My parents take Gloria to the hospital. I look out into the early morning dark as the car speeds off. A call later informs us Gloria had ruptured her appendix and the poison had begun to invade her body. The doctors say if she were brought in only minutes later, she’d be dead.
Mama gazed out of the back porch window to the garage room where I spent days holed up as if in a prison of my own making.
She worried about me, although not really knowing what I was up to; to protect herself from being hurt, she stayed uninvolved. Yet almost daily she offered quips and comments about me not attending school.
Mama called on the former principal of my elementary school in South San Gabriel to talk to me. This was the same school where Mrs. Snelling performed seeming miracles for my brother. While Joe amounted to something, to Mama I turned out to be a smudge on this earth, with no goals, no interests except what got puked up from the streets.
Bespectacled and bow-tied, Mr. Rothro wore unpressed suits which hung on his tall, lean frame. Mama knocked and I invited them in. Mr. Rothro ducked under the doorway and looked around, amazed at the magnificent disorder, the colors and scrawl on every wall, the fantastic use of the imagination for such a small room. Mama left and Mr. Rothro, unable to find a place to sit, stood around and provided an encouragement of words. Some very fine words.
“Luis, you’ve always struck me as an intelligent young man,” Mr. Rothro said. “But your mother tells me you’re wasting away your days. I’d like to see you back in school. If there’s anything I can do—write a letter, make a phone call—perhaps you can return at a level worthy of your gifts.”
I sat on a bed in front of an old Underwood typewriter with keys that repeatedly got stuck and a carbon ribbon that kept jumping off its latch. My father gave me the typewriter after I found it among boxes, books and personal items in the garage.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Rothro inquired.
“I’m writing a book,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“You’re what? May I see?”
I let him glimpse at the leaf of paper in the typewriter with barely visible type, full of x’s where I crossed out errors as I worked. I didn’t know how to type; I just punched the letters I needed with my index fingers. It took me forever to finish a page, but I kept at it in between my other activities. By then I actually had a quarter of a ream done.
“What’s the book about, son?” Rothro asked.
“Just things … what I’ve seen, what I feel, about the people around me. You know—things.”
“Interesting,” Rothro said. “In fact, I believe you’re probably doing better than most teenagers—even better, I’m afraid, than some who are going to school.”
He smiled, said he had to go but if I needed his help, not to hesitate to call.
I acknowledged his goodby and watched him leave the room and walk up to the house, shaking his head. He wasn’t the first to wonder about this enigma of a boy, who looked like he could choke the life out of you one minute and then recite a poem in another. Prior to this, I tried to attend Continuation High School in Alhambra—later renamed Century High to remove the stigma of being the school for those who couldn’t make it anywhere else. After the first day, they “let” me go. A few of us in Lomas fought outside with some dudes from 18th Street who were recruiting a section of their huge gang in the Alhambra area. But Continuation High School was the last stop. When you failed at Continuation, the only place left was the road.
Then my father came up with a plan; when he proposed it, I knew it arose out of frustration.
It consisted of me getting up every day at 4:30 a.m. and going with him to his job at Pierce Junior College in the San Fernando Valley—almost 40 miles away on the other side of Los Angeles. He would enroll me in Taft High School near the college. The school pulled in well-off white kids, a good number of whom were Jewish. My father felt they had the best education.
I didn’t really care so I said sure, why not?
Thus we began our daily trek to a familiar and hostile place—the college was located near Reseda where the family once lived for almost a year. The risk for my father involved me finding out what he really did for a living. Dad told us he worked as a laboratory technician, how a special category had been created at Pierce College for him.
My father worked in the biology labs and maintained the science department’s museum and weather station. But to me, he was an overblown janitor. Dad cleaned the cages of snakes, tarantulas, lizards and other animals used in the labs. He swept floors and wiped study tables; dusted and mopped the museum area. Dad managed some technical duties such as gathering the weather station reports, preparing work materials for students, and feeding and providing for the animals. Dad felt proud of his job—but he was only a janitor.
I don’t know why this affected me. There’s nothing wrong with being a janitor—and one as prestigious as my dad! But for years, I had this running fantasy of my scientist father in a laboratory carrying out vital experiments—the imagination of a paltry kid who wanted so much to break away from the constraints of a society which expected my father to be a janitor or a laborer—when I wanted a father who transformed the world. I had watched too much TV.
One day I walked into the college’s science department after school.
“Mr. Rodríguez, you have to be more careful with the placement of laboratory equipment,” trembled a professor’s stern voice.
“I unnerstan’ … Sarry … I unnerstan’,” Dad replied.
“I don’t think you do, this is the second time in a month this equipment has not been placed properly.”
I glanced over so as not to be seen. My dad looked like a lowly peasant, a man with a hat in his hand—apologetic. At home he was king, el jefito—the “word.” But here my father turned into somebody else’s push-around. Dad should have been equals with anyone, but with such bad English …
Oh my father, why don’t you stand up to them? Why don’t you be the man you are at home?
I turned away and kept on walking.
The opportunity for me to learn something new became an incentive for attending Taft High School. At Keppel and Continuation, I mainly had industrial arts classes. So I applied for classes which stirred a little curiosity: photography, advanced art, and literature. The first day of school, a Taft High School counselor called me into her office.
“I’m sorry, young man, but the classes you chose are filled up,” she said.
“What do you mean? Isn’t there any way I can get into any of them?”
“I don’t believe so. Besides, your transcripts show you’re not academically prepared for your choices. These classes are privileges, for those who have maintained the proper grades in the required courses. And I must add, you’ve obtained most of what credits you do have in industrial-related courses.”
“I had to—that’s all they’d give me,” I said. “I just thought, maybe, I can do something else here. It seems like a good school and I want a chance to do something other than with my hands.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she replied. “I think you’ll find our industrial arts subjects more suited to your needs.”
I shifted in my seat and looked out the window.
“Whatever.”
The classes she enrolled me in were print shop, auto shop and weight training. I did manage a basic English literature class. I walked past the photography sessions and stopped to glimpse the students going in and out, some with nice cameras, and I thought about how I couldn’t afford those cameras anyway: Who needs that stupid class?
In print shop I worked the lead foundry for the mechanical Linotype typesetter. I received scars on my arms due to splashes of molten lead. In auto shop, I did a lot of tune-ups, oil changes and some transmission work. And I lifted weights and started to bulk up. The one value I had was being the only Mexican in school—people talked about it whenever I approached.
One day at lunch time, I passed a number of hefty dudes in lettered jack
ets. One of them said something. Maybe it had nothing to do with me. But I pounced on him anyway. Several teachers had to pull me off.
They designated me as violent and uncontrollable; they didn’t know “what to do with me.”
After school, I walked to Pierce College and waited for Dad to finish his work so we could go home, which usually went past dark. I spent many evenings in the library. But I found most books boring and unstimulating.
I picked up research and history books and went directly to the index and looked up “Mexican.” If there were a few items under this topic, I read them; I read them all.
Every day I browsed, ventured into various sections of shelves; most of this struck me with little interest. One evening, I came across a crop of new books on a special shelf near the front of the library. I picked one up, then two. The librarian looked at me through the side of her eye, as if she kept tabs on whoever perused those books.
They were primarily about the black experience, works coming out of the flames which engulfed many American cities in the 1960s. I discovered Claude Brown’s Manchild In The Promised Land, Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul On Ice, and the Autobiography of Malcolm X. I found poetry by Don L. Lee and LeRoi Jones (now known as Haki R. Madhubuti and Amiri Baraka, respectively). And later a few books by Puerto Ricans and Chicanos: Victor Hernández Cruz’s Snaps and Ricardo Sánchez’s Canto Y Grito: Mi Liberación were two of them. Here were books with a connection to me.
And then there was Piri Thomas, a Puerto Rican brother, un camarada de aquellas: His book Down These Mean Streets became a living Bible for me. I dog-eared it, wrote in it, copied whole passages so I wouldn’t forget their texture, the passion, this searing work of a street dude and hype in Spanish Harlem—a barrio boy like me, on the other side of America.
I didn’t last long at Taft High School. My only real friend was Edwin, a black dude who lived at the Pacific Boys Home. During lunch hour, we “worked” the neighborhood: breaking into the nearby fancy houses. Edwin eventually got popped stealing a car and ended up in youth camp.
There were a few Jewish lowriders I talked with in auto shop. We shared ideas about hydraulic lifts and pinstripe body designs. They even sported cholo-style clothes, slicked their hair back, and learned a few street songs and dances. But nobody else dealt with me.
One day I came in slightly late to my English Lit class and sat down; I placed a book on top of the desk. The teacher walked up to me and picked up the book.
“American Me by Beatrice Griffith,” he said. “Where did you get this book?”
“It’s a library book—it’s about the pachuco experience in the 1940s.”
“Sounds good, but the book you were to bring here today was Wordsworth’s Preludes. That is your assignment, not American Me.”
“This book is something I’d like to read. I can even do a report on it.”
“Young man, you don’t decide your assignments in this class. If you can’t participate like the rest of us, I suggest you leave.”
“Fine—who gives a fuck what I want!”
I stormed out of there. Needless to say, this was my last day in the English Lit class.
But the teachers’ strike of 1970 was the real reason I stopped going to Taft. The strike lasted a couple of months. But when the teachers settled with the Los Angeles School Board, I stayed out; I felt the school district hadn’t settled with me yet.
I ended up back in the streets. Somehow, though, it wasn’t the same as before. A power pulsed in those books I learned to savor, in the magical hours I spent in the library—and it called me back to them.
Sometimes I roamed the street with nothing to do and ended up in a library. Later on my own I picked up Wordsworth, Poe, Emerson and Whitman. Chicharrón and the others noticed the difference. Chicharrón even called me the “businessman” because whenever he’d ask me about the books I carried, I would say: “Just taking care of business.”
I also learned not to be angry with my father. I learned something about my father’s love, which he never expressed in words, but instead, at great risk, he gave me the world of books—a gift for a lifetime.
I lay, sprawled on the bed. Jazz sounds emanated from a stereo player, saxes everywhere. Loud knocking picked up the beat. They were Chicharrón’s knocks; I could tell.
“Get in here,” I yelled, bothered for being bothered.
“What’s up homes?” Chicharrón greeted. Somebody walked in behind him, some lambe, who tripped on the threshold.
“Who’s the shadow?” I asked.
“This is Arnie,” Chicharrón said. “Arnie, meet Chin.”
Arnie stuck his hand out. I ignored it. I gave Chicharrón a look like “what gives here?” Chicharrón grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
“Arnie? What kind of name is that?”
“It stands for Arnulfo.”
“Qué jodida—that’s even worse.”
I grabbed a bottle of Silver Satin wine and offered it to Arnie.
“Take a trago, man.”
“What … what’s a … I don’t understand.”
“What’s the matter, don’t you know anything?”
“I don’t speak Spanish.”
“It’s mostly English, poop butt,” I responded, then looked hard at Chicharrón. “Man, where did you find this dude?”
I handed Arnie the bottle. He took a swig, swallowed it as if it were a ball in his throat, then just about fell down on the floor.
“Whew, is that strong!” Arnie finally said through a shriveled face.
“Yea, it packs a punch.”
“Hey homes,” Chicharrón clipped in. “How about getting some refín?”
“You’re all the time eating.”
“I know and so what—let’s make our squints.”
I left the sounds on the stereo, and together we walked into the night. We made it to a big boulevard in Rosemead. Faces, gestures, street signs came and went. We infiltrated a packed sidewalk, winding through Christmas shoppers, above us multicolored lights, in front of us a mall resounding in chorales. Suddenly neon, on top of a stuffed restaurant.
“This looks like the place,” Chicharrón suggested.
We made our entrance. Waiters and busboys were dressed up in white shirts, black vests and bow ties; the counter girls were in pleated, plaid skirts with ribbons on their hair. Arnie looked uncomfortable, but I got the feeling he always did.
A hostess approached and offered us a table.
“Hey, we must rate around here,” Chicharrón said.
“Yeah, we rate all right,” I said. “They’d like us to get through as fast as possible so we can get the hell out.”
At our table, surrounded by family-type folk, I ordered the largest cheeseburger with fries and the biggest tastiest milk shake on the menu. Chicharrón, not to be outdone, asked for a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, with all the trims, and a super-duper banana split. Arnie looked amazed at us, and ordered a tuna sandwich.
“Hey Arnie—homeboy,” I responded with a furrowed brow. “You don’t go to a fancy place like this and order a tuna sandwich. Go for the works, ése!”
Conceding, Arnie added a pie a la mode. I nodded approval. Once the food came, we got down to some heavy-duty chowing.
We rushed through the orders, then the time came to consider the bill. I looked at it, then moved my eyes toward Arnie.
Arnie looked at me, smiled, but—catching on—changed into a frown.
“Now, don’t look at me,” he said. “I, I didn’t bring any money.”
Not the right response.
“No money, what’s with you man?” Chicharrón scolded.
“I thought you guys were inviting me. How was I supposed to know …”
“Forget it, dude,” I said, already planning the next move. “Listen, it’s no problem. We’ll just take the long walk to the exit—and then run like your mother made you.”
“What are you saying? Just walk out and not pay?” Arnie asked.
�
��Shhhh! You want to make an announcement or what?” I said. “Listen, I ain’t got no feria, Chicharrón and you ain’t got none. There’s only one thing to do.”
I motioned my head toward the door.
“¡A la brava!” Understand?”
“Yeah, sure,” Chicharrón agreed. “There’s a lot of people in the place. There’s a line at the cash register. It’s a good time to esqüintar.”
“I don’t know about this you guys,” Arnie protested. “I never done this before.”
“It’s no big deal, a piece of taco,” I reassured him. “You guys just get up and walk out like nothin’ is happenin’. I’ll go to the head, to distract them, but we all can’t go—that’s a sure sign we’re walking. I’ll be right behind you.”
“I don’t know about this, you guys,” Arnie repeated.
“Well, Arnie, you can stay here an’ wash dishes, cuz we is jammin’.”
I got up and shuffled cool-like to the restroom. Once inside, I combed my hair. Scraped at a hang nail. Checked out a blemish. Then I straightened up and pushed out the restroom doors, heading toward the exit. I didn’t look around, just straight in front of me. People appeared too busy talking, eating and having a good time to notice a cholo make his way out the door.
Almost outside, I took in a deep breath, stepped onto the pavement and tried to walk away when two Frankensteins came up from behind and intervened. I went to hit one, but the other grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground. A woman shrieked. I could see faded images of people who stopped to look on as we battled on the sidewalk. I punched and pulled, but the dudes held me there on the ground. As soon as I calmed, they lifted me up as if I were a trapped rat and dragged me through the restaurant. Some people were already on their feet, others stunned in their chairs, all looking at me in a hush. I felt like I should get applause.
The Frankensteins pushed me through a storage area behind the restaurant and into a small office. A partly-bald man with a loosened tie over a wrinkled white shirt sat there, looking tired.
“Go ahead, sit down,” he told me, then turned to the Frankensteins. “Thank you. You did good.”
The dudes gave me a last look, like maybe they should’ve broken my arm or something.
Always Running Page 15