Just this month at a 7-Eleven on University and the Alameda I saw a fistfight in the parking lot between an El Salvadoreño and a Vietnamese patron over the last soggy donut under the yellow light of the heating lamp. The bearded, turbaned, hairy-armed Punjabi cashier whom I liked and was of course named Singh was shouting into the phone, “Jay-lee donut! Jay-lee donut!”
All the morning business people with their tanned crimson oiled heads and dollar-sign eyeballs and manicured nails and pearly teeth of bleach and Star Trek headpieces extending from ear to mouth jumped into their sloped aerodynamic cars that were silver as barracuda scales and left before having to bear witness. Before having to lose time. No one cared. I sat down on the spray-painted curb by a pay phone that probably still doesn’t work, and watched. I hoped for knives, chains, guns. Cultural and maternal insults. Then I could step in between the two men when it counted, or mold a tourniquet for the wounded, have true utility for just a moment, feel real purpose.
Two good blows, a straight right from the lanky Vietnamese and a hook by the squat El Salvadoreño, landed dull, solid. It was a classic fight in framework, reach, power, a free ticket for a poor man’s Ali–Frazier IV: the El Salvadoreño stalking and swinging for the ribs, the Vietnamese backstepping and keeping him at bay with the jab. These two wouldn’t quit, you knew it the minute they took to the lot; they had that old world determination seared by trying times. They had good chins, not because of some physiological attribute but because they’d been beaten by life, somewhere out there in the jungle, and weren’t about to take the beatdown again. It was more than the fist connecting to the socket of the eye, it was history, faith in one’s story; it was the future, the right to a new story.
Twenty-five seconds in, I’d say it was even. Hook, jab, body blow. A few wayward immigrants—Hispanic, Southeast Asian, African—stayed behind but fled when they heard the sirens. It looked like the Sharks and the Jets scattering over the walls, under the fences.
They had no clue where they were going, but they knew where they were at. By now, our 230th year, hyperintegrated America produced bad comedy at its best, B-movie material. Foolhardy emotion in the Silicon Valley, all over deep-fried, jelly-filled, sugarcoated American cuisine.
The police came but both men were already gone. Everyone but me and Singh, who had a good reason to be there. The cop asked me if I had any valuable information. “Yes,” I said. “The terms of the Treaty of Versailles can be seen as the exact catalyst for World War Two.”
He said with disgust, “Frenchman, eh?”
I shrugged, not seeing the difference in whether it was true or not.
Hooking his thumbs in his utility belt, he said, “I’ve been boycotting you assholes for nineteen months now. Ever since you people allied yourselves with Saddam. Won’t let the wife visit Paris, see that Eiffel Tower. Stocked up on wine from the Napa Valley only. No champagne, no bubbly. Not on my watch. We buy and we drink American.”
“That’s right,” I said. “We oughta go back to speaking the Olde English before those damned Normans arrived back in 1066.”
“Yeah.”
“Rename our kids Hrothgar and eat our mutton without mustard.”
He was American and spoke a mongrel form of English, but he’d never read the first official tale in the language. Too bad. I got the sense that this one would have enjoyed the conquering exploits of Beowulf, precursor to the Schwarzenegger/Stallone epic hero.
“I’ve got the kids saying ‘a burger with the works and freedom fries.’”
It took me a second before I figured out the culinary twist. “You mean french fries?”
“Freedom fries.”
He didn’t believe that I was a believer. He was, after all, an officer of the law: sharp-eyed, trained, a human retriever of men. And then also, for the first time in some time, I was laughing. He had a tan line over the bridge of the nosebone that he’d shaven, his Latin eyebrows so bush thick it looked like padding. His badge read LAFAYETTE, a strong Anglo surname.
Papa Mac’s done. My standing daydream does not discourage me. When there’s someone up there I don’t want to hear, I can peacefully tune out.
The lady priest from the Unitarian church takes the mic like a rock star, leans in and smiles, her teeth the grimy yellow of day-old chicken skin.
“¡Sí se puto!” she screeches. A few people laugh at her error, but most are polite. She shouts, “¡Bah La Migra! I love you people!” and that’s it. I look around. They’re as bewildered as me, some don’t even know what she said.
A child beside me corrects her: “Baja La Migra.” Down with Immigration and Naturalization Services.
She hops off the front side of the stage into the crowd, and they give her plenty of room to land.
It’s the brotha’s turn, the pastor from Grace Baptist Church, the biggest holy roller denomination in the Bay. He’s got a great voice,but he’s using it on the wrong crowd. I can clearly see something he’s missed: dropped cowboy hats, weight shifting from one foot to the other.
“And we must remember, my brothers, about the reparations owed to us and kept from us. We must never forget the profiteering that went on in our names because we didn’t claim what’s ours... .”
He’s too loud for their liking, too pushy. This is a problem of style, not substance.
A hearty struggle coming to a theater near you: Black Power vs. Sí, se puede.
Look out, dog. Mirale, ese.
The brotha pastor puts a Tommie Smith fist up in the air. Please please please don’t shout Black Power, I think. Not here, baby. Instead he gives us “Peace. ¡Baja La Migra!”
Scattered applause. Not really sure if this is an ally. Before anything can be decided, the Sikh takes the stage. He’s cool, and I admire his spirit and guts, but no one gets a word he’s saying. At one point or another, everyone is lost in translation in America.
I’ve always been caught in the middle of racial noise, factions trying to claim me. My freshman year in college, the head coach of our football team, a soft Irishman named Patrick O’Malley, didn’t have the nuts to confront the brothas who’d decided to occupy the right bottom of the team photograph. Jersey number and height went right out the door. A few of the white guys, mostly linemen, were mad. I heard one of them say, “Are they clumping up by tribe?” Me, the half-breed Samoan, cool with both sides, stuck right there in the middle of the shot. There it was, the return of segregation, 1999 voluntary flouting of Brown vs. Board of Education, this on the West Coast, this in the Silicon Valley, right into the new millennium we go.
It feels sort of natural to observe life in neutrality: detached, cool, uncommitted. Nothing required of me, really, but to fill space, absorb an exotic dance, a foreign film. Whatever route my life takes from here seems fair in that it will happen; whatever I have to say about it is inconsequential, even my view of it won’t last. How can it? There are six billion other bodies out there squeezing for space. But I, an American of this new century, am under the impression that no position is worth my life. Now I wonder if my life is worth nothing because I have no position.
The Sikh seems to be here out of confusion. Out of accepting a deal without quite knowing the terms, not knowing what he signed onto. He walks back to the rear of the stage, gets down on his knees. There’s a microphone setup the height of a midget. He recites a Sikh prayer, though no one here can confirm that it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s a saying you share before dinner or a toast to camaraderie before battle, an anecdote about the dirt god.
The audience grows restless and fidgety, tuning out on this opera. I hear the Azteca drums starting up again. What pricks: right in the middle of the guy’s tribute to their cause. The audience shifts and stands on toes to get a peek above the neighbor’s shoulder. The drums grow louder.
The circle of Azteca dancers press toward the stage in ancient chant. Sounds like a powwow. They’re shirtless, barefoot, brown-skinned in skimpy leather waistcloths, peacock headdresses higher than an NBA center. The
feathers sway in the wind, splashes of deep blue and bright green, fast streaks of yellow, out-of-control spirals of red. They’re dancing in circles, kicking out their legs, circle, kick. I get on my toes and see their feet: anklets of hay that look almost Polynesian.
Everyone seems to dig this dance. Several men whistle through their teeth, another dozen make barn animal noises. I bounce on my heels, feeling bad for the Sikh.
“¡Orale!”
Testosterone levels rising, racial pride in the air, energy levels up, a wisp of anger’s scent, when I see her at about forty yards. Pushing her way through the crowd, separating parents with infants hoisted on their shoulders. The time to be reverential is over.
A couple of people point in my general direction, and to keep the hope of peace up, I look around me and find nothing out of the ordinary. Paisas, grass, the creek.
Then several eyes lock on me, almost like it’s in me, whatever they’re looking for. Pointing, nodding. A little bit of space opens up and I don’t have to ask who’s coming. That I didn’t leave the place earlier says more about me than about them. The heroes of the ancient tales went down with the ship to save the women and kids and the old folks. I’ll go down with the damned thing just to see what happens.
She emerges from the brown crowd, very white but very confident, fingering me, shouting, “That’s him! Right there! He’s the one!”
I don’t know what she’s told them. Maybe that I dragged her into an abandoned alleyway and accosted her, as I want to do now—a tiny slap, please, one little pop—or maybe that I flashed her my jimmy on the bus ride over. Maybe she told them that I said, “Mutherfuck chorizo, Acapulco, the state of Oaxaca, and Che Guevara.” That seems more likely. The men around her are mad. They don’t care about gender parity or even her directly, she’s just the white conduit with tits.
I say, “What’s up?”
She’s hysterical now, screaming as if a life has been lost, “He’s the one! He’s the one!”
I see the cops at the taco stand drop their plates and start separating the crowd, moving into it. But they’re too far off: this thing is about to blow up.
One of the paisas squeezes through the crowd and stops a yard in front of me. I’ve got him by five inches and forty pounds. He’s got me by La Gente. De la Migra.
He says, “¿Que paso, ese?”
I can answer him in Spanish, but that would be a concession. I recognize the guy and his mustache from somewhere. His eyes are superior and bold, as if he too knows me. I don’t like it, the familiarity between us.
I say, “Nothing much, dude,” trying to sound as white as possible, Southern California, surferish, orange skin and bleached hair, eyebrow piercing, right off Hermosa Beach. Some of these cats think I’m Hispanic, and I want to remove that possibility fast. Not because I don’t care for their race or would be embarrassed to be a part of it—they’re beautiful people, they’re beautiful!—but because fuck them, fuck these people. Most cats right about now would have it over with and shout, “¡Sí, se puede! Sí, se puede!” But a part of me doesn’t like that these paisas know Americans are weak, will back down to danger.
What do they know about me, anyway?
I say, “What’s up with you, dude?”
The paisa’s looking over my shoulder with stealth. Someone’s moving closer to my right. No drums now, the crowd is hushed. Amazing how the opiate of potential violence can make the masses go quiet. It’s like one little peep could interfere with the rushing momentum toward death. I tilt my head to the left and the same thing’s coming from that side.
Just like that, I’m shoved from behind and falling forward, right as I think, Swing swing swing at the fucker, and I do, connecting with the left eye in front of me. I know I got him clean because he’s falling to his back, me falling too, atop him. I’m up on my hands at once and rip two shots off on his head and before I can let loose another I’m getting struck from the side the rear the ribs and I’m floating through the force of the blows until I reach out for the neck and choke the paisa beneath me whom the brain in its craziness has actually—can you believe this?—identified....
Poom poom poom poom poom—jingle jingle.
I’m hit again but with too much power and anger and expertise, spun and lifted by my legs and backside of my pants and catapulted forward by six seven maybe eight hands. I land on my face and crumble with the force behind it, and just as I’m up on my hands and knees, thinking these fuckers these fuckers, I’m back on my face again in the grass, my hands being cuffed behind me. Suddenly I realize the true price of neutrality on this issue.
Off to the next little station of misinterpretation.
I hear, “Stay still.”
English: didactic, uppity Monte Sereno accent. There’s a knee digging into the middle of my back, at about the second lumbar, two hands at the top of my neck, then one hand, as the other rips the beanie off my head. Don’t know how in the hell I could move. Until something other than my own muscles moves me, like the first grumble of the Apocalypse, I’m still.
“Stay still!”
Mounds of dirt and grass in my mouth, nose, eyes, I can’t talk, smell, see; I’m still. Okay? Fucking still. Blinking, tearing up, now I’ll move. I twist my head for oxygen and the hand that (I assume) stole my beanie jams my face back to the dirt and shouts, “Stay still goddammit!”
So I’ll eat dirt for the moment.
Finally I’m lifted to my feet. I hear the weeping, the American histrionics. She’s bellowing like a widow at the funeral. I know who it is and that the tears aren’t for me so I won’t look. I can’t really see anyway. But if she can’t handle the paltry mess she’s made here, imagine the trouble we’re all in when it really hits. Any recent exhibition of strength on my part, as in I don’t need to hire Huns and Visigoths to do my fighting, is being erased with every marrow-freezing wail of Athena.
“That’s him!” she’s crying. “He’s the one!”
“He called that guy a spic,” someone else says.
“Yeah. A lettuce picker!”
“A greaser!”
“El pinche puto alla.”
I turn my head and it feels heavy. Off-kilt and oval, like a watermelon. My friend from Jack-in-the-Box, the paisa in the corner whose quiet dignity I was so taken by last night, is being cleaned with cotton, dabbed with rubbing alcohol, nursed with Q-tips. He’s got blood crusting on his mustache and his neck is clawed and purpling where I choked him. No cuffs for the happy immigrant, just a gurney on wheels with clean white sheets.
I want to say, Hasta luego, mi amigo, but I can’t move my face.
The world inside me and around me is blurring: yellow, brown, black, white....
Buenas noches.
Good night.
5
You Think of Good Things When in Chains
YOU THINK of good things when in chains in the back of the van.
Don’t think about the Motel 6 studio you’ve slept in for the past few weeks, native son living in immigrant squalor, iconoclastic neighbor to the resident transients, cranksters, molesters, sometimes all three in one body. Drive out of your mind the nicotine-stained bed beneath the golden western landscape (acrylic on cardboard) with the cowboy mounting his neighing horse. Don’t ask why it seems so vital to write poems on the flyleaf of the Gideon Bible, on AA pamphlets left at bus stops, and other trite items of writerly deposit.
Poems, yes, think of poems en bumpy route to the land of incarceration.
Actually, I’d gotten the Motel 6 studio because of the poems. About half a year ago, I’d written some half-ass love sonnets for a rich Haitian lady named Beatrice La Dulce Shaliqua Schneck, after we’d made it on the Chinese silk sheets of her Desdemona chamber bed. She went wild over the words, started calling herself my Sponsor Lover.
I’d say, “Wow. What a deep paradox: a sugar mama who loves the arts.”
Even at forty-nine, she’s got the body of a Rodin sculpture. Not an ounce of fat on that sleek dark fram
e. Hindquarters that ride high on the hip from the side and bloom in absurd dimensionality from behind, a Moorish decathlete. It’s like she came straight from the track and stripped, sack-hungry.
She drives me crazy. Any time she whines about her philandering Jewish ex-husband (“That puny techie is the antithesis of an African steed, my Samoan-stud baby boy!”) and her own thwarted authorial ambition (“I coulda been the next Terry McMillan if I never married that rat!”) and the aimlessness of her twenty-one-year-old kid I’ve never met or seen a picture of (“That Cosby Show nigga ain’t got no mountain to climb in this life!”), I fantasize about throwing her out the bed. Sometimes my mind gets tangential in the late-night hours of her rambling, elaborates on the methodology of crime.
There will be time to murder, said Prufrock.
People are always debating the best and worst ways of dying—in the midst of fucking or entrenched in fire—and I could see early on that with La Dulce the best way for her to go was like her Italiano namesake: in fist-pumping mid-soliloquy. She wouldn’t feel a thing at the bloody bully pulpit.
I realized that the processing of her stories, something that is reflexive in me (I’ll listen to anybody), was pointless since she didn’t want my input, didn’t want any critical evaluation of her life. She sought blind and docile affirmation. I was a body two decades her junior, a fact that, when we’d fuck, gave her a beauty stroke and, when she’d talk, a wisdom stroke. She liked to play the old sage with the allure of the young vixen. But like many women her age, she felt stretched by the pulleys of time, aghast in her midlife crisis. So I learned to master the transitional enablers in a conversation. Whenever her pitch in tone resembled a question, or there was a brief interrogatory pause, or her finely stenciled Botoxed eyebrows would twitch in an attempt to raise the paralyzed flesh of her forehead, I’d hum, with as much bass as I could summon, “Ummmmm,” like a Buddhist. Or like Yoda. This trick will give the impression to the narcissistic that the listener is being enlightened, and you manage to keep some peace of mind.
What We Are Page 4