I spent hours driving around the city looking to familiarize myself with my new hometown. The city is inviting, nestled on the Pacific in a place where the sun shines nearly three hundred days a year. I drove past the airport, which sits mere yards from the bay. There’s even an outdoor escalator that thrusts you right into the warm San Diego sun. You get sucked into this city mostly because you have nowhere left to go, but I’d learned that that’s what the California dream can come to. That’s how I felt now, holed up in a desperate little room. This was not my California dream.
I didn’t have any money coming in since I walked out, or rather ran out, of my job after the first three hours. I was going to have to sell some of that shit I brought down. Maybe apply at one of those Indian casinos all over the hills to the north that I kept hearing about. All the concerts seemed to be held in one of the dozen or so out there. It might be nice to head into the mountains for a bit.
I ended up in San Diego because a cousin of mine suggested it might be the place to lay low for a while. I came by way of the big town, L.A., but that’s not where my journey began. Sitting there in the dark, I had a lot of time to think about how I’d gotten to that point. I worked my way down the 5 from Fresno where I’d grown up. My parents were migrant workers from Central America. They moved north when I was three years old and never left. I grew up in a series of plywood shacks in various fields during the picking season and we’d rent a one-bedroom apartment in Fresno the rest of the year. I never saw my parents go to bed on anything but sleeper sofas or futons, whichever was available or cheapest at the local thrift shops. My parents could outfit a home for around $250 but it seemed like they could only afford $200 of it. They were always trying to make ends meet.
I remember the tourist kids coming through town in the summer asking what we did in Fresno for fun. I could never think of anything to tell them. All I ever wanted was to get the fuck out and never look back. There isn’t shit to do in Fresno once you turn eighteen. Jobs are scarce. I sold some weed to make money in high school. Nothing big, I’d buy an ounce and split it, the occasional quarter-pound if I could get it cheap, but never more than that. I basically sold weed so I could smoke weed. I had to stay off the police radar since my parents were never able to apply for green cards, but mostly I kept out of trouble.
I had to make a living so I did about the only thing you could do in Fresno: wait tables. I started at the Denny’s working latenight shifts and worked my way up to the local Applebee’s. After a few years of busting my hump in the restaurant business, I decided to make my move to L.A. I had a universal skill and enough of a resume to be able to get a waiting job almost anywhere. And let’s face it. It wasn’t like I was going to try to get a job in the movie business. I’m not a handsome man. If you were to ask people who I looked like, they wouldn’t name anyone famous. In my community they might call me pura cara de indio, or “full-on Indian face.” It’s not a compliment.
So before I left town, I stopped by my weed man, picked up a quarter-pound, just in case I had trouble finding a hook-up in L.A. or needed to sell some for quick cash until I got work. I went by my Tío José’s place to say goodbye. My uncle didn’t think it was such a great idea to drive 230 miles with four ounces of marijuana, but I told him, “It’s only weed, Tío. You get like a hundred-dollar ticket for selling an ounce or less, and you know me. I don’t break the law.” I waved goodbye and jumped in my beat-up, skunky-smelling Ford Taurus and headed south.
My uncle knew what I meant. I always drove the speed limit and my lights always worked. My car was always registered. I couldn’t afford to get pulled over since I couldn’t get a driver’s license. I couldn’t afford to get busted and sent back across the border. That would kill my chances of getting my immigration papers in order. You get caught without papers and your name goes on a list and you can never apply for legal residency, and that was what drove me. I had to get legal. My father was on such a list. He got caught in an immigration round-up in the ’70s, leaving us alone until he was able to sneak back into the country. He eventually died here but was never allowed the opportunity to immigrate legally.
My first job was a diner on Third Street near the La Brea Tar Pits. A stepping stone until things started to look up. It didn’t happen right away. I toiled there for a couple of years before I saw any daylight. Not until the mid-’90s when casinos started going up in L.A. One of my fellow waiters told me about a job at the latest casino opening next door to the racetrack in Inglewood. I was lucky and I got in on the ground floor, working in their fine dining room.
I loved the hectic pace of the casino. I took some classes and learned how to deal cards and soon moved from the dining room to the casino floor. I worked the Pai Gow and black-jack tables dealing cards to old Asian women with too many diamonds on their hands and gray-skinned locals. I discovered I liked the gambling environment so I got a second job at the racetrack. I found myself dealing cards at night and during the day punching tickets for the most miserable bunch of optimists you ever saw. There were guys I’d see every day the track was open and there were people I’d see both at the casino and at the track. Where did they get the money to gamble full-time?
I ask because after too many years of dealing cards and keeping up with the ponies and not doing shit about my illegal status, I was mired in a financial shitstorm. This casino, unlike most gaming establishments, allowed its employees to play the tables as long as we weren’t in uniform. Some days I’d blow $200 at the track and another $200 at the card tables at night. Oh, I’d win a few, but the odds are always in the house’s favor. Soon, due to fiscal pressures brought upon by my creditors and unsound investments, I found I owed over forty large to various parties, none of whom I could afford to pay or continue to owe. I owed Eddie P. the biggest part of the nut, $25,000. I borrowed from him to pay Lazy Louis some of the $20,000 I owed him and another guy who I owed over $10,000. I’d been juggling for a while but it finally caught up with me. Living off credit is one thing, but owing these guys was another. Banks garnished your wages. Guys like Eddie P. and Louis took body parts for payments and killed you if you didn’t fulfill your obligation.
That’s when I finally listened to my cousin’s pitch about San Diego. I’d never paid him much mind before. The last thing someone without a green card wants to do is drive south, but I had few options in L.A. I left my two jobs suddenly and without much notice. The world I inhabited there was small and my creditors were everywhere. I had to get out fast. So when my cousin said, “Hey, we have a racetrack here. I bet you could get a job,” I told him see you in three or four hours. I picked up my two paychecks, snuck out the back door, visited my weed man, and didn’t stop until I got to San Diego—not the “real” San Diego but the barrio my cousin lived in.
Getting a job at the track was easy. The racing season in Del Mar is a big affair. People come in from out of town and businesses thrive. The hotels are packed and the restaurants and bars are full of revelers. Ask any local waiter or waitress about working opening day and you’ll hear horror stories. To me they were hilarious, tales of inebriated men and women coming in for dinner after a day of partying at the track. Some arrive already too wasted to place their next drink order. It’s not unusual to see a breast fall out over dinner, and there always seems to be some girl in a miniskirt splayed ass-over-tea kettle on the walkway. The thong has made this particular vigil worth waiting for. Occasionally there is no panty to speak of.
Del Mar, like all other tracks across the country, is open all year. The regulars don’t have a racing season. They come in year round betting on races as far away as Belmont in New York or Pompano Beach, Florida. There’s always a track racing. Regardless of this, opening day is opening day. And the people turn up. Women in hats and parasols showing off new clothes purchased strictly for this day, wearing sunglasses too big for their faces. Companies host parties in private booths where men in sunglasses drink too much and wear vulgarly logoed designer wear. The train pulls into t
he station half a mile away and unloads cars full of already-drunk partygoers. In Los Angeles it’s burnouts, and only on major race days does anyone dress up or host a party in private booths. Not in San Diego. They hang celebratory bunting. You’d think it was the World Series for six weeks.
I took my place behind the ticket machine on opening day, excited about the possibilities. I was in my element and it was a glorious day in North San Diego County. My slate was clean and the first thing I was going to do when I saved a bit was see about my immigration papers.
I was feeling optimistic. The weight of worry that had followed me from L.A. was beginning to disappear. I sat at my station and began to make plans to contact an immigration lawyer, but the crush of people soon had me working too hard to follow that tract. I had no idea the number of people who came in from L.A. every single day, but I learned quickly enough. I’d been at my window for three hours when I took my first break between the third and fourth races. I ran to the bathroom. They are large at the Del Mar track and this one was mobbed. I stood in line waiting for a urinal to open up, all the time staring at my watch. It’s a sin to be back late from a break. We were all on tight schedules and you don’t play around on opening day. The stall next to me opened up and I ran to the door. The guy coming out tripped on my foot. I looked up at him and mumbled an apology and shut the door quickly. I was in a hurry but something in my brain made me turn and look. The guy was washing his hands and he glanced back as I was staring at him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror.
I now know what people mean when they talk about their blood freezing. I started to piss on my shoes I was so shaken. I hoped to God he wasn’t still looking and I whipped around so he wouldn’t see my face.
Of all people.
Eddie P.
The guy I owed twenty-five grand and to whom I had sworn upon my mother’s grave that I was good for it.
I wasn’t sure he saw me clearly but he seemed to have some sense of recognition. I tried to stay cool and keep my eye on him. As soon as he left, I exited through the opposite door. I ran into the employee room, opened my locker, and grabbed my keys. I ran to my car, jumped on the 5, and headed south to safety.
I’d never been a tough guy. I’d never needed to be. Life had been pretty easy so far. How had I allowed myself to get into this spot? My heart raced all the way home and a couple of hours beyond. I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t think of what to do. I now had no job, which was better than the alternative. I’d become too accustomed to my skin to want to lose that. I figured I only had enough money to last a month. I went out for dinner after I calmed down a bit but still couldn’t relax. I was hoping to get lost among the mass of people but unfortunately San Diego’s population isn’t that dense. I walked down Ash and all I could see was my shadow bouncing around as the streetlights illuminated me and only me. I headed south to a more crowded section of town but thought better of it. I was sure some of the track people would end up down in the Gaslamp to continue their party. I grabbed a couple of tacos off a roach coach and hurried back to my room.
I could barely eat the small tacos. My stomach was convulsing. My walk had made me feel exposed and I’d begun to shake again. I didn’t deserve this. I wasn’t a bad sort. Hell, I was an altar boy. Got a perfect-attendance award when I was twelve, a heavily lacquered portrait of Jesus with the index finger of his right hand pointing up. My mother said I succumbed to my baser instincts, the first time, when she discovered a Playboy under my mattress. It became a litany whenever she flushed a bag of weed she’d found in my pockets when doing laundry. I always thought she looked through my pockets hoping to find something incriminating, and she was almost effusive when she did, but I knew it broke her heart every time. It didn’t help when I said, “Shit, Ma, it’s only weed.” No Latino mother wants her kid to be a marijuano. I was glad she wasn’t around to see me like this. I’d never felt more like a punk.
After a week holed up in my room, I was going batty. I had to man up, and besides, I needed supplies. I put on some shades and a Padres baseball cap and went for a walk. I ended up on E Street walking past the library, glad to be breathing the air and out of my room. I was worried about my weed stash. It was stinking my room up so bad you could smell it as you walked by the door. I had to get rid of it and get some money.
E Street is full of small businesses—barbershops, cheap women’s boutiques, and hair supply places—and they were all just opening up for the day. I glanced into the window of one. There’s something soothing about the old-fashioned barber shop. It’s a place where guys go to shoot the shit. You never see women in there. I looked past my reflection to the barber chair. Sitting there, getting himself a nice trim and staring back at me, was Pablito. Some called him Diablito.
Eddie P.’s left hand.
The hand that did all the dirty work.
Fuck!
I turned as calmly as I could, then I ran back to the library. By the time I got into the back stacks I’d half convinced myself I was hallucinating. Paranoia was starting to take over.
I walked slowly through the stacks, trying to relax. I didn’t really know how to behave in a library. I didn’t have a library card and had never been much of a reader. After a few minutes of aimless wandering, my heart had started to slow down again. I figured it was safe to leave, but as I got to the door I saw him, cell phone in hand. This time I knew I wasn’t imagining it.
I ran out a side door, through the parking lot of my motel, and up the stairs to my room, pulling out my keys so I would be exposed as little as possible. I was deciding whether to head to Vegas or Arizona. I grabbed my bag from the closet and filled it with my clothes. Luckily, I hadn’t had any time to shop so everything fit. I went back to the closet for my weed tin which still had three ounces and the rest of my money. I’ve never had a bank account. No papers, no driver’s license, no social, no bank account, so I always carried my fortune with me. I put the weed in the trunk and my money in my pocket.
I drove up the 8 into the mountains, where I figured I could hide off some side road for a while, at least while I split up my weed and formulated a plan. I saw a sign for a casino a few miles ahead and the light went on in my brain. Where there’s gambling there’s alcohol, drugs, and whores. The casino supplied the gambling and the booze but the whores and drug salesmen were independent contractors. I’d see if I could perform a service and unload some of this shit in the casino.
It felt good to have the beginnings of a plan. It gave me hope that I could get out of this mess I’d made. Maybe I could parlay the weed money into something in the casino and begin to pay Eddie part of the twenty-five large I owed him. That would take a load off my mind. I wasn’t made for living like this. Maybe I could talk to Eddie and Louie and enslave myself to them until my debts got paid. Man, I’d do anything to get those monkeys off my back. There was no way I could live another day looking around every corner. I turned the radio up and punched it. I was suddenly feeling as good as I’d felt in a few years. I was going to pay Louie and Eddie P. I was going to get that lawyer and fix my papers so I could get a driver’s license, a checking account, and real credit cards. I was going to make my mother proud.
As I got further east, traffic started to slow. Damn, there was always construction on these highways. You can’t get anywhere in a hurry anymore. Pretty soon the traffic stopped and I could see that a lane closed ahead. Holy crap, you never know how many cars are on the road until you see a jam like this. Maybe there was an accident. I leaned out of my window and stared back at an endless stream of traffic heading up the hill behind me, then I turned forward and saw border patrol trucks.
Fuck.
Nowhere to go.
I took three deep breaths and crept along, reassuring myself about everything. They won’t ask to look at my papers. I can pass for a citizen, I’m just going to the casino. It’s all good. As I got closer, however, I saw the sign. Working Dogs.Shit, this was bad. I’d double-wrapped the weed. Maybe
the dogs wouldn’t smell it. I moved closer to the front of the line. I could feel myself shaking. I had to calm down before I gave myself away. As I got to the front, the damn dog started jumping up and down right next to my car. It was going crazy. The fed handling the animal brought it around the car and it kept leaping.
The guy leaned in and asked, “Sir, are you a U.S. citizen? ”
I said, “Yes.” Called his bluff.
“Sir, could you move your car to the side of the road, over there next to that ramp, please.” It wasn’t a question.
I glanced around. There was nowhere to go. I wasn’t meant for running.
“Please step out of the car, sir.”
I got out. What else could I do?
“I’m going to pat you down now.”
They were going to find it. They were going to find everything. I’d blown it. The dog was all over the car and I saw the fed pull the package out of the trunk.
“Sir, I’m going to read you your rights. Anything you say can …”
His words simply faded away. I couldn’t hear anything. Fear fell through me like a lead weight. It was over. At some point in the future I might be able to sneak back into the U.S., but I’d never have that golden ticket, that green card I’d wanted my entire life, and I was probably going to jail before being deported.
“Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
I just nodded and looked back down the road.
There was nothing to see.
LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A COMIC BOOK
BY GAR ANTHONY HAYWOOD
Convention Center
Everyone who’s ever seen the pages knows there’s something special about them. They can see it right away. Not because the pencil work itself is exceptional, because it isn’t, nor is there anything worth shouting about in the writing or the story or the substandard superheroes depicted in the panels.
San Diego Noir Page 21