Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King

by Reymundo Sanchez

  Marilyn and I walked along the lakefront from North Avenue to Addison. I told her about the incident with my sister, and we concluded that my sister was going through the same denial that I had been fighting. I told Marilyn that I felt relieved to finally know how at least one of my siblings would react to my childhood stories. Although I would have liked it if my sister had agreed with and reinforced my feelings, I still felt I had accomplished something. I suddenly felt that the hatred I harbored for my mother had been justified, and I could express those feelings freely and rightfully. I also felt I had taken the first step to forgiving my mother. I anxiously counted the minutes to my departure from Chicago—I was looking forward to getting away from the pain and starting a new life.

  ON THE DAY before we were planning to leave Chicago, Marilyn took me to meet a girl she described as one of her closest friends. Until that day, the only person in Marilyn’s life that I had met aside from her family was Tish. Marilyn’s friend was a pretty, shorthaired Ecuadorian girl named Nancy.

  Nancy lived in a single-family home on the Near North side of the city. Although Nancy was very polite and showed me very good hospitality, it didn’t seem that she wanted me to be there. She didn’t pursue a conversation with me when I attempted to talk with her, and when Marilyn tried to bring me into their conversation, Nancy only responded to her, not to me. I began to feel uncomfortable and out of place. Ultimately I ended up in front of the television watching a baseball game as Marilyn and Nancy talked in another room. After about an hour and a half, we were on our way.

  As we walked down the street back toward the bus stop, Marilyn began to tell me more about her friendship with Nancy. She told me that they had met in college when they were both undergraduates and that they pretty much helped each other get through school. She told me that Nancy’s mother and brother had accused them of being lesbian lovers and that they didn’t like Marilyn to come around. Marilyn’s presence at Nancy’s house often created arguments between Nancy and her mother. Marilyn said that it used to upset her that Nancy’s mother seemed to overlook the line of girls that her son was having sex with under her roof, but that she barraged Nancy with insults because of what she thought about her sexuality.

  I asked Marilyn if Nancy was a lesbian and if they had been lovers. “It doesn’t matter if she is a lesbian or not. She’s not having sex with a bunch of different people,” Marilyn said. “Were you guys lovers?” I asked. “That’s not the point,” she responded. “It’s her brother who is showing disrespect for his mother by having sex with so many different girls right there in her house. Why doesn’t she say anything about that? Why is being gay less morally acceptable than being a whore?”

  The whore Marilyn was referring to was Nancy’s brother, and I assumed that Nancy was the gay person with good morals. Before I had a chance to make sure that my assumptions were correct, Marilyn started to tell me a story about Nancy’s mother. She told me about how Nancy’s mother had once been a victim of a pigeon-drop scheme and had lost fifteen hundred dollars. She then blamed Nancy, although Nancy had tried to warn her.

  Nancy and her mother were walking out of a bank when a Spanish-speaking man approached her, claiming to be the holder of the previous day’s winning lottery ticket. The ticket, according to the man, was worth two million dollars, but it would take several weeks to collect the money. The man explained that his family was in desperate need and that he was willing to give her twenty-five percent of the winnings for a fifteen-hundred-dollar advance.

  As Nancy’s mother and the man spoke, a female passerby stopped and joined the conversation. The woman began to advise Nancy’s mother against the transaction, but then changed her tune after looking into a newspaper she was carrying and identifying the numbers on the man’s ticket as winning numbers. She showed Nancy’s mother the numbers and offered to make the transaction with the man. The man readily agreed to her offer and began to walk away with her. Nancy’s mother, not wanting to be cheated out of the opportunity to earn half a million dollars, stopped the two and told the man that he had made her the offer first and that she could give him the money right away. The man advised the woman that Nancy’s mother was entitled to help him first, which made the woman yell obscenities at Nancy’s mother as she walked away angrily. The man agreed to let Nancy’s mother hold onto the ticket as collateral until it was paid on, as long as he could fill out his information on the back of the ticket. Against Nancy’s advice, her mother went into the bank and withdrew fifteen hundred dollars, which she gave to the man. He gave her the ticket with his information filled out on the back, gave her his phone number, and insisted she give him information about where she lived and her phone number.

  Nancy’s mother went home a happy woman. She talked about what she would do with the money and the places she would visit. Her happiness ended when she got home and took a close look at the ticket. She realized that she was holding a ticket for a lottery drawing that had not yet taken place. The numbers were definitely the winners of the previous night’s drawing, but the date on the ticket was for a drawing the following week. Upon further investigation, she found that the address on the back of the ticket didn’t exist and the telephone number was out of service. Nancy’s mother blamed Nancy for not stopping her.

  Marilyn’s story was humorous and interesting enough to make me forget about the questions I had asked but not gotten answers to. By the time I knew it, the bus was approaching and the conversation switched to our departure the next day. Instead of getting off the bus with Marilyn, I told her that I wanted to go straight home and finish packing. We agreed to meet at her place the following morning and kissed each other good-bye.

  That night at my sister’s house, I was left only in the company of her boyfriend and my niece. My sister never attempted to talk with me, and I didn’t do anything to open a dialogue either. We hadn’t spoken to each other since the night we blew up at each other. Before I went to bed I smoked marijuana for the last time in my life, compliments of my sister’s boyfriend. I smoked it because it was my way of saying good-bye to the life I had lived in Chicago, a celebratory high. The puffs I took from the joints we smoked were long and hard, intended to gain the drug’s maximum effect. I remained quiet while my smoking companion went on and on about how I was right about having been abused and about how my mother had spoiled my sister. After his first few sentences, I totally ignored him until it was time to go to sleep.

  The next morning I woke up to the voices of my three sisters and my mother. It was the first time that I saw them all in one room in a long time. I gave them brief good mornings, then went and showered, got dressed, and prepared the two medium-sized suitcases and a backpack that I would be taking with me. I came out of my bedroom, suitcases in hand and ready to hit the road. I was going to take the bus to Marilyn’s, but my sister’s boyfriend talked me into accepting a ride. Our good-byes were very brief. They were the type of good-byes reserved for people who barely knew each other. In fact, although we were family, we had no clue who we were and what we felt.

  I told them that I was going to Los Angeles, California, knowing very well that I was headed for Texas. For many reasons, I thought that I would be better off if no one in my family knew where I was going or what my plans were. I put my luggage in the car and gave everybody the mandatory hug. I walked away to the sight of tear-filled eyes. I didn’t understand what the crying was about, nor did I react to it. I thought those tears were forced because there was neither joy nor sadness to justify them. I was thinking only of getting out of Chicago as fast and as soon as I could. Although I knew that I would probably never see the faces of my family again, I was totally emotionless about it.

  I said very little to my sister’s boyfriend on the way to Marilyn’s, and was overjoyed when we reached our destination. At Marilyn’s, I took my luggage out of the car, shook his hand, and then watched him drive away. Marilyn came out with her sister’s car key in her hand and asked me to put my luggage in the trunk, then to g
o up to her apartment. Inside Marilyn’s apartment I was confronted with another version of the scene I had just left. Only at her place it seemed more genuine. No one was crying or saddened. They busied themselves making sure that Marilyn had everything she needed for the trip and time and time again assured themselves that she was doing something she really wanted to do. They all made sure she knew that they were all just a phone call away. Marilyn had taken on an important part of the financial responsibilities in her house, yet it didn’t seem to matter to them that she was leaving as long as she was doing something that made her happy.

  I watched in envy as Marilyn got advice, reassurances, and money to make things easier on her. Her mother prepared food for us to eat before we left and sandwiches for us to take on the train. After we ate we walked through a barrage of hugs, good lucks, and handshakes on our way to Marilyn’s sister’s car. Finally we were on our way to the train station.

  Marilyn and her sister sat in the front and talked while I sat in the back watching the buildings as we drove by. I remembered the first time I came to Humboldt Park from the South Side. The buildings that once told stories that fascinated me now repulsed me and left me cold and empty. Then we passed the park itself. I looked deep into the park that I once considered a city within a city and saw a graveyard. The memories I had of Humboldt Park and the many streets surrounding it made my hair stand on end. I planned on never seeing or setting foot in that park again, but I knew that I had made that plan before.

  We arrived at Union Station in downtown Chicago and I went inside to get a cart for our luggage while Marilyn said good-bye to her sister. We checked our tickets and our bags, then waited to board the train headed toward our one-way destination. In an hour and a half we boarded the train and were on our way out of the city. Marilyn and I sat cuddling each other, not wanting to look out the window to watch the city go by. It was a little more than six months since we’d first met. We were both happy to be leaving Chicago for our own individual reasons. The only thing we wanted to see was Dallas, Texas.

  15 Welcome to Dallas

  MARILYN AND I didn’t talk much on the way to Dallas. We were just anxious for the sixteen-hour train ride to be over with so that we could start our new life. The smiles on our faces and the embraces we shared showed our desire to forget all our troubles. On a sunny early afternoon we arrived in Dallas, the city we hoped would give us that opportunity.

  We arrived in downtown Dallas with our hearts in our hands for each other. At the train station we located a map of the city and a hotel guide. At the information desk sat the most helpful, sweetest information desk employee we had ever met. She was a white woman in her late forties or early fifties, and she spoke with a deep Texas drawl. We told her it was our first time in Dallas and what our plans were. “Well, bless your heart, how romantic,” the lady said after hearing our story. She then told us that she knew of a reasonably priced motel that would pick us up right at the station. With our permission she called the motel, and within the hour we were in a van headed toward the motel. The driver of the bus was also a middle-aged white woman with a deep Texas drawl, who also thought that what we were doing was romantic. She offered advice about where the bad parts of Dallas were located and where we could seek employment.

  At the motel we checked in and got comfortable in our room. Thirty minutes after our arrival, the lady who drove the van knocked on our door and handed us several menus for local restaurants that delivered to the motel. She assured us that the prices were reasonable and the food was very good.

  Marilyn and I were elated with the hospitality we had been shown so far in Dallas. We began to conclude that these were all signs of good things to come. Since we’d arrived on a Saturday, we decided to rest, then get the Sunday paper the next day and begin looking at help-wanted ads. We ordered some Chinese food, showered, and spent the rest of the night making love.

  It had been the first time that Marilyn and I had been intimate in about a month. Other than that first time we’d made love, several months back in a hotel room in Chicago, this was the first time we’d spent the night together in each other’s arms. Our first night in Dallas was the best night of our short relationship to date. We were passionate and comfortable. We enjoyed and explored each other as we had never done before.

  Sunday morning we enjoyed the hotel’s complimentary continental breakfast like two lovebirds. We fetched food and fed each other from our plates. At every opportunity we held hands, rubbed ourselves against each other, and expressed our love.

  After breakfast we picked up the Sunday paper from the hotel lobby and headed back to our room. There we showered, made love, showered again, and got busy looking through help-wanted and apartment rental ads.

  There were dozens of ads seeking employees with no skills besides fluency in both Spanish and English. We circled those as jobs we would go and apply for together. Marilyn had decided that she would not seek employment that required a degree until she was sure that Dallas was where we wanted to live.

  We looked through the apartment ads and were dumbfounded by how inexpensive the rental rates were compared to those in Chicago. We started calling the numbers in the ads right away. To our surprise, we found that the vast majority of the apartments advertised were located in big apartment complexes. We were expecting the two- or three-story buildings with an apartment on each floor we were used to in Chicago. It became apparent to us that we were expecting Dallas to be just like Chicago but in a different location with different people.

  The next morning we got up bright and early with big hopes for our future. We had breakfast, picked up the bus schedules from the hotel lobby, showered, and got ready to explore Dallas. We stood at a bus stop about half a block from the hotel at about 7:30 that morning. Two hours later we were still standing there. It turned out that that particular bus route only made four daily stops there, and the first wouldn’t be until 10:00 A.M. It was the only bus route available anywhere near the hotel, and it only took us to one place, downtown Dallas.

  Of all the things we thought we’d miss about the city of Chicago, the good public transportation system had never crossed our minds. Dallas’s public transportation was nonexistent by Chicago standards. Because of the inconvenience of the bus system, we were limited to one, maybe two application submissions per day. On our second day in Dallas we got stranded in an area where the last available bus ran past as we were waiting to be interviewed at a telemarketing company. We were forced to take a cab, which cost us almost a hundred dollars, to get back to the motel. The incredibly high taxi rate was another eye opener as we remembered being able to take a cab from one side of Chicago to the other for less than thirty bucks.

  With immobility being an issue, we counted on an apartment-seeking agency to get us an apartment we could afford in a good part of town. That task wasn’t as easy as it sounded because of our lack of employment. By our third day in Dallas, Marilyn had become frustrated with the city and did nothing but talk about going back home. I felt the same frustration as Marilyn about the transportation situation, but I wasn’t about to give up on Dallas that easily. I looked at the employment section of the local newspaper and saw that all the jobs that required little more than Spanish-speaking proficiency earned ten dollars an hour or more. I knew there was no way that I could ever get those opportunities back in Chicago. Marilyn, on the other hand, with her master’s degree, could go anywhere.

  I talked to Marilyn so that she would understand my feelings about the employment situation. I reasoned that we came to Dallas knowing that we would struggle at first but that we would do all it took to make it. Marilyn came around and agreed.

  That evening we got a call from an agent of an apartment locator service advising us that she had found an apartment complex that would rent to us while we sought employment. She also told us that the complex was located in North Dallas where it was safe and in an area where there were a lot of employment opportunities. We were so excited about the news that we
ended up making love. Afterward I sat at the desk and looked over our map of Dallas, trying to pinpoint the intersections the agent had given us. I’d located the apartment complex on the map when Marilyn threw a monkey wrench into my excitement.

  “Let’s go to California,” Marilyn said. “What?” I responded. “I thought we had discussed this already.” “No,” Marilyn said, “you discussed it.” Her comment made my blood boil. I became angrier than I had been in a long time. “We came to Dallas because we don’t have the money to make it in California and we have less now,” I yelled as I got up from the desk and faced Marilyn, who sat on the bed. “Many people go out to California penniless and make it,” Marilyn replied as she made her way up the bed and sat with her back against the headboard facing me.

  “Marilyn, are you crazy?” I said. “We’re here, we need to make it work for a little while, get some more money together, and then think about moving again.” I turned around, grabbed the pen, and prepared to start mapping companies I had called to schedule interviews. “California or Chicago,” Marilyn said. “Take your choice but we are leaving.”

  I stood there staring as I felt a rage come over me that I knew I could not control. “I don’t like it here and I’m not staying,” I barely heard Marilyn say. Visions of my homeless days and nights began to run through my mind. I could hear the voices of my dear family laughing at my failure to make it on my own. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn to. Then I exploded.

  “Fuck you, bitch,” I yelled at the top my lungs as I threw the pen toward Marilyn. The pen hit the wall about two feet above her head shattered into pieces and left about a foot of splashed ink. “It’s easy for you to fuckin’ move back to Chicago, but where the fuck would I go?” I screamed as I paced the floor in front of the bed like a madman. “We’re here and we’re staying here like we planned!” I screamed as Marilyn quietly made her way off the bed and headed toward the bathroom.