating back to her caffeine.
 
“They were stealing,” She shook her head in a feigned disappointment. “I had planted some sweet grapes for the summer and I caught them in the act!”
 
“Maybe they were hungry, Nana.” I said in defense of the bug people. It’s not a crime to be hungry.
 
“That is no reason to steal.” She sighed. “I forgave them, of course.”
 
“Then what?” I began to grow eager. This was the most I had gotten out of her in a while.
 
“Then we became friends. I would visit them every day after work and bring them whatever I had left over. Even if it was a few beans.” She smiled to herself. “I would make them little chairs and tables out of sticks and leaves I found around the yard. I would sew together little dresses using paper magazines. I left them gifts, and they would leave me some as well.”
 
“What did they bring you?” My hands were resting under my chin. Eyes wide like an owl at midnight.
 
“Random trinkets they would find. Shiny stuff. Sometimes it’d be silverware, sometimes jewelry. Sometimes it’d be a coin or two which made a big difference at the time.” Her smile grew, but stayed closed. Her wrinkles stretched themselves across her face, but the glossiness in her eyes brought a sense of youth.
 
“Then what, Nana? Where are they now?” I jumped up a little in excitement which startled her. She dropped the mug and it shattered across the floor, spilling what was left of the brown liquid. She stayed silent.
 
“I’m so sorry! Be careful and stay there while I clean it up, there’s glass!” I stood up immediately. She sat there, unfazed. I slipped on the sandals that were beneath my chair and stepped out back to grab the broom. When I slipped back inside, Mamá had made her way into the kitchen.
 
“What happened?” She let out a dramatic breath. Throwing the groceries she had carried inside onto the counter. She ripped the broom from my hands and began to sweep. “¿Estás bien, Ma?”
 
There was still no response from my grandmother. She sat there, frozen in time. Her frail hands still shaped around the non-existent mug.
 
“What did you do?” Mamá turned to face me and I stuttered. “Her mind is very fragile right now, you know this.”
 
“I didn’t do anything, I swear! We were just talking.” I aimed to defend myself but the weight of guilt sat itself like rocks, heavy in my stomach. I had asked too many questions. “I’m sorry.”
 
My grandmother spoke a few words for the rest of the day. Simple responses that would please Mamá. I had refrained from speaking to her in fear of only hurting her more. She would trade sweet glances and small smiles with me over dinner. Her way of letting me know things were okay.
 
That night I joined my grandmother in her bed. The window was open and it let a cool enough breeze in that encouraged us to be under the covers. I laid my head on her shoulder, adjusting my weight so as to not crush her feeble body. We laid there in silence as we usually did. There was a full moon out and the sound of crickets chirping lulled us to sleep. As my eyes grew heavy and my breathing became steady, she spoke.
 
“I’m going to die,” She faintly said. My eyes became watery saucers at her sudden statement. When I gained the courage to look at her, she had already fallen asleep. Her eyes were closed, thinning lashes falling over her cheeks. Paired with the same small smile she had given me earlier. To her, everything was going to be okay.
 
She didn’t wake up that morning. The doctor said she had died peacefully in her sleep and that in her position it was the best way to go. I stood at the doorway as Mamá wept at the foot of the bed. A blanket had been thrown over my grandmother’s body as we waited for someone to take her.
 
My puffy eyes looked out the open window. The sun was bright and it was a beautiful day. Something that my grandmother would have appreciated dearly. She hated sad events. The sounds of chirping crickets had transitioned into the chirping of sparrows. Light and airy.
 
At the corner of my eye, I noticed a pop of color. I tilted my head in curiosity, walking over to hover over the windowsill. Sitting there were two red grapes. Perfectly ripe and gleaming. I looked up to the sky and smiled.

Una vez vi un documental sobre los gatos que viven por las calles de Estambul. No le pertenecen a nadie, pero todo mundo respeta y cuida de ellos. Se adueñan de cualquier espacio que quieran en la ciudad tal como mi gata lo hace ahora en mi apartamento, practicando sus estiramientos elegantes como si fuera una ávida yogui.
 
La encontré una tarde cuando oí un “miau” diminuto que venía del callejón detrás de los restaurantes de la Calle Principal. Al principio, pensé que estaba imaginando cosas ya que la noche anterior había visto el documental sobre los gatos turcos, pero al acercarme escuché los maullidos solitarios más claramente. Lo que descubrí fue una bola de pelo gris cuyos ojos, al acogerla en mis manos, me rogaron que la llevara a casa.
 
A la edad de veinte años, no sabía nada sobre cómo cuidar gatitos. Bueno, apenas sabía cómo cuidarme a mí misma. Acababa de solicitar admisión en la escuela de farmacólogos después de dos años de vagar por la universidad sin declarar ninguna carrera. Esa fue la primera decisión adulta que tomé en mi vida. La segunda, fue la de adoptar la bola de pelo que se acunaba en mis manos. La llamé Frida por la paz que trajo a mi casa.

                                                                 =^..^=

Frida se convirtió en una hermosa gata de pelaje gris, ojos verdes y nariz rosada que vino a llenar mi apartamento de alegría y amor. Ella era todo mi mundo hasta que un día después de una reunión de grupo para la clase, Anna y Nina me pidieron que me uniera al club de lectura que estaban empezando. "No tiene que ser trabajo extra, Sandra. Solamente libros divertidos. ¿Qué dices?”
 
Quien unía a nuestro trio era Nina. Había nacido en Brasil y todavía tenía esa energía vibrante común en la cultura latinoamericana. Su felicidad era contagiosa y todos querían ser sus amigos. Por alguna razón, eligió a las personas más calladas de la clase para pasar el rato. "Me caen bien ustedes dos porque son serias en los estudios y la amistad. Cualquiera puede venir a una fiesta si los invitas, pero solo una persona especial viene siempre que la necesites, como ustedes dos que ahora son mi familia elegida.” Nina solía decirnos a Anna y a mí todo el tiempo.
 
Acepté la invitación al club de lectura sin muchas ganas al principio. Entre la escuela y ser barista en la cafetería local, no pensé que tendría tiempo para leer por diversión. Muy pronto me convertí en la principal organizadora de eventos del club de lectura enviando mensajes de texto sin parar en nuestro grupo de WhatsApp. Para las vacaciones de primavera, habíamos agregado tres miembros más. Lo que comenzó como una distracción de los estudios, se convirtió en un salvavidas para todas las involucradas. Teníamos ese tipo de amistad que mejora tu vida en todos los sentidos.

                                                                 =^..^=

La escuela farmacéutica pasó rapidísima entre Frida, las clases y mis chicas, que no me di cuenta cuando pasar toda la noche en vela estudiando se convirtió en pasarla en vela buscando trabajo. Algunas amigas se casaron entre el último semestre y el verano después de la graduación. El resto, excepto yo, tenía relaciones serias. Sus estados de Facebook parecían interferir con nuestras salidas de chicas y sus relaciones prósperas eran un recordatorio constante de mi soledad.
 
Frida se acurrucaba conmigo un poco más después de cada vez que terminaba como chaperona en las citas de mis amigas. Quería tener una relación seria, pero aparte de la diversión ocasional de fin de semana, no había encontrado a nadie. Además, mis horas en la farmacia no eran precisamente propicias para tener citas. Pero a la edad de veinticinco años, la presión social de la pregunta recurrente en cada reunión familiar era inevitable: "Sandra, ¿cuándo vas a encontrar un novio?” Realmente no era que quisiera tener una respuesta para mi familia, pero me sentía incompleta. Tenía el título y el trabajo y ahora quería la próxima gran cosa para mí: el matrimonio.
 
Entonces conocí a Mike. Era la típica situación de estar cansada de tener citas a ciegas organizadas por conocidos cuando recurrí a una aplicación. Hablé con algunos chicos, con Frida siempre en mi regazo, antes de aceptar conocer a Mike en persona. Lo que comenzó con un par de hamburguesas y una canasta de papas fritas en una banca del parque, se convirtió en un sinfín de textos diarios, citas y muchas noches viendo Netflix oscilando entre su apartamento y el mío.
 
Frida no estaba muy interesada en mi nueva relación. Estaba celosa de que no pasara tanto tiempo en casa. Estaba segura de que ella podía oler el apartamento de Mike en mí, porque le siseaba cada vez que lo veía, lo cual hacía que Mike se sintiera incómodo y no demasiado entusiasmado de venir al mío.

                                                                 =^..^=

Mike sólo tenía ojos para mí y eso me encantaba. "Quiero dedicar mi tiempo libre únicamente a nosotros dos, Sandra, cariño". Me lo había dicho desde las primeras citas. Cada vez que me recogía, me traía flores, regalos realmente detallistas o mi batido favorito, el verde con todos los ingredientes para quemar grasa al que Mike me había vuelto adicta.
 
Moría por presentarle a mis chicas del club de lectura, pero Mike era muy tímido, por lo cual me explicó que no había estado en una relación seria antes, a pesar de tener 35 años. Le pedí que viniera conmigo a algunas salidas, pero siempre declinaba: "Sandra, cariño, realmente no soy del tipo social. Sal con tus amigas como una hora, pero luego regresa que prefiero pasar tiempo contigo solos nosotros dos, sin mascotas ni distracciones.”
 
Al principio mis amigas estaban encantadas de verme tan feliz. "¿Es un bolso nuevo, Sandra? Realmente estás invirtiendo tu sueldo en ti, ¿eh?” Anna se burló de mí en un brunch después de que Mike me había dado un bolso precioso para celebrar nuestro aniversario el primer mes.
 
"Regalos de lujo para un mes de aniversario? ¿Qué te va a regalar para el primer año?” Nina añadió a la broma. Me di cuenta de que estaban tan impresionadas por cómo me cuidaba Mike y me alegraba poder presumírselos, especialmente porque aún no podía presumirlo a él en persona. Necesitaba respetar sus deseos, ya me lo había dicho miles de veces: "A los introvertidos, como a mí, no les gusta ser entrevistados por una pandilla de chicas ¿sabes, Sandra, cariño?”
 
Seguí excusando a Mike, pero todas seguían presionándome para conocerlo. "Has sido capaz de esconder a este misterioso hombre que te mantiene incluso lejos de Frida la mayoría de los fines de semana, pero tienes que venir con alguien a mi boda. ¡Eres una de mis damas de honor! Espero verlos a los dos allí ¿verdad, chicas?” Nina envió guiños alrededor de la mesa como una forma de sellar el pacto.

                                                                 =^..^=

La gente en el documental de los gatos de Estambul dice que los gatos poseen un sexto sentido y es así como están tan sintonizados con las emociones humanas. Frida podía sentir que estaba nerviosa la noche en que había cocinado una cena especial para Mike y para mí. "Espero que le gusten los ñoquis caseros. ¿Cómo huele, Frida? Voy a contarle lo de la boda de Nina.” Le pregunté a mi fiel amiga felina parcialmente para convencerme de que podía pedirle a Mike que se enfrentara a su ansiedad social por un día.
 
Pero Frida no dejaba de pasearse por mis piernas y maullar una canción de quejas. Probablemente notaba lo nerviosa que estaba por pedirle a Mike que me acompañara a la boda. Nina era una de mis mejores amigas y había estado conmigo cada vez que me enfermaba, cuando necesitaba a alguien que llevara a Frida al veterinario cuando yo no podía hacerlo. Incluso caminamos juntas hacia el podio en la graduación, pero por alguna razón, Mike ni siquiera había querido conocerla, aunque fuera ella sola en mi apartamento ni en ninguna de las muchas salidas a las que ella y Yoshi, su prometido, nos habían invitado.
 
Quería que mis amigos conocieran al hombre que amaba, pero amarlo significaba aceptarlo como es. Me prometió que después de terminar con el contrato actual que lo mantenía viajando tan seguido, nos llevaría a unas vacaciones en la playa a un hotel con todo incluido. Cuidar de mí mimándome con regalos era su lenguaje de amor. Estaba segura de que me amaba tanto como yo a él.
 
Las llaves cascabelearon en la puerta, lo que hizo que Frida siseara porque sabía que sería Mike entrando. "¡Toc, toc! Perdón por la tardanza. Traje el agua con gas que te gusta.” Anunció Mike mientras pateaba con desdén algunos de los juguetes de Frida para poder pasar –siempre me sentía mal cuando encontraba el apartamento tan desordenado. "Algo huele muy poco saludable aquí. ¿Qué cocinaste?”
 
"Oh son ñoquis. Es una receta familiar. Has estado viajando tanto, pensé que te gustaría una comida casera. ¡Vamos a consentirnos un poco!” Luego señalé a la mesa iluminada con velas con una gran cazuela que emanaba un aroma a parmesano y albahaca. Pensé que todo se veía perfecto, pero algo en los ojos de Mike me hizo notar que algo estaba mal.
 
"Sandra, cariño, sabes cómo me tomo mi salud en serio. No esperas que pase por alto mi dieta para comer esto, ¿verdad?” Dijo mientras señalaba la cazuela que me había llevado más de tres horas cocinar. "Es como si no quisieras ser parte de mi compromiso con mi salud. Mejor vamos por una ensalada.” Y con eso sopló las velas en la mesa y agarró mi mano.
 
Estaba a punto de protestar cuando Frida saltó de la parte superior del refrigerador bloqueando el camino de Mike, gruñéndole directamente. "¡Esa gata es un demonio! No entiendo por qué insiste en hacerme sentir incómodo cuando estoy aquí. ¿Ves esto?” No podía defender el comportamiento de Frida. Normalmente era pacífica y amable. Salí del apartamento detrás de Mike.
 
Durante el trayecto para comprar nuestras ensaladas me disculpé. Me sentía fatal por no considerar su estilo de vida. Después de todo, habíamos estado saliendo durante unos cuatro meses. Con razón Frida estaba tan inquieta. Probablemente sabía que a Mike no le gustaría la cena. Ella había tratado de advertirme, pero no la escuché.
 
En el parque, cuando Mike estaba de mejor humor, tomó una caja de su sudadera. "Sandra, cariño, te extrañé esta semana. Pensé mucho acerca del proceso que comenzaste para mejorar, así que te compré este smartwatch. ¿Te gusta?” Me encantaba. Era algo que había visto antes pero que no me había animado a comprar. "¡Lo que sea por ti!” Dijo mientras me lo ajustaba en la muñeca. Así es como él demostraba que yo le importaba. Estaba segura de que vendría a la boda conmigo, pero aún no podía pedírselo.
 
Confirmé nuestra asistencia a la boda de Nina esa noche con un texto diciendo: ¡Allí estaremos!

                                                                 =^..^=

El grupo de WhatsApp se estaba saliendo de control cuanto más nos acercábamos a la boda de Nina. Mike me había pedido que guardara mi teléfono cada vez que estábamos juntos para que no me distrajera con todos los chismes. "Hay tantos mensajes sin sentido en ese grupo, Sandra, cariño. Pensé que me habías dicho que eran tus amigas del club de lectura, pensaría que serían más intelectuales. ¿Ves? Otra razón por la que no creo que ir a esos eventos sociales sea una buena idea.”
 
Mike tenía razón: en un día, conté 225 mensajes sin leer. ¿No tenían vida? Los mensajes constantes distraían de las cosas que importaban de verdad, como él y yo. Dejé el chat pero
mi ausencia no pasó desapercibida ya que dos semanas antes de la boda de Nina, ella apareció en mi apartamento, sin avisar. Le había advertido que no viniera así porque Mike se ponía incómodo con las visitas sociales y todo eso. Por suerte, no estaba aquí, así que no tuve que forzarlo a conocer a nadie.
 
Frida estaba encantada de ver a Nina en la puerta, saltó sobre su regazo tan pronto como se sentó en la mesa de la cocina. "¡Bolita de pelo! ¡Yo también te he extrañado! Desde que tu mamá ha estado con este hombre misterioso, las vemos a ti y a ella cada vez menos.” La pura mención del hombre misterioso me puso a la defensiva. Las indirectas agresivas ya me tenían harta.
 
"Bueno, él no es tan misterioso, ya lo has visto por todo mi Instagram," protesté.
 
"Esas fotos excesivamente curadas donde siempre lleva una gorra y lentes de sol? ¡Claro!”
 
"¿De qué se trata esto, Nina? ¿Por qué estás aquí realmente? ¿Sólo extrañabas a Frida o tienes algo que decir?”
 
“OK. Lleguemos al grano. Escucha, Sandra, estoy preocupada por ti. Todas lo estamos. Éramos tan cercanas. Teníamos un vínculo que todas pensábamos iba más allá del club de lectura. Nos confiábamos todo y hemos estado allí para todos los altibajos de los últimos años. Pero..." Y se detuvo allí como si esperara que yo fuera a sentarme junto a ella. Cuando crucé los brazos y la miré con incredulidad, ella procedió. "Pero desde que empezaste tu relación con Mike, has desaparecido.”
 
"Sabía que ibas a culparlo a él. ¿Por qué no puedes entender que es un hombre tímido con ansiedad social que me ama y realmente se preocupa por mí?”
 
"No, Sandra. Tú eres la que no entiende lo que está pasando. ¿Has notado todas las cosas que has abandonado desde que empezaste esta relación? Desde pasar tiempo con nosotros hasta dejar a Frida sola todo el fin de semana porque, como dijiste, lo hace sentir incómodo. ¿Una gatita? Eso no es timidez. ¡Te está controlando! Escondiéndote del mundo y él también se esconde. ¿Te has preguntado por qué?”
 
"¡Basta, estás celosa! Sólo piensas en tu perfecta relación con Yoshi. ¡No lo entiendes y no tengo que explicarme por elegir el amor en lugar de las salidas estúpidas!”
 
"¿Y Frida? Ella solía ser tu mundo y ahora la abandonas porque él te lo dice. Si ya no quieres ser nuestra amiga, dínoslo. Podríamos terminar el juego en el que entramos desde… desde que cambiaste.”
 
"Todo se trata siempre de ti ¿no? ¿Por qué no puedes entender que otras personas tienen diferentes necesidades e ideas? Tal vez quiero centrarme en mi relación y salud en lugar de sus estúpidos mensajes de texto..."
 
Me arrepentí de las palabras en cuanto salieron de mi boca, pero luego vi mi teléfono en la barra de desayuno, la cara de Mike estaba parpadeando en la pantalla y necesitaba tomar la llamada. Mike odiaba cuando no le contestaba.
 
La mirada herida en los ojos de Nina mientras colocaba el teléfono en mi oído anunció que nuestra amistad había llegado a su fin. Acarició a Frida en su barbilla mientras la colocaba en el suelo de la cocina. Luego, sin decir nada más, se fue.

                                                                 =^..^=

Mike había tenido razón desde un principio. La amistad de las chicas del club de lectura no era más que una distracción. Eliminé WhatsApp de mi teléfono y en su lugar descargué algunas aplicaciones de entrenamiento para enfocarme en mi salud, como él había sugerido. Frida incluso se había interesado en mi video de yoga para tonificar, probando su propia versión de perro boca abajo debajo de mí en el tapete.
 
Solo había pasado una semana, pero mi ropa me lucía mejor. Decidí donar lo que ya no me quedaba bien. Estaba en medio del proceso hacia un mejor yo. Mientras organizaba mi armario, vi el vestido de dama de honor color ciruela que hubiera usado para la boda de Nina en unos días si todavía estuviéramos hablando.
 
En ese momento, Frida saltó sobre la cómoda a mi costado admirando el vestido por sí misma. Con su sexto sentido y su sabiduría felina me miró y ronroneó como diciendo: Ya lo compraste. Llama a Nina. Me cae bien.
 
Estaba tan motivada para llamar a Nina, como lo había estado para recoger esa bolita de pelo en el callejón trasero la noche en que Frida cambió mi vida. El tono sonó tres, cuatro veces. Cuando estaba a punto de colgar, escuché la voz dulce y perdonadora de Nina al otro lado.
 
"¡Sandra! Esperaba que llamaras para que pudiéramos arreglar este malentendido. Yoshi y yo realmente queremos tenerte en nuestro gran día. Nos conoces desde el principio de nuestra relación. Trae a Mike o ven sola, no importa, yo solo quiero que estés conmigo.”
 
Y con eso, volví a ser una dama de honor, perdonada como si nada hubiera pasado. Respiré un suspiro de alivio cuando Frida saltó sobre mi regazo como su signo victorioso de ser testigo de una amistad reparada.
 
Estaba segura del amor que Mike sentía por mí. Me lo demostraría siendo mi cita para la boda. Mientras caminábamos esa tarde, se lo pedí. Sin muchas ganas me dijo que sí.

                                                                 =^..^=

Llegó la fecha de la boda de Nina y estaba feliz de estar con ella en su gran día. El hecho de que Mike aceptara acompañarme tenía a todas mis amigas muy emocionadas por conocerlo finalmente. Su única petición era que no me uniera al resto de las damas de honor en el salón de belleza para que él pudiera llevarme. "No hay necesidad de pasar incomodidades sociales antes de la boda, ¿verdad Sandra, cariño? Vendré por ti después de atar algunos cabos sueltos del trabajo.”
 
Frida se mantuvo atenta mientras me aplicaba las pestañas postizas y el lápiz labial color ciruela que Nina le había regalado a todas sus damas de honor. Lamía su pata derecha y peinaba su cara repetidamente como si ella también fuera parte de la boda –en cierto modo, fue gracias a Frida que terminé llamando a Nina, por lo que era parte de esta boda en su peculiar manera felina.
 
Las dos horas que Mike me había dado para alistarme habían pasado y él todavía no estaba aquí. No le gustaba cuando lo llamaba, pero necesitaba estar en la iglesia en veinte minutos o llegaría tarde. Le mandé un mensaje primero: Cariño ¿estás en camino? ¡Estoy lista! Y tomé una foto para corroborar que estaba esperando en la puerta.
 
Pasaron diez minutos y no había oído una palabra de Mike. Pensé que quizás estaba conduciendo o estacionando el carro y no había podido leer el mensaje así que lo llamé. "Recibí tu mensaje. Ya casi estoy", dijo apresuradamente antes de colgar.
 
Frida levantó la vista para encontrarse con mis ojos mientras esperaba junto a la puerta. Ronroneó por mis piernas y luego arañó la puerta casi diciendo: no lo esperes. Es Nina. Llama un Uber. Esquivé los numerosos mensajes de Anna que decían ¿dónde diablos estás? mientras pedía un carro. Tenía el tiempo justo para llegar a la iglesia antes de que comenzara la procesión.
 
Vi el CR-V blanco conducido por Katia que la aplicación me dijo que esperara. Estaba a punto de subirme cuando Mike empezó a gritar a través de la ventana de su coche, mientras que él se detenía detrás de Katia. "¿Qué es esto, Sandra? ¡No dejé mi ajetreada vida para que me abandonaras en el último minuto!” Nunca lo había visto tan enojado antes.
 
Katia me volteó a ver: "¿Vienes o te vas?” Mi teléfono estaba zumbando con mensajes de texto que seguro eran de las otras damas de honor. Si no salía justo en ese momento, no llegaría a la ceremonia. Mike seguía tocando la bocina y haciendo señas para que me subiera a su carro. Le di las gracias a Katia y cerré la puerta para dejarla ir a recoger otro cliente.
 
Corrí al auto de Mike. Después de ponerme el cinturón de seguridad, esperaba que arrancara camino a la iglesia, pero se estacionó y comenzó una pelea a gritos de proporciones épicas. Nunca me habían regañado como lo hacía él entonces. "Eres increíble Sandra. ¿Qué demonios hacías llamando a un Uber, no confías en mí?”
 
"Pero Mike..." interrumpí. "Esta es la boda de mi amiga. Me voy a perder la procesión. No pueden esperar..."
 
"¿A quién le importa esa boda y tu estúpido club de niñas? ¿Crees que les importas sólo porque compraste este vestido barato?”
 
"Mike, por favor, no me hagas llegar tarde. Vamos a la iglesia y después podemos resolver esto. Te lo prometo..."
 
"¡No me prometas nada! ¡Hemos terminado aquí! Sal de mi coche. No tiene sentido llevarte a ninguna parte, la ceremonia está a punto de comenzar de todos modos.”
 
"¿De qué estás hablando? ¡Me lo prometiste! Nina es una de mis amigas más cercanas y yo... yo debí haberme ido con Katia.”
 
"Ve con quien quieras o no vayas. Sal de mi coche.
 
“Pero…”
 
"¡¡¡Ahora!!!” Mike rugió al salir del coche para abrir mi puerta.
 
No podía creer lo que estaba pasando. Mientras subía las escaleras de regreso a mi apartamento, revisé mi teléfono. Había veintiséis mensajes de mis chicas y un mensaje de voz de Anna cinco minutos antes de que comenzara la ceremonia: "¿Sabes qué, Sandra? Ni siquiera te molestes en venir. Olvídate de Nina, olvídate de cualquiera de nosotras. Espero que seas feliz con ese tipo.”
 
Sus palabras me rompieron el corazón, pero sabía que tenía razón.… ¿Por qué no había tomado el Uber?

                                                                 =^..^=

Pasé el resto del día de la boda de Nina llamando a Mike. Quería saber por qué llegó tan tarde, por qué insistió en que fuera en su coche si no tenía la intención de llevarme. Todas mis llamadas se fueron directamente al buzón de voz. Estaba demasiado avergonzada para disculparme con Nina, con Anna, con cualquiera del club de lectura. Desecha en un llanto, me quedé dormida todavía vestida para la fiesta y con las suaves lamidas de mi leal Frida en mi mano.
 
A la mañana siguiente, aún no había recibido ni un mensaje de Mike, pero tenía muchos textos del club de lectura. Todos básicamente diciéndome que estaba muerta para ellas. Me lo merecía. Lo que no merecía era que Mike me abandonara así. Ignorándome como si no me conociera.
 
Todavía en mi vestido de dama de honor y con maquillaje chorreado en mi cara, me arranqué las pestañas postizas y me subí a un Uber para dirigirme al apartamento de Mike. Frida me había acompañado a la puerta aprobando mi decisión.
 
Toqué repetidamente en vano. No se escuchaba nada adentro así que cogí mi teléfono y marqué el número de Mike por la trigésima quinta vez desde nuestra pelea. "¿Hola?" la voz de una mujer respondió. Me congelé y revisé mi pantalla para confirmar que había marcado el número correcto. Era el de Mike. "¿Hola, hola?" la voz del otro lado de la línea insistió.
 
"Hola, estoy buscando a Mike, ¿este es su teléfono?”
 
"Ah, claro, un momento. Michael, mi amor, tienes una llamada... No, no me dijo. El identificador de llamadas solo dice proveedora".
 
No necesitaba oír nada más. Todos estos meses había estado bajo su hechizo. Controlada por sus deseos. Me daba vueltas la cabeza. No pude resistir el vómito que surgió de mi estómago para liberarme de mi estupidez y ceguera.
 
Nunca me quiso. Sólo me quería a su disposición. De repente entendí porque no quería que lo llamara, porque nunca salíamos en público a menos que fuera para una caminata o esa banca solitaria en el parque, porque siempre llevaba gafas y sombreros que lo cubrían. ¿Acaso se llamaba Mike Johnson de verdad?
 
                                                                 =^..^=
 
Ese fin de semana lo perdí todo. Mis amigas, mi falsa relación romántica y mi dignidad. Al menos todavía tenía a Frida.
 
Mientras observo hoy sus elegantes estiramientos matutinos, siento el tipo de afecto por Frida que la gente del documental sobre los gatos de Estambul siente por sus gatos callejeros. Hay una verdadera conexión entre sus almas y las nuestras. Si tan solo nos sintonizáramos con ellos más seguido.

Originaria de México, Selene Lacayo es una escritora y traductora radicada en el área de Filadelfia. Ella obtuvo una maestría en inglés enfocada en escritura creativa de la Universidad de West Chester en Pensilvania. En el 2018 obtuvo el segundo lugar en el concurso Write Michigan Short Story Contest. Sus ensayos han sido publicados en InCulture Magazine, Americans Resisting Overseas, the COVID-19 Community Stories of the Grand Rapids Public Museum y Alebrijes Review. Más recientemente, su ficción Amalgam formó parte de la antología The Best Short Stories of Philadelphia y fue postulada para el premio Pushcart 2022 por su ensayo Immigration. ​

I was sitting in my favorite easy chair, rocking back and forth to some firme rolas, thinking about the Dodgers, my next meal and the llantas my ’64 Chevy Impala needed. I looked over to Tío Juan who was sitting on the hardest chair in the house and in the same room, which is our sala. I share it with the old bato who helps pay la renta. I knew he saved a lot of money, only spending a lot of feria for books. In fact, he was reading one, lost in some thought from some writer who lived back before gente had TV, laptops and iPhones. Half the people now living would go crazy if they had to live only with those three toys. Me? I’m Old School. As long as I have my ranfla, the Dodgers on radio, Oldies, and decent menudo now and then, I’m happier than any one of them.
 
Tío Juan’s iPhone let out a few notes of classical music by some guy wearing a wig wrote before anyone could stop him. Tío Juan made a face because he was being taken away from his book just when he was going to make a juicy mental note, it looked like. When he said “Hello,” a voice roared from the tiny box that told me it was my Tía Rosa who talked as if she was trying to summon her dead marido, the first one, del otro lado. The viejo jumped like some malvado lit a cuete under his silla. His book flew out of his wrinkled copper-colored manos like a spooked gallina. The libro, a thick one, landed at my feet making a loud noise.
 
“It’s your Tía Rosa,” he said all serious as he walked over to hand me his phone and retrieved his fat book.
 
“Hello Tía,” I said, sounding all happy. She promised to leave me her ‘39 Packard. She hadn’t driven it since her viejo Richard died, the Indio from Washington State with the genio of a wart hog. The carrucha had under 40,000 miles. No dents or scratches. The clock even worked.
 
“You sound triste,” she shot back and I moved my ear the standard six inches when talking to the Mejicana bullhorn.
 
I had to think since I wanted to make her feel happy so she would call me her favorite sobrino y gordito.
 
“No, no, I feel happy like it’s your birthday.”
 
“Gordo, I want you to do something for me.”
 
There was a pause. I thought she would then follow through like always with her rapid fire of words like so many balas.
 
“Well?” the tía vieja then said. I guess she wanted some kind of reaction from me.
 
“Uh, what is it?” As much as I wanted to be there for her and live up to her expectations, her idea of favors tested my ‘tude.
 
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic for someone in line to inherit my rancho in El Monte and my 1939 Packard.”
 
“I’m trying to hold my ganas so I can talk.”
 
“I’ll do the talking. My brother Fulgencio’s son Candelario from El Paso is crazy over some muchacha. He is lavishing her with money he doesn’t have, buying her this and that. He’s up to his usual tonterías.”
 
“I say leave well enough alone in El Paso. They take care of their gente, we take care of ours in East Los.”
 
“Listen fat head. That other fat head, the flaco, isn’t in El Paso.”
 
“That, too, is your brother’s problem. Did he run down to Mexico?”
 
“I should disown you and then put out a contract on you, that’s what I should do. No, if you would listen, maybe you too can put your life together. That other sobrino without any common sense is in L.A.”
 
“Why?” My stomach began to churn the enchiladas Tío Juan made for dinner. He is the best cook in our familia although not officially a member but an honorary hanger-on. Showed up one day looking for yard work and sort of grew on me like a grano. But that’s for another story.
 
“For love. Or what his distorted thinking calls love. He fell for some muchacha in El Paso and proposed to her.”
 
“Another one?”
 
“Yes, he collects these females like others collect botes.”
 
“It seems like he falls in love once a month. Like a novia-of-the-month club.”
 
“So now you can see why your Tío Fulgencio is concerned about his only hijo. Candy will spend all kinds of dough on her only to see it broken off by him and/or her.”
 
Candy was the family name for Candelario. I never thought it fit him since even as a chamaco, he had a sour look on his face like he was weaned on a pickle. I guess he eventually rearranged his face in order so he could hit on all these girls.
 
“Someone should remind him of all the other females he has gone through,” I said.
 
“His father did.”
 
“What did the loco say?”
 
“This is the one.”
 
“He said that with the first one, what’s her name?”
 
“Christina. She turned out to be married and went crying back to her husband from whom she was separated from for over two years.”
 
“Candy has that effect on women,” I said.
 
“So, I want you to track him down there in L.A. and pal around with him. Make him see he has no business chasing a woman in show biz.”
 
“Show biz?”
 
“Yes, she has aspirations of getting onto the stage or movies. I hear she is a looker.”
 
“I don’t see how I can help?”
 
“I do!” she said with a slam of the phone, a Chicana force unequaled by man or beast. I stood there, wondering what her next move would be.
 
“Did your Tía slam the phone on you again?” said Tío Juan from his silla.
 
“How can you tell?”
 
“The agitated look on your face, chubby cheeks and all. Did she say she was charging over like a mama bear after a biologist innocently swatting at butterfly specimens near her cub?”
 
“She didn’t get into that much detail. But that is usually her modus operandi. She’ll be rudely rushing into the house without a hello and a lot of do-this-and-do-that’s.”
 
“You better pull up the drawbridge because she can walk through walls by knocking them down if she is agüitada.”
 
“I can’t say no to her. I have too much invested in her being agreeable.”
 
“You can tell her that you have a bad muela that is dark, rotten and painful.”
 
“Even then, she will make my life very dark, very rotten and very painful.”
 
“What is she asking of you?”
 
“Part of my life.”
 
“She needs a transplant? One of your kidneys?”
 
“I’d take that over what she is demanding. She don’t ask. She wants me to babysit her nephew Candelario who, I hate to say, is also my primo.”
 
“Doesn’t he pass the time away in El Paso proposing to every other muchacha?”
 
“That was my reaction, a logical one. But you know Tía Rosa.”
 
“Like the bottom of my chanclas. How many names did she call you before she explained?”
 
“Just a few choice ones. She seemed in a hurry. Candelario is in L.A. chasing some loquita who thinks she is the next Eva Longoria. And, of course, he wants to marry her.”
 
“Why does your aunt care whom he marries. She don’t seem to care whom you marry, her favorite punching bag.”
 
“She says I got no worries. Women don’t like gordos who sit around listening to the radio, eating nonstop and letting out smelly pedos.”
 
“Your aunt is direct with you, isn’t she?”
 
“Yeah, but she wants me to be thin, happily casado.”
 
“Those are two demands for the ages.”
 
“Here’s the problem Tío Juan. I can’t stand being around the bato.”
 
“Why?”
 
“I knew you’d ask that.”
 
“For every action, there is a reason.”
 
“Yeah, you read all those books.”
 
“Actually, I got that from a fortune cookie at the Eternal Garden Chinese place on Soto near First. They went out of business soon after. No one cried. With good reason, like that cookie said. Their food was bound to kill their business if they didn’t kill a customer first.”
 
“I don’t like the way Candelario chews food, talks about himself and his love life nonstop, and sings those songs he claims he writes. Well, he can’t sing and he can’t write songs. And he always has something to say about the way I live, how much I eat and how much time I waste riding around and hopping my ranfla.”
 
“And he has the short list. Your Tía could give him the official list.”
 
“How come you’re always giving me patadas? You should be telling me stuff from all those books you always have your nose in. You know, how Aristotle, Casanova and them handled cosas.”
 
“I apply them and other minds I have absorbed in libraries and cantinas to your daily gripes. I guess you weren’t aware of that.”
 
“What do you say about the payaso Candelario?”
 
“An interesting case study.”
 
There was a pause. I was heaving as I inhaled and exhaled.
 
“Well, what should I do?” I said. “Should me and some homies jump him and FedEx him back to Tejas?”
 
“I take it you are trying hard at a chiste.”
 
“Not even.”
 
“Your Tía Rosa would disown you, not to mention your other tías. They work as a team during a crisis. Like a herd of elefantes protecting a valuable water hole during a draught in the Serengeti.”
 
“Then tell me the way.”
 
“That is for another counseling. I will make a suggestion regarding your current pickle after I have my Té de Canela.”
 
“Yeah, get that egghead of yours on the problem.”
 
I went outside to sit in my ranfla. I knew Tío Juan would think of something with that oblong head of his once he had his canela. He has saved me from all kinds of trouble, including girls, money, bills, stomach aches, headaches, plumbing, neighbors, and, of course, my tías who can be pushy.
 
I went back inside like I needed to get something important. I walked past him and he didn’t stop his musing, ignoring me like I was a passing mosca on a hustle.
 
I went back to my Impala to play some firme rollas, the background music to my vida. The first rolla that came on was “You’re No Good” by Betty Everett. I took it personally. Felt like she was singing to me and no one else. I could see her dedo touching my nose, making me cross-eyed right there in my driveway.
 
I was in that pickle Tío Juan talked about. I saw no way out. My Tía Rosa had heard my standard excuses, several times. I had used a dolor in every part of my body. And every part of my ranfla. I was lucky to be living with a man like Tío Juan who had the mind of a master criminal. He always found a way to cheat fate. I’d bet Candelario’s right leg he would find a way.
 
I fell asleep. Then I heard a knock on the window as “Workin’ On A Groovy Thing” by Patti Drew was playing. Tío Juan was signaling me with his arms flailing sideways. Someday I have to tell him the signal for lowering a car window is down.
 
I rolled down the window but then he again waved his hands in that sideway motion. I guess he now wanted me to lower the music. I also have to tell him that he has to point to the music with one hand and make a downward motion con la otra.
 
When I shut off the music, he cleared his garganta with a lot of noise I didn’t think could come out of the human cuerpo. He didn’t say anything so I gave him my So? mirada.
 
“I thought of something. Actually, it’s multiple choice with all the answers being right.”
 
Then came another pause. I gave him another So? mirada, this time punctuated with my hands raised to face level and to both sides of my head, palms up. He studied my gesture for a few moments, like he found the gesture amusing. I guess that’s what happens when your only entertainment is libros.
 
“Here’s the deal. Listen up.”
 
I waited this time, poker faced. He studied my face for a bit then spoke.
 
“You can introduce him to someone more feasible.”
 
“He would find any jaina feasible.”
 
“Not a problem. Your aunt is also his aunt and would probably find any girl too good for him.”
 
“You’re right. Tía Rosa is funny.”
 
“Hilarious. Okay, the second option is to introduce him to a decoy.”
 
“Like a pato?”
 
“No, too risky. He is not beyond proposing to a duck, wooden or otherwise. I mean, a real good looking female with even odds and ends of intelligence who he would propose to on first sight.”
 
“Heck with him. I’d keep her for myself.”
 
“That’s the problem I see here. You have as many character defects as Candelario and any other bato with hanging tongue in the 7.47 square miles that is East Los. And there are over 125,000 folks trotting around those square miles. A whole bunch of those guys like you and Candelario, guys getting wide-eyed and tongue dripping at the sight of any beauty who smiles momentarily at you, even by accident.”
 
I calculated that 125,000 was two fair-sized Dodger crowds. Tío Juan had slipped silently away and back into the house while I was calculating.
 
The following morning, Tía Rosa was at the foot of my bed as I opened my eyes. She was like a fantasma lleno do corajes. Before I could say, “What The Fudge!” she started to evaluate my life.
 
“You’re going to sleep right through your existence.”
 
I looked at the clock on the rickety nightstand near my pillow. It said quarter to six.
 
“Who let you in?” I said.
 
“That skinny viejo.”
 
Tío Juan rarely slept past 5 a.m. He had his morning tea and one scrambled egg burrito, chewing serenely at the kitchen table.
 
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
 
“I have a plan. Join me in the sala when you get dressed and brush your teeth. You know I don’t like bad breath.”
 
She left with a slam of my bedroom door. Where is the privacy in East L.A., I said to himself. I dressed quickly and brushed my teeth even quicker, knowing my Tía to have no patience when anyone made her wait. I guess she always had to feel like the most important person in a room.
 
I headed for the kitchen in search of coffee, but like a mama grizzly annoyed by a mocking visitor to Yellowstone, she growled then waved a paw toward a chair opposite where she was holding court. I responded submissively by sitting right away where she had pointed to.
 
She stared at me as if I was a chunk of questionable pancita de res she was going to toss into a pot of menudo.
 
“Candelario is a tonto. The only thing that keeps him fed is his good looks. His family doesn’t have the money to sponsor his viajes of tonterías. But they are proud and want us to lasso him and send him back to El Paso. When he first texted his family, they were happy. He said he finally met a girl they would love, too. He followed that with more texts. The last one said that she was going to be a movie star and was dancing to support herself. He knew that they would understand.
 
“Well, they didn’t. They called me and told me they were sure she was a stripper in some barrio who knows where. Do they have strippers around here, Gordo?”
 
“I heard they might,” I said, trying to sound like I didn’t know.
 
She looked at me as if to say, Mentiroso.
 
“I’ll bet Tío Juan knows a few,” she said.
 
“Only if they have an exceptional reading room,” Tío Juan said as he had silently appeared, as usual, like a gato sneaking up on a ratón. He sat in a corner, stirring his tea, observing me since Tía Rosa had her back to him. She kept talking to me like he had been Hip-Hop coming from a passing car.
 
“From what the familia put together from his jumbled text, much like his mumbled speech, is that the girl’s name is Latina Destiny. At least her stage name. They’ve yet to hear her Tejas name. According to Candelario, she does something called a Banana Split on a pole. What that name means, I don’t want to know. He went on in his text to say that she had them all loco at Mr. Zapp’s. Who she or Señor Zapp is I never want to find out.”
 
For a person who knows everything, I found it hard to believe she didn’t want to know those things, too.
 
“It’s messed up, huh?” I said.
 
“More than that, payaso. He would be the shame of all the familia, both sides of the frontera.”
 
“Every family has one of those. We just have to take hold of our chones and still walk proud.”
 
“No seas ridículo, Arturo.”
 
“Tía, I remember hearing that Tío Fulgencio met his wife Claudia in Nogales, Mexico. He was stationed across the border at an Army base. She was a singer in a nightclub. So Candelario might have his father’s DNA and is attracted to women on stage. He can’t help it. His father grabbed his and took her home to El Paso. The familia worked on her and she became a domesticated Mejicana stirring frijoles on the stove. You could never tell she sang and moved her hips for a living. Mejicanas go with the flow since that one who whispered in Cortez’ ear and helped him jump our people.”
 
“What are you driveling about, Gordo?”
 
“Our history according to Tío Juan. He knows all that stuff about our gente going way back.”
 
“Well, right now we’re talking current affairs. And you are part of it. So, open up those oversized ears of yours. You will come to the aid of your primo.”
 
“It may be a family disorder or whatever it’s called. Maybe his chavalos in the future will be chasing and marrying ruckas like this Latina Destiny. We shouldn’t try to stop it.”
 
“The only disorder I see, Artie, is in your thinking. Wiggling around on stage while yodeling doesn’t make a good match for a man. Do I need to whack you on your chaveta to bring you back to the problem facing the family? This is a family crisis and you’re going to find Candelario and steer him to what is right.”
 
“Why me?”
 
“Why do you even ask? You are too difficult, Arturo. What about familia? Your sangre. You are too flojo to accomplish something meaningful en esta vida. You should jump for joy to help stop Candelario from bringing shame on the family for generations to come. You will find your primo. Besides, you used to be pals when growing up. You are the only one on both sides of the family who has nothing to do but ride around in that jalopy and hang around with cholos on Whittier Boulevard.”
 
“My car is not a jalopy. It’s a classic bomba. And my friends are not cholos. Not full time, anyway. And I listen to the Dodgers on the radio. Good, clean fun.”
 
“My point. You’re just sitting around that radio, getting fat eating and doing nothing else. Besides, I’m asking you to do this as a favor from a person that can determine your future way down the line.”
 
I know she was telling me that if I didn’t go along peacefully, she would show me what a malvada she could be by messing up my life forever. Her eyes focused on me like a spider she was about to swat with a wave of her chancla. She reminded me of La Llorona on a bad day.
 
“So you will jump on this right away, right, Artie?”
 
I thought quickly.
 
“Simón.”
 
Tía Rosa left like a drill sergeant, confident her orders would be followed. I almost saluted the rucka.
 
I looked over to Tío Juan who had his nose in a book like always.
 
“Tío Juan, we have to find Candelario and tell him what’s what.”
 
“Might have to slap him around some,” he said while slowly turning a page.
 
“I will text him and tell him to meet me on the corner of Sunset and Vine, like in the movies.”
 
L.A. can be confusing and if some bato gives you an address, even with GPS, it ain’t easy. And I didn’t have GPS.
 
I did receive his address in a text on Tío Juan’s phone from Tía Rosa. It was a bungalow on a residential street on the edge of Hollywood. I rang the doorbell, knocked on the door and pleaded with Candelario to open the door because I wanted to save his life. He didn’t come to the door and it sounded like no one ever would.
 
It was a letdown. I was in a strange part of L.A. and Candelario was nowhere to nail. Walking around, away from my ranfla, I couldn’t think smoothly. My Impala and me are a team, like a charro and his horse. I didn’t know where to go. I started to walk around and something told me to go to the front bungalow. There a sign said Manager, Knock First and I guess the same thing in a list of words below that in four other languages. I rang the doorbell not once but four times. Out of habit, I thought I’d see a Chicano brown face and had to step back when the pinkest dude I had ever seen opened the door. He was also one of the skinniest dudes I’d ever seen. He was tall and looked down on me as if I was an abandoned perro.
 
He grunted something. I said, “Huh?” He cleared his throat and said, “What you need?” in some accent from somewhere. I told him and he brought me up to date regarding my person of interest, Candelario.
 
He laid out Candelario’s schedule as if he had planned it himself. He said Candelario was like a trained something—I couldn’t make out the word—and did everything at the same time every day. It was a long schedule the bony bato had memorized. I remembered that he got home at six, stayed for an hour then went out. After that, he said he got back to his bungalow at all hours, sometimes after midnight.
 
The streets around here were full of fast cars and people walking like they were going to meet someone with lots of money. The buses were packed with Raza going to work in Westside restaurants and homes, working from morning till night.
 
I felt a strange new respect for My Gente as they travelled from East Los, Maywood, Downey, and other lugares miles away to provide for their familias. I couldn’t wait to get back to Tío Juan to see what his take was on all this. He always has something to say about everything I see and do.
 
Then something hit me like an electrical shock I once got when I plugged in a lámpara while I was desnudo and wet. I felt like Dios himself was smiling down on me and everything around me. Why? Because I was safely miles away from Tía Rosa, the big mandona.
 
Back to Candelario. Reminds me like when you’re looking for something and you start getting mad at everything and everybody but yourself. It’s like Tío Juan looking for his iPhone, he doesn’t find it until someone calls him. Could be days. I was hoping for something quicker in my search. Seeing the fine jainas walking and driving around, I didn’t care if I ever found Candelario, but then I saw the bato walking in front of me at a red light.
 
I honked but he kept walking and bouncing as if he heard music no one else did. And he did. He had ear buds on. I pulled over in a red zone, the only spot nearby that was open and saw him bouncing down the boulevard like he was rengo since, like I said, he couldn’t dance. I then saw him go into an office. It took me about ten minutes to find parking a block away. I half walked and half ran toward that office.
 
I tried the door but it was locked. I called out his name. The name on the door said Alphonso Bolinso, Agent For New Talent. From the other side of the puerta, I heard all kinds of voices, some in Spanish, some in English and one in some language that I never heard in the barrio.
 
I pounded on the door. Appearing in a small window was a face I didn’t like but had to look at. It was Candelario. My suerte was kicking in, the good kind for a change.
 
He unlocked the door after several turns, the last one sounding like an industrial strength bolt lock. “Artie, what do you want? How’d you get here? Did you make a wrong turn and finally make it out of East L.A.?”
 
“I went to where you lived and the manager and all those other things gave me your schedule. I didn’t remember most of it and I didn’t expect to see you hustling across a street.”
 
“I gave him that schedule but I really don’t have one.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Well, people around here are all nosey and want to know what you’re up to. Like they’re ready to call the cops. You feel like you’re being watched all the time from behind windows and from rooftops. And I have more reasons, ese. I might tell you later. No, I’ll tell you now, Artie. I fell for a girl. It was like Canelo hit me with his left hook. She is the finest jaina in any barrio you can name.”
 
The loquito looked at me like a bato who has just lost his mind, a hideous smile on his face, waiting for me to give him un abrazo. I had to tell him all he was telling me was already family chisme flying around Texas, and that I was sent by our Tía Rosa to slap him back to his senses.
 
So, I didn’t hug him or anything, but just gave him the standard Órale.
 
“Thanks, you’re true Raza from way back,” he said. “I may be jumping the gun, pero I think it will turn out right. Come in. I’ll give you all the happy details.”
 
“What are you doing here? It looks like a dump.”
 
“It’s part of the deal. Let me tell you how it is.”
 
He opened the door and I followed. There were people packed into the room like when you go to a firme party in the Hood. But these people didn’t look like they knew how to have any fun. They talked all serious. They were talking and talking, not even paying attention that I was watching them, like they were all high on a new droga going around.
 
Candelario saw my face, probably looking all confused so he gave me some details.
 
“Performers of all kinds,” he said, “waiting to see Alphonso Bolinso. It’s summer so clubs need people with even a little talent to sell drinks and demand a big cover charge. Summer is Christmas to club entertainers. All over this city, as June sets in, standups stand up, blood gushes in the veins of dancers, and hypnotists make their eyes big to make people believe they are dogs barking in a junkyard. It’s time to book your act and people are paying tribute to the legendary Bolinso.”
 
“What’s all this have to do with you, a flojo from El Paso?”
 
“Plenty. If you see a skinny bato who looks homeless come from that office, jump him because that will be Alphonso. The more money he makes, the more he dresses like he don’t have any. Years ago, they said he was mugged because of his flashy dress. If you do corner Alphonso, he might not remember me.”
 
“You said you’d tell me about some deal that brought you here.”
 
“Okay, man, I got into—”
 
Suddenly, Candelario’s eyes opened as if he just saw a twenty waving at him. He jumped and sprang at this frumpy-looking dude with hair shooting here and there. Candelario got to him before the others even turned their heads. The singers, dancers, standup comics, piano players and comedy teams had the look of defeat as they saw Candelario get into the face of Alphonso Bolinso as if he wanted to kiss him. Alphonso turned and Candelario followed closely as they walked by me.
 
Mr. Bolinso lit a cigar, sat then looked at us like he wanted to throw us back into the streets. “Let me tell you something Candel” he said. “And listen.” Candelario sat, then put a fist under his chin as if to signal he was hanging on every syllable. Mr. Bolinso studied Candelario for a few seconds then shot an imaginary basketball at an imaginary hoop.
 
“Let me tell you,” he then spoke again. “I saw you do your act as I promised La Destiny. You got a hint of talent here and there. You got a long way to go but you are on the road. I can get you into a club if you accept seventy-five per cent. I don’t have to offer you even that but the young lady kept texting me. It’s yours for the taking. Do I hear a ‘sure I’ll take it’?”
 
“You sure do, I accept,” he said in the deepest voice I ever hear come out of the bato.
 
Outside on the sidewalk, Candelario laughed all crazy and waved a hand for a high-five. I waved a hand sin ganas.
 
“Oh, yeah. I was saying when Alphonso came out that L.D.’s mother used to be in entertainment. She was from back in the old days but I think I heard of her somewhere from somebody. She sang but also danced. Muy sexy. I met her and I could see she must have been fine when she was young. But she says I don’t sing and then added that it doesn’t look like I do anything. She told Destiny that I didn’t look like I could support her for a week. Said no to our joining hands like she meant business.
 
“You remember how great I sing and write songs, so Destiny got hold of the sloppy viejo Bolinso and got him to say he would spare me a few of his precious moments and put me somewhere if I showed him. She can make him listen. He then said he would get back to me. Well, today, I made him get back to me. You heard him. I get to keep seventy-five per cent of what I make and he will find a place for me to sing.”
 
“He’s taking a lot,” I said, “but that’s better than the IRS if you win the Lotto.”
 
I felt weak at the knees. I could see Tía Rosa’s cara when she heard Fulgencio’s hijo was not only still chasing the loose woman but also was going to get on stage, too. Tía Rosa felt nothing came before familia, not even someone’s happiness, including mine. She’s always telling me that our family tree goes way back on both sides of the border and that we had all kinds of history that had important people doing all kinds of things everywhere. She tells me in detail but she talks so fast that I can’t remember everything. She tells me when I do something to make her agüitada so that’s why she says the family stuff so fast. What she would say when she heard this breaking news, I don’t even want to think about.
 
“Let’s go back to East Los, Candelario,” I said. “Tío Juan can fix us some comida to make you think right. I could eat a dozen of his tacos right now. And hold on while I call somebody.” I walked a few feet away.
 
I knew at the start that Tía Rosa shouldn’t have picked me to get this tonto away from someone he wanted to marry. I needed backup. I thought of Tía Rosa herself but that was like asking for problemas on top of all the current ones. I thought things out and thought I would text Candelario’s father and tell him he needed to show up as fast as he could.
 
“Who were you texting?” asked Candelario when we got to my car.
 
“Just Tío Juan to find out what he was preparing for cena,” I said.
                                                                        ֍
On the following Tuesday, Candelario appeared at a Mexican restaurant in Pasadena that had singing on a stage right next to where people ate, which was risky for the restaurant. He had practiced in his bathroom with a neighbor banging the wall after two hours. I drove around with the ventanas all the way up so he could let out his lungs. I was encouraging him, which encouraged me since he sounded worse with every mile. I wanted his first gig to be such a relaje that he would never again try to inflict his singing on anyone; and that would end his chances of being Latina Destiny’s marido. So, I stepped to one side.
 
But the bato was determined. On Saturday and Sunday, we almost lived in my Impala as I drove around while he sang all kinds of songs, all out of tune. He had a special CD with just the background music of songs I never heard of. The bato never got tired. It was like he would die if he stopped singing.
 
Candelario makes a strange noise with his tongue, then a stranger noise with his garganta and starts:
 
“There’s a streetcar at the corner.”
CANDELARIO with a deep voice: “Why?”
CANDELARIO in a high voice: “To take me to my destiny.”
CANDELARIO with the deep voice: “To your destiny?"
CANDELARIO with the high voice (staying with his goal): “To take me to my destiny.”
CANDELARIO with the deep voice (not believing him): “No kidding?”
CANDELARIO with the high voice: “I’m from the stars.”
CANDELARIO with the deep voice: “I’m from Eagle Pass.”
 
He repeated those words over and over. I told him ya trucha, I’m going to drop you off on the corner. But the bato said this is what performers do, even in opera. This would get him Destiny. I said he needed all the getting he could get. And then the bato said to me, “So you have my back, ese!” And he sang on.
 
He then switched to some song about lovebirds. He told me that that was a song Destiny sang at a Hollywood club. It was like he was telling me a miracle performed by a saint.
 
No lie, but the restaurant expected Candelario to be there in time to start crooning at 12 noon for the lunch crowd. I said they had to be delusional since he was still snoring at that hour, but Candelario said if he was to eat while in L.A. he had to be there. I was nodding like what he said really made sense, until he made it plain that I was supposed to be there with him. I had expected just to go to his bungalow at night to see him all sad because he had bombed. But I never let a homie down. So, I had to drop plans to go to a Mexican restaurant I found on Cesar Chavez Avenue that has better corn tortillas than even Tío Juan’s. I followed Candelario, instead. They were playing soft instrumental Rancheras over an intercom for atmosphere, I guess. I sat down. It wasn’t much of a lunch crowd that ate in the atmosphere, which seemed to trigger yawns from one table to the next. I didn’t know if it was the bland décor, the food or the music. I was just going to order a taco till Candelario came on. I joined the yawns of some guy who looked like he’d rather be eating a hot dog with plenty of mustard as he forced an enchilada into his boca and down his throat. It was then that I noticed an hermosa for the ages sitting at the next table.
 
Órale. I don’t like lying. When I came in, I saw an hermosa sitting at a table, so I went a de volada to the one next to it. I began to check her out like I was shopping for hydros to put in my Impala. I wanted the lugar to have better lights so I could appreciate her curves and finish. She was small, with big Chicana eyes and the reddest lips I have ever seen. It was a wasted work of art that was sitting in the dark.
 
Then the lighting got better, and the speaker system began to blast a tune which sounded like I’d heard many times before, which I had. Then Candelario came out in a maroon coat down to his knees, pegged black pantalones tucked into high-top calcos, his chaveta topped by a burgundy Fedora hat with a white feather that nearly reached the ceiling or so it seemed to me. He bumped into a chair on stage, turned maroon himself and began to sing that destiny song.
 
It was messed up. The pobre loquito got scared that his voice came and went. Mostly went. He sounded like a bad cell phone connection going in and out.
 
I got relaxed. I saw that he was not going to be around that Destiny girl after today. I felt bad for the pobre, but it now looked like things were looking up. Nobody’s gonna pay good money or any money to see Candelario drive customers into the streets. This would be “one night only” appearance. He would have to sell chicle in the street. The vieja would say, “Lárgate and don’t think about my hija ever again.” And if things go like they’re supposed to, I could see me pushing Candelario into a Greyhound bus with the destination “El Paso Express” then getting an abrazo from Tía Rosa and then the keys to her ’39 Packard. Then I saw myself cruisin’ down Whittier Boulevard with all eyes wide, and fine jainas wanting a ride.
 
He finished his song sin ganas and dragged himself away with deafening silence, como dicen. I was hoping to see him sneak over to me, but he stepped onto the stage again.
 
I think I heard a gasp from a few people eating and that was with comida in their bocas. He started singing. I expected beer bottles and salsa to start flying. It was a normal song about walking under stars with a rucka by some river with a name that wasn’t the L.A. River, with some other words, pero Candelario sang it like it was about somebody dying and soon, leaving an esposa and all kinds of chavalos. Halfway through the song, I wanted to jump on the stage and hug the skinny tonto. It was like everything was messed up and nobody could do anything about it.
 
He got to a romantic part, then it got weird. The girl at the next table got up from her chair, stepped back, spreading her arms and began to join him. I say, “joined him,” but it really didn’t go down like that because as soon as she started Candelario stopped as if he was clotheslined.
 
I never felt so let down since I was born. I wanted to raise the collar of my Pendleton and lowride on my silla. It felt like everyone was checking me out.
 
All embarrassed and hunched in my chair, I saw Candelario. He looked different. He was standing there with an attitude. The chavala was singing pretty good, and it seemed to make Candelario stand straighter with a serious look. When she got to some words, he jumped in, and they sang the song like Johnnie and Joe. He left the stage like he was popular. The few people around told him to come back, and only quit when they piped in some girl singer like Arianna Grande or Lady Gaga.
 
I looked over to the girl but she had disappeared from my life like other girls. I sat up and made the walk toward Candelario behind a curtain. He was sitting on crate full of beer, looking like he just saw the Virgen.
 
“Isn’t she special, Artie,” he said like he was talking about the Virgen. “I didn’t think she’d be around. She has to dance this week somewhere in Montebello, so I think she will get there barely in time for her afternoon performance. She risked it all just to come and see me. She’s my special angel, Artie. My savior. If she wasn’t here, it would have been a disaster. I got rattled, I couldn’t think. I will make it through the next show easy.”
 
I was happy I had texted his father. He would come in handy. I was losing my grip on things.
                                                                        ֍
The following semana, I saw Candelario and got to meet the chavala. I also shook hands with her mother, a mean looking Mejicana of the old school. She had a real chingona look. She made sure I knew her name was “Mrs. Sanlego.” Then Candelario’s father rode into town. My Tío Fulgencio is the classiest old bato in the familia. He doesn’t have Tía Rosa’s tongue but neither does anyone else. Still, since I was a chamaco, Tío Fulgencio made me feel I was taking in too much oxygen that could better be used by moscas. He doesn’t mess with me like Tía Rosa, especially since he lives in Tejas and has his hands full with Candelario. The way they bother me is different. Tía Rosa blames all problems in the barrio and surrounding calles on me, while Tío Fulgencio just likes to blame me for being me.
 
I know for sure Tío Fulgencio sang Rancheras here and there years ago. He likes the stage himself. He couldn’t sing. So, it’s in Candelario’s blood to be on stage without a reason.
 
Tío Fulgencio is one bossy dude, always telling people to go here, do that and don’t do that. Even other people’s kids, which causes him problems in public. But he looks like a boss of something, no matter where he goes. At Walmart, they always mistake him for the manager even when he’s loading cerveza onto his cart. Still, like I said, I heard he was singing Rancheras and Norteño/Conjunto years ago in bars. They say he played the accordion sometimes but not good.
 
I can imagine a lot of things but I can’t see Tío Fulgencio singing anything in any bar.
 
I prepped for a long abrazo but he backed off as if I was the Diablo wanting his soul.
 
“What are you up to, Arturo? Why did you text me like someone was dying?”
 
“It’s complicated,” I said, “and goes on and on. Con permiso, I’ll tell you in slow, easy parts like a telenovela. Let me take you on a quick trip to a club in Montebello.”
 
The muchacha Latina Destiny was going on her second week at The Flyers club in Montebello. She was that good. And she just sang three songs while she danced around. And by dance, I mean she got a big workout matched by the men’s eyes and lungs. Her outfits and music selection were both thin. Tío Fulgencio just stared like he was watching a magic show up to the moment she dashed off the stage to whistles and howls.
 
“Han pasado muchos años desde que canté con mi grupo.”
 
That’s all he said even though he continued to stare at the stage as if he were watching himself in some kind of spooky flashback. The pariente was making me nervous.
 
Some dude then came out and asked everyone to give Latina Destiny a big applause, which they did along with the whistles and howls.
 
“What do you think, Tío?” I said.
 
He just went on staring.
 
“Muchos años. Did you say something, Arturo?”
 
“You saw her. Tell me what you think of her.”
 
“Who? Oh, the Destiny girl.”
 
“Yes. The muchacha your muchacho is engaged to marry.”
 
He looked away like he had to take in the news slowly, wearing a serious face. Like always.
 
The muchacha came out for more whistles and howls and she heard them with a big smile. The men wanted her to shake some more. Finally, she wiggled off stage and I looked at Tío Fulgencio again.
 
“What do you think?” I said.
 
“She can sing. And dance, although I don’t like the way she dances but she has the moves.”
 
“Okay, Tío, let me take you a few miles from here on the other side of East Los.”
 
I drove him in my ranfla to the restaurant where Candelario was going to get me in good with Tía Rosa after I got him back to El Paso. I could already see the `39 Convertible Coup Packard in my driveway. As soon as we sat down at a table, the bato came out.
 
“Next to solve your problem,” I said, “Candelario.”
 
I didn’t know what the uncle from El Paso was going to do, but what he did confused me—he just sat there, not saying anything. He sat there like a stuffed tío staring at Candelario as he went on about love and all its confusion. I was feeling for the old bato because it had to be a jolt shot through his cuerpo to see his only hijo in a red shirt and purple pants, but it was best he got the details of the problem with his own eyes. I didn’t want to explain to him what was happening to his son’s life and with just words and without living proof. With just words, he would just think that Candelario was marrying someone somewhere for whatever reason.
 
When Candelario shuffled out I couldn’t believe my ears. Candelario was sounding better. He found a singing voice from somewhere and was showing it off like a fine woman. It was like when he went to Garfield High and was wailing, “Let’s take a trip down Whittier Boulevard” over and over on top of the Garfield High School sign. How he got up there and back down is an East Los mystery to this día. He was using the same fuerza now.
 
After Candelario left the stage, my Tío sat squeezed into his seat like he was sitting between two fat borrachos. He then looked at me with narrow eyes like I was trying to trick him.
 
“¿Qué está pasando, Arturo?”
 
He said it in a low voice like juicy chisme, but it sounded like a threat of cachetadas if I didn’t give him the right answer.
 
“He got into show biz,” I said in a low voice, “porque, he wants to do what her mother wants him to do. He can’t marry her unless he does something on stage. Maybe you could talk to the woman. She’s old school with an attitude to match. She is more reason why you should crash this whole party. After you talk to him, I can lowride back to the Hood and let you take further action.
 
The Mother and daughter were living in a part of West L.A. in an apartment building that looked expensive but once you get to their little space in that building, you see it would be just survival space in East L.A. and with minimal rent. Here, they were paying way more than minimal anything. The madre answered the door and seeing me, she let us in, my Tío hidden behind my wide body. We only saw her back as she pointed to two wooden chairs in the middle of the room.
 
“Nice to meet up with you again, Mrs. Sanlego,” I said all convinced I was nearing the end of my journey. She turned at last and I heard a choking racket from behind me, like my Tío had a chicken bone atorado in his throat.
 
“¡Carmelita!” Tío Fulgencio said, then making a sound like air being let out of a llanta. He leaned on me like he was drowning.
 
The Sanlego woman stared at him, then she squealed and her arms went up like Fourth of July Fireworks.
 
“¡Fulgencio! You are Fulgencio, aren’t you?” she said as if she might be wrong.
 
But Tío Fulgencio himself looked like he was almost ready to cry. They hugged like they were never going to part again.
 
I need some kind of legal notice to deal with stuff like this. The look on Tío’s face made me feel like I was seeing him in some kind of altered state like you see in movies. The horror kind. He didn’t look like the all-knowing Tío Fulgencio who never said anything funny, never laughed. He was smiling and acting like a bato on a first date. I don’t mean no disrespect, but the old bato was riendo, like, for no reason. The Señora Sanlego, who always looked like she was ready to pull greñas, was now acting like a chavalita on Christmas morning.
 
“¡Fulgencio!”
 
“¡Carmelita!”
 
“¡Querido Fulgencio! I never thought I would see you again!”
 
“I thought you never left El Paso for anything.”
 
I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt left out of something.
 
“My Tío wants to tell you something, Señora Sanlego.”
 
“I knew it was you right away, Carmelita!”
 
“Ya hace muchos años since I was around you, hombre, and you look the same.”
 
“¡Hay, Carmelita! ¡Soy un viejo!”
 
“¿Why are you way over here? I guess”—Señora Sanlego’s smile disappeared—“¿tu esposa está contigo?”
 
“She died years ago, Carmelita.”
 
Señora Sanlego looked at the suelo. “You should have stuck to your own kind, Fulgencio. I don’t want to talk about the pobre who is dead, you know her name, I forget it, pero it would have been better if you had gone after a singer. I still remember you made muchachas cry when you let out a grito then sang, ‘Me cansé de rogarle, que yo sin ella de pena muero...’”
 
“Qué guapa te veías Carmelita vestida, como una charra,” Tío said like he was choking again. “Do you remember the zapateados you did on the stage? I used to say that you did the sexiest zapateados in all of Tejas.”
 
“I wouldn’t even try now. Dios mío, Fulgencio, you knocked them out when you were on stage, even the bien borrachos,” said Señora Sanlego in the saddest voice I ever heard in a Mejicana, since my abuelita’s on Arizona Avenue who was always saying that the world was pitiful and was ending, which she repeated daily.
 
“Te acuerdas Carmelita how we let them have it at the feria in Luling? The Watermelon Thump Festival? I had to sing most of the songs in English, making up lyrics to keep people’s attention. I think even Mejicanos there didn’t speak Spanish too good.”
 
“We were happy.”
 
“Tell me Carmelita, how come you left Tejas?”
 
“I wanted to watch over my mija Dolores, make sure she is safe. But I shouldn’t worry. She is a strong girl. I heard through the chisme network that your son ran off chasing a girl. Then I heard through more chisme that my girl Dolores ran off to L.A. to act. Then I heard through even more chisme that you followed your son here because he was in L.A. I lied when I asked about your wife. I knew you were single. I had hoped you would look me up but when that never happened, I saw my chance to run into you here.”
 
Tío Fulgencio was looking at her as if he was looking at someone he had never seen before. The viejo still looks pretty good. I could see the dude when he was younger would have made jainas of his time lick their chops, grab their chones and check their hair. I saw uglier batos with good looking chavalas. I figured they had the feria to do that. Tío has that wavy gray hair, trimmed mustache, just as gray, and the right wrinkles to make him look distinguished, like women say they like. And maybe with a few bucks in his pockets they can feel for.
 
“You mean you had the hots for me, like I did for you?” he said.
 
“Por supuesto. Why do you think I let you sing most of the Ranchera and Norteño tunes? I was always around the stage even when I wasn’t doing any dancing or singing just to be near you. ¿Recuerdas how I often had a bag of pan dulce for you after a show? And I always bought extra puerquitos because I found out they were your favoritos.”
 
“Pero—”
 
“And remember when I gave you my half of a burrito at the San Antonio Fair when we only had enough money for one. We performed there but they didn’t pay us right away.”
 
“¡Carmelita!”
 
“And don’t forget the Tlayudas I made you from my family recipe from Oaxaca. Do you think I just did that because you looked hungry? I was working on your estómago until that hip-shaking chavala took you from right under my clay comal. That’s why I wouldn’t let Dolores marry a joven called Candelario, till he went on stage somewhere, anywhere. She’s a rising star—”
 
“Estoy en acuerdo, Carmelita. She has what it takes.”
 
“You mean, you saw her somewhere?”
 
“At the place in Montebello. Gordo there (pointing to me like a witness identifying the alleged criminal), I mean Arturo, drove me there. But if he loves her, Carmelita, you should let him love her. He is singing now just for her.”
 
“Mija tells me he sings at a restaurant that’s not very good with just a few people clapping for him.”
 
“We went through that, Carmelita, remember? We sang at a bar with only two pool players who never looked up from their game then there was pedo between them and they both got tossed. After that, we had no audience. So, don’t make Candelario feel like a pestoso. I can understand you feeling like your mija is going to marry an obstacle—”
 
“How come you want this Candelario sinvergüenza, to go after Dolores?”
 
“He’s my hijo.”
 
“¿No?” she said, sounding like a gato someone was choking.
 
“Así es, Carmelita. I just heard him sing. ¡Carmelita, me dio mucho gusto! He has what it takes. It was meant to be. He’s my son and could one day be singing the old Rancheras. He’s been a cabrón up to now. I really worked hard, almost breaking my back on some jobs. I did it so I had money to invest in him, so he could become something. I wanted to be an example to him. The hours were long and the sudor was constant. I had to eat right, cut out the cerveza, or at least drink less of it, and I was afraid to lose it on a job and be laid up for good. I did it for him so he would work hard, seeing how good we lived, but I, myself, really wanted to be singing on stages everywhere. That’s where I belonged.”
 
Señora Carmelita, not a spring chicken, leaped at him and fell into his arms like he had just won the lotería.
 
“Let’s get back together, like it’s supposed to be!” she whimpered. “Your esposa is buried and gone, your hijo might have some talent. Dolores’s father left one day and never came back. Return to me! Too many years have been wasted, so I am ready to jump back on stages donde sea. I still want to be with you like before as if no time has gone by. Like we’re still young and reckless. We belong singing and bailando together till we reach our sunsets.”
 
Tío Fulgencio made a weird noise with his throat or nose, I couldn’t tell which one, then stared at her.
 
He whispered something that wasn’t her name but something in Spanish that sounded like a pet name.
 
“Estás aquí, muchacho,” said the rucka like a girl. “You returned to me after all these years!...You are here. I’m not going to let you wander off this time!”
 
He fell forward and they fell into another major abrazo. I’m not sure if he was ready to faint or he just lunged at her because he got all worked up. “Ay, Carmelita, mi Carmelita, sweet Carmelita! Squeeze me tight. Tighter. Let me watch over you from now on.”
 
I moved slowly toward the door and snuck out. I felt funny. I can deal with a lot of things, but this was different. It was at another level. I walked like a buzzed bato to my ranfla.
 
Candelario called me at home while I was eating Tío Juan’s specialty, Pozole de Guajolote. Candelario sounded like he was now Number One on the Billboard’s Hot 10.
 
“Artie,” he said, “I’m going to be a big star.”
 
“We all feel that way, sometimes,” I said, and looked at a text message that had arrived ten minutes before from Tía Rosa. I had been reading it then re-reading it since it arrived.
 
“Destiny and me got to her apartment tonight. Guess who we found there? Apá! He was holding hands with Señora Sanlego.”
 
“¿De veras?”
 
“Simón. They were sitting close.”
 
“No lie?”
 
“He is going to marry her.”
 
“Not surprised.”
 
“I’m going to marry Destiny.”
 
“No surprise there either.”
 
“Artie, foo, I feel like un hombre reborn. The fates are working overtime. Apá is twenty years older than her. He and Señora Sanlego want to get back together to sing and dance like they used to, even going all over Texas again with their act.”
 
I stopped chewing.
 
“Candy, ese,” I swallowed then said, “lemme think. I need my space. I think my brain is shorting.”
 
“Sorry, man. So, you are now going to lowride into the sunset?”
 
I looked down at Tía Rosa’s text.
 
“Not even.”
 
He hung up and I read the text again.
 
“What have you done? I should go see you.” And she added a skull emoji that made me sit up, all three-hundred pounds of me.
 
I grabbed a Squeeze Ball in the shape of an aguacate Tío Juan bought me on his last trip to Tijuana, knowing I hate aguacates because I can’t eat them. They give me chorro. I then texted back. I didn’t know what I was going to say but the words came. Maybe that has happened to you, I don’t know. “No,” I texted, “don’t move. Everyone here is singing their cabezas off.” 

hTommy Villalobos  was born in East L.A. and also raised there. He thinks of the lugar daily and love the memories while remembering the tragedies of his neighbors and of his madre. Tommy’s mother had a great sense of humor and he inherited about ten per cent of it. She had a quick wit and response to all verbal attacks, whether to herself personally or to her Catholic religion that she loved. Tommy dedicates all his works to her, knowing she had him when she had no idea how she was going to feed him and his four siblings. She was a single mom until the day she died. He lives in a boring suburb now, outside of Sacramento, but his heart and soul will always be in East Los Angeles where his mother was always by his side to protect him. 

La mulatta Guadalupe López came to her new employment at the honorable house of the Alvarado Rosedale e Ibarra Betancourt family, on a thirteenth of March in the year of the Lord, 1967. It was a sweet-and-sour day for the missus, Señora Rosabella, who was on her eighth month of pregnancy. Sweet for the impending, and unbearable pregnancy, was soon to end, thank God and all his Saints; but sour, because she was on her fourth servant in the short time of her marriage, a year, to the very distinguished, Don Monce Alvarado Rosedale e Ibarra, Esq.
 
The loss of so many maids, (her own mother had had Lucinda in her service for over forty years), was not due to Rosabella’s temperament. Of that she was sure, temperament, pure nonsense, a fabrication of evil-tongues, jealous tongues. She was not temperamental. Far from it; in fact, she was indeed a saint. Like her favorite, Santa Rosa de Lima, who destroyed her beauty with bitter lime and pepper to abate all her admires, (this pregnancy had distorted all her features, even her nose was wider). It was part of what she needs to suffer, for she, like Santa Rosa de Lima, had asked God to increase her suffering in turn to increase God’s favor for her. But this expansion of abdomen, feet, and nose was ridiculous. To top it all, she had to be in bedrest for a month. A month! And if that was not enough suffering, that insulting doctor said she had an incompetent cervix. Incompetent! She was so offended. Calling her cervix, whatever that was, incompetent right in front both her parents and her dear beloved Monce. She felt so ashamed, the stupid doctor was talking about her female parts with all of them as if she was not right there in the room. She wanted to throw her pillow at the ugly doctor with his ugly words.
 
If anyone was incompetent it was those good-for-nothing girls that came to be at her employment. How hard could it be to keep her house, not as grand as her parents, but only two people for now lived here. It was only a matter of washing the floors, doing the laundry, ironing, making dinner, and making sure she was comfortable in her bed. ¿Was that so much to ask? The problem with all this incompetence, was the fault of the industrialization of the island by that idiot of a Governor. It was his fault that the pharmaceutical companies had settled on the island. Opening their doors to all kind of riff raff to do labor work at minimum wage—a salary that was outrageous for the fine families, who had Christianized this jungle into civility—minimum wage. ¡What a ridiculous idea! Too much money for those people, if anyone cared to ask her. But no one did, not even her sweet Monce. Rosabella, times are changing. You should not worry your pretty head with those things. Leave politics to the politicians. You just take care of our baby.
 
That governor and his idiotic impositions to pay such an unjust and outrageous fee just to wash floors and clean windows, etc. Of course, they could afford to pay more than Eli Lilly, but that would set the wrong precedent, wouldn’t it? And then where will they be? On the road to communism, that is where this would lead. If this continued, the governor would have the servants riding the Mercedes and the people of class, la crème de la crème, would be riding donkeys.
 
The island would turn to another Cuba, God Forbid! Equality for all. Just thinking about it made her tachycardia worsen and her ‘incompetent cervix’ go into spasms. She crossed herself, and tightened the grip between her legs. This baby wanted to be born too soon, and a suitable maid needed to be found sooner. This situation was making her first year as bride quite bitter.
 
La Guadalupe came well recommended. The Soler family, a family of pedigree, if not of great wealth, times had been hard on them, sent a lively recommendation letter on behalf of Guadalupe. In it they extolled Guadalupe, who preferred to be called Guadalupe—this should have set off all kinds of bell alerts—which Rosabella hadn’t noticed, her mind was elsewhere, consumed by the expansion of her belly and the unsightly bellybutton pushing out like a doorbell. It was a hint she missed; she likes to be called by the full extent of her name. Instead of the usual Lupe, a perfectly suited name for a woman of her class. In the letter, the Solers extoled La Guadalupe’s virtues; She is very clean, hard-working and efficient. We have noticed that she is even quite intelligent. She would do very well indeed. She could even be of great help in taking care of your future little one. Love, blessings, etc., etc. That was enough for Rosabella, who hired la Guadalupe on the spot without even seeing her, without the required interview.
 
La Guadalupe announced her arrival the following Monday. She was punctual. At precisely 7 o’clock sharp, that was a good sign, but it was a few minutes before Monce, her devoted husband, departed to his work. But even the remarkable precision of her arrival did not reduce the tachycardia and migraine that Guadalupe’s physical attributes precipitated on the delicate Rosabella when she entered the private marital bedroom, on account that Rosabella could no longer get out of bed and walk the few feet it took to get to the office, a more suitable place for greeting her new maid.
 
The Soler family had failed to mention the mulatta’s physical attributes. Tall as a Fichus tree, with a figure that even another woman would admire, this very appealing woman’s visage ended on what they called these days an afro! Rosabella took immediate offence to the hair and to the letter of the Soler’s which, undoubtedly, had not mentioned this point on purpose; therefore they must have intended some malice. Rosabella could imagine all of the Solers having a great laugh on her behalf. But the house was full of dust motes, the laundry piling in the laundry house, food lately had been just cold cuts, and her feet were the size of breadfruits. She was truly in need of someone to put order to her home and take care of her. Maybe I am not meant to be a mother, maybe God indeed had answered with impunity for the increase of her suffering.
 
Rosabella had been turned down by her own mother. Mama please, let me have Jacinta. Her mother had sighed with deep and sincere pity, but unfortunately, this was the season when the social calendar was so full. Ay, querida, this too shall pass, you will see, you will see. Have to go now, the Sotomayors are calling. Bye, besos, muah. So Rosabella swallowed her significant discomfort and allowed the magnificent afro headed bronze statue in front of her to proceed and begin to work for the day.
 
At the end of that first day, Rosabella gingerly stood and walked, against the advice of her doctor, to inspect. She was sure La Guadalupe’s work would be slovenly and she could terminate her on the spot. At least, that was her hope. She would rather tell her she was not up to snuff, instead of having to talk about the offending hair. These days the help was so uppity. Refusing to wear uniforms or living in the homes of their employers.
 
But here were no dust motes hiding in corners. The beds were made with precision. Clothes ironed and placed in good order. Indeed, the rooms were impeccable. And then, La Guadalupe had served her dinner. She tasted the dinner, with trepidation. Gandinga. Normally she did not like liver, but the baby apparently had been craving it and she had asked La Guadalupe to make this dish. A dish not even Jacinta could do well. This was the best gandinga she ever tasted.
 
It was Monce’s favorite dish, and she worried this would totally bind this La Guadalupe to his liking. Rosabella’s shoulders sagged. She knew she would find it near impossible to fire this maid. La Guadalupe had played her card well, ¿is that what the Solers had meant, that she was intelligent? She was forced to play her own pawn, that damn afro.
 
“Yes, everything is satisfactory. Here is your payment for today. But please, let me tell you, if you are to proceed to stay with us…,” Rosabella swallowed hard, times were changing, thanks to the idiotic Governor, and now these days even the help was hoity-toity. “tomorrow, when you come, you need to do something with that maraña. That tangle cannot do in this very proper home.”
 
La Guadalupe did not even blink. From her height, which really was considerable, for La Guadalupe stood close to six feet tall, she smiled at Rosabella in a smile that seemed quite petulant.
 
“I am sorry, Señora, but the hair stays or I won’t be back tomorrow.”
 
The affront was so unexpected, that Rosabella did not have a chance to react. No servant of hers, or anyone she has ever met, had ever spoken to their employers with such…, well, for a lack of another word, frankness. These new times, and their changes, were going to be the end of her. It was all the fault of those hippies, and of course the Governor. These new ideas of equality and commonwealth were going to be the end of their peaceful and quite satisfactory small island. The idiotic governor and his moronic followers were unsettling what needed not be stirred.
 
The next day, La Guadalupe was in the house before Rosabella had even awakened, and in fact, was awakened by the delicious smell of brewing coffee, an aroma that always made her feel the island in her bones. La Guadalupe walked into the bedroom armed with a tray she placed by the nightstand table next to her. The statuesque Guadalupe filled her a cup in plain street clothes, no uniform. Tall, clean, and with a cloud of black hair shaped as a round lollipop on her magnificent head.
 
“Here is your coffee, Señora, ¿do you like milk and sugar?”
 
Rosabella nodded, but could not stop looking at the halo of black hair that surrounded La Guadalupe’s face. A delicate face, she noticed, quite pretty, for a woman of her class. She reminded her of one of those black singers she had seen in The Ed Sullivan Show, ¿what was her name?
 
“Here are your eggs and toast. If you want anything else, just let me know. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
 
“You can make yourself breakfast too, Guadalupe, your dishes are in the left cabinet, marked for the service.”
 
La Guadalupe looked at her patrona squarely in the eyes, producing a cup already filled from the same tray she had brought the dishes. One of the porcelain cups from Mama-abuela, and in defiance began to drink from it.
 
“I guess, you did not hear me Guadalupe, that cup you are using is for the family only, servants use plates and cups from the cabinet clearly labeled in the kitchen.”
 
La Guadalupe smiled, finished her cup in a manly gulp, and left the room closing the door with care. Rosabella stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. ¿How was she going to deal with this impossible woman? The baby in her belly gave her a strong kick.
***
In the weeks that followed, Rosabella and La Guadalupe fought an incessant tug-of-war about the dishes, which bathroom she was allowed to use, and the infernal hair. Rosabella gave La Guadalupe a hair net, which she found later in the wastebasket of the master bathroom! The porcelain dishes from Mama-abuela were continually used, she found them washed and rinsed on the drying rack, the bathroom door to the guest bathroom locked during intervals. She was living the life of Santa Rosa de Lima, this was her insufferable passion. These things were so aggravating, making the baby in her womb kick and her incompetent cervix contract continuously.
 
Her mother visited her weekly, but she was no help. On the contrary, always praising La Guadalupe, as if she was some kind of hero. Oh my! This rum cake is better than Lucinda’s. Your house is so perfectly tidy, Bella mi niña, you should be so happy with this girl. So they talked about things she could not talk about with Monce. At least her mother was also obsessing about the damn war; the disgusting hippies on television, the idiotic governor, the horrors of the American television programs. Like The Ed Sullivan Show! Always showing blacks in his program. Once, she saw Mr. Sullivan kiss a black woman entertainer. Monce thought nothing of it. He liked the show, so she had to sit and watch with him. The world was changing, and they were witnessing the crumbling of the aristocracy.
 
And it was not only the television. Just last week, her mother called her on the phone crying. Telling her that Carlos, her own cousin, was powerless to use his last name to stay out of that blasted war. He too had been drafted. ¿Can you imagine? Drafted just like a common man. Not even offered a ranking.
 
Rosabella felt that no one was listening to her in this time of need. Not even Monce, who was still working, going on for ten or more years, on the case of those horrific revolutionaries who had bombed Congress. And doing those infuriating pro-bono cases for the women who had been sterilized without their knowledge. He was so distant now, so preoccupied with his work. She hated pro-bono work. Monce, por favor, at least just work on the cases that pay. He had smiled at her but left her in the bedroom going to his home office instead.
 
She felt abandoned and alone with this sirvienta, who was the best cook, but also an insolent and confrontational monster that was making her suffer. Every day now she suffered from more tachycardia, migraines, and contractions than ever before, and these were real, not just to get a little attention. Maybe God was punishing her for using those conditions before as an excuse to keep Monce and her Mother by her side.  
 
The Solers were not answering her calls, they were probably in Spain. It was that time of year. It would have been her first trip to Spain with her Monce, but then the pregnancy happened and all that dream evaporated. Rosabella was also resenting Monce’s favor for La Guadalupe. He was loving La Guadalupe’s cooking so much, he reminded her every day, “That one is a jewel, make sure you keep her, we can’t let this one go.” Rosabella wanted to hold a frying pan over his lovely head when he said that, especially when he had that wink at the end of his sentence, and patted his stomach, that indeed looked like he had gained some weight from all the lovely cooking. That made her angrier even for all the charm he was putting in his words.
 
The sharp pang of pain was as sudden as the evaporation of the midday dream she was having in the many siestas that now seem to consume her days. The baby was coming. The doctor had said to still stay in bed, but the big danger was past. She reached for Monce; of course he was at work. No, not at work in his office. With dread she remembered he had flown to Washington the day before yesterday. Mother and Father were out of town too. They had joined the Soler’s trip to Spain. Don’t worry, dear, you will be just fine, we will be back in time for this little one’s birth.
 
¡Nooooo!
 
The pain was coming every ten minutes and as she stood to fetch her phone off her vanity table her water broke right on the brand new Moroccan carpet, a gift from the Solers for the wedding.
 
She sat with her legs pressed tightly and between contractions screamed.
 
“¡Guadalupe!”
 
The maid with the bouncing afro raced to her side, stepping right over the wet rug.
 
“¿How far apart are the contractions, Señora?”
 
“No sé, ¿maybe ten minutes apart? Call doctor Gustavo, he will come right by.”
 
La Guadalupe looked at her as if she had said monkeys live in the sea.
 
“Mire, Señora, I will take you to the hospital myself. No need to worry.”
 
“In what, ¿a taxi?” Rosabella felt a terror as another contraction crawled all the way up her spine.
 
“I’ll bring my car to the front of the house, don’t move.”
 
As Rosabella gripped the back sit of her vanity stool, she was astounded that a maid could own a car. Good God, in heaven, let it be something that won’t fall apart.
 
Guadalupe was back quite fast, she must park in our garage, and helped her off her settee. Gingerly, Guadalupe placed her left arm under Rosabella’s back helping her with each step, and had the presence of mind to grab the hospital bag she had helped her packed weeks before, you can never be too ready. Rosabella’s face was resting on a patch of fluffy afro as Guadalupe helped her into an orange Volkswagen that was still running, the passenger door open. ¿How can she afford this car?
 
After Moncito was born, Rosabella found she needed La Guadalupe more than ever. Those first nights, Monce moved to the guestroom so he could have a good night’s sleep, and she was left with the care of Moncito all by herself. This was too laborious a task for someone of her delicate constitution. Rosabella asked Monce for a night nurse and he solidly refused the request, “Bella, Guadalupe, can take care of Moncito while she is here during the day, and you can then rest all day if you want to.”
 
Rosabella fell into a deep sadness she could not shake. Moncito, darling Moncito, with his perfectly fine little nose and blond-red curls was a monster, wanting to be fed every few hours. Rosabella’s face was puffy with dark circles under her eyes, she felt so ugly. Her breast were finally without milk, and their shape was coming back, but all those bottles during the night would be the end of her. She needed that nurse at night, she would have to pay her from her own dowry, if she must. She decided that La Guadalupe needed to stay with her full time. Afterall, it made sense, Moncito already was familiar with La Guadalupe.
 
During lunch, she put Moncito on the beautiful Moises that Doña Claudia had made them, and asked La Guadalupe to sit on the balcony with her, not to share the meal, of course not, but to stand with her as she sat and ate the delicious crab pastelillo. La Guadalupe stood next to her, frozen as a statue.
 
Rosabella stated her request in a very civilized voice, modulating it so there was no hint of desperation. She celebrated Guadalupe’s virtues as a maid and did not mention the insufferable hair, not all the peccadillos of impertinence. She instead exalted the extremely capable maid. And after much discourse, without begging, of course, La Guadalupe answered a simple, “No.”
 
“¿Pero por qué no?” Rosabella was astounded.
 
“Lo siento mucho, Señora.” La Guadalupe answered in an unaffected voice, “but nights are my own and I am not giving them up.”
 
That night Rosabella did not sleep, and not only because Moncito demanded five feedings. There was this horrible certainty of why La Guadalupe did not want to work nights. Rosabella was certain that La Guadalupe was one of those women. ¡Good Father in heaven, that is how she could afford a car of her own! She had let a woman like that in her home! That Guadalupe had even eaten food, and had drunk, from the porcelain dishes of Mama-abuela. She needed to voice her concern with Monce. And the Solers would hear a good talking to when they came back from Spain. ¡What betrayal!
 
Early that morning, before Monce left for the Roosevelt Inn Restaurant, where he took his breakfast with all the members of the cabinet that were working on that horrendous case of the disgusting revolutionaries, she went to the guestroom to talk to him.
 
“Monce, mi amor. I think I have discovered something horrible about La Guadalupe.”
 
Monce was tying his tie and looked at this wife in the mirror, “Mi Bella, you are not trying to find a way to fire the best maid we ever had,” he said this smiling at her in that mirror, a wedding gift from the previous governor. Rosabella withheld the vision of the frying pan over Monce’s head. She took a deep cleansing breath, put her face in her hands, and began to cry.
 
“Yes! she might be wonderful to you!” her voice was not the modulated voice she liked to hear herself use, but her nerves were shattered. “but as much as you might think SHE is, there is something horrible, lurid behind that Guadalupe, and not just the hair.”
 
Monce sat on the bed and coaxed his wife to sit beside him.
 
“There, mi amor, tell me what is bothering you.”
 
Rosabella felt like she used to when she was little, and her father consoled her. Father had this wonderful, if a bit supercilious, way to soothe her. Monce did the same now, and she felt better but also annoyed with his patronizing voice. Still, it was nice to have someone that cared for her feelings.
 
“I think La Guadalupe is a woman of the night.” Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.
 
“¿Por qué you think that my love?”
 
“I asked her to work full days and nights with us and she refused! ¿And do you know she even owns her own car? I even offered giving her minimum wage like they do in the pharmaceuticals, and this very room for her to stay, so you could move in with me in our bedroom. But no! She said her nights were her own. What else do you think that could mean? It has to be something improper. Imagine the horror to find this out, she has cradled our Moncito in those hands!” Again, she covered her face with her hands and felt as the bed bounced slightly up as Monce stood. He let out sigh that made Rosabella feel so incompetent, just like her cervix.
 
“Amor, it is time for you to face that times have changed,” Monce was standing in front of her, and she did not like, or understand, the look in his eyes.
 
“Bella, Guadalupe, is studying. She goes to school in that new community college in Turabo. They have a night program for nurses.”
 
Rosabella’s head snapped. She looked at her husband and saw a stranger. How had she not noticed the changes in him. He no longer wore a fedora, true, but the hair at the back of his neck was touching his shirt. And those sideburns! Those hideous fuzzy caterpillars obscuring his features, ¿when did he let them grow? ¿Could he possibly have been listening to the idiotic governor’s ideas? ¡No! She refused to accept that; she could hear Moncito crying in his Moises in the living room. Then she heard Guadalupe’s voice soothing him with that sing-song voice of hers.
 
“Calabó y bambú. Bambú y calambó. El Gran Cocoroco dice: tu-cu-tú. La Gran Cocoroca dice: to-co-tó.”
 
Where had she heard those words before? It was in ‘El Show de las 12’, yes, that was it. That terrible television show from the island, not one from the States, that showcased the music, humor, talent of the common people of the island. Yes, those words were the horrible lyrics by that poet, ¿what was his name? Oh, sí, Palés Matos. That is how they get you, her Monce, the village, the island. ¡Clever! The idiotic governor and his mouthpiece, the television shows, putting the world’s axis on its ear. First, the pharmaceuticals, then the miniskirts, now the afros. Behind Monce, in the mirror, she saw La Guadalupe, no, Guadalupe, cross the hallway with Moncito in her arms, still repeating part of that poem, “cru-cru-cru.” Her afro a wide umbrella floating over the curls of her infant son, and she wondered if Moncito felt that cloud as a soft comfort on his face, just like she did that night. ¿Guadalupe, studying to be a nurse?
 
She looked at her Monce again, and he was quietly smiling at her, she could not read his thoughts, but she could see, she was standing on a plane different from his, there was a door and a threshold she needed to cross. The displacement took her by surprise. Like suddenly standing and feeling faint, but at the same time there was familiarity in it too. It was as if all along she had known this was coming. During her pregnancy, all the signs had been there. From the news on the TV, to her dear Monce’s refusal to stop doing pro-bono, and the streets with more cars than people of high breed. She had not been willing to see them. She was being left behind, like a maid with a higher education than herself.
 
Maybe, just maybe, she could get used to Monce’s new hairdo. His sideburns were not as bad as she had first been shocked to see there as he soothed his casual blazer on his shoulders, she stared at her husband and noticed that the sideburns looked good on him after all.

Born in Mexico and raised in Puerto Rico, Amelia Díaz Ettinger has written poems that reflect the struggle with identity often found in immigrants. She began writing poetry at age three, dictating poems out loud to the adults in her life who wrote them down for her. Amelia continued writing poems and short stories throughout her life, while working as a high school science teacher. In 2015, her first book of poetry, Speaking at a Time, was published by Redbat books. A second book of poetry, Learning to Love a Western Sky, published by Airlie Press 2020, and poetry chapbook, Fossils on a Red Flag, will be published by Finishing Line Press in 2021. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies. Presently, she and her partner reside in Summerville, Oregon with two dogs, two cats, and too many chickens.