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

by Reymundo Sanchez

  I sat down, turned on the television, and fumed over Marilyn’s decision. I heard the water from the shower running and decided that I would go get in the shower with Marilyn and sweetly try to have her see things my way. The bathroom door was locked, though, so I had to wait for her to come out to plead with her.

  While Marilyn showered, I calmed down and collected my thoughts. I put on some shorts and went over all the apologetic words I would say to her when she came back into the room. That didn’t happen until about an hour later. Marilyn finally walked out of the bathroom wearing a towel around her body and went directly to get clothes out of her suitcase. As she bent over them, I came up from behind her, took off the towel, and began caressing her back. Marilyn didn’t react or say a word. She just got the clothes she wanted, then retreated back into the bathroom without the towel.

  About twenty minutes later, Marilyn came out of the bathroom dressed and said that she wanted to go for a walk by herself. Before I could say a word she picked up her purse and headed out the door. I sat with no reaction or thoughts as to where she was headed. What I did think about was being homeless in California or being laughed at in Chicago. I had come to Dallas determined to make it and had nowhere else to go. I didn’t have the college degree to fall back on or the supportive family who would welcome me back into their home. As far I was concerned, my decision was final—I was staying in Dallas. If Marilyn wanted to leave, she would have to go by herself.

  Marilyn came back from her walk with a bag of food from a local restaurant. She didn’t say a word to me, nor did I say a thing to her. We didn’t make eye contact. This was the first time since I had met Marilyn when I wasn’t happy being in her company, and there was no doubt in my mind that she felt the same way.

  She sat the bag of food on the desk and began to pull out food. Cheeseburgers, fries, and onion rings would be our dinner that evening. I grabbed my share and sat on the bed facing the television. Marilyn did the same. We sat and ate without saying a word to each other. Finally Marilyn broke the silence.

  “How long are you planning on giving Dallas a chance?” Marilyn asked. “Long enough to make enough money to be able to make it in California,” I responded. “Once we get to California you’re going to have to get comfortable with the idea that I will be supporting you while you go to school,” Marilyn said. “I promise I will do that, but I will try to help out in any way I can,” I told her. This exchange went on without either one of us looking at the other. When we finished eating, we threw the remains in the trash and lay next to each other on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  I wondered what was going through Marilyn’s mind. I wondered if the thoughts of financial, emotional, and educational success occupied her mind like they did mine. I could clearly see myself in a graduation gown accepting a diploma. I could see Marilyn glowing with pride as I walked up to the podium to make the speech reserved only for those at the top of their class. Then out of nowhere the transportation problems we were faced within Dallas entered my mind and awakened me from my daydream.

  “We need to get a rental car, at least until we’re in an apartment,” I said while still staring at the ceiling. “If we can get it early in the morning, we can go fill out applications and be able to go see the lady at the apartment locator’s agency and then check out the apartment she told us about,” Marilyn said. “Yeah, I have the apartment pinpointed on the map, so maybe we can look for work around there,” I responded as I got up and located the Dallas telephone directory.

  I sat by the phone and made phone call after phone call to rental car agencies. I found out you needed a credit card to rent a car. I had a driver’s license but no credit card. Marilyn had a credit card but no driver’s license. Fortunately, some of the agencies I spoke to were willing to accept her card with my license. Unfortunately, all the prices were horrendous. There was no way we could afford to rent a car for the three or four days we would need it at the prices I was being quoted. I finally found one that met our budget requirement. Appropriately, that agency was called Rent-a-Wreck.

  The next morning, we got on the first bus headed to downtown Dallas, where we would take another bus to a north suburban city called Plano. According to the agent at Rent-a-Wreck, the bus would drop us off about a block from the agency.

  On the bus we sat near the rear and Marilyn started a conversation with a young black guy who was obviously gay. They conversed as if they were old friends. I did little more than comment every so often. The guy told Marilyn where Plano was and that he was getting off on the stop where we would catch the bus headed there. He told her that the bus we were on would take us right to the center of downtown Dallas where there would be a lot of people coming and going. I pictured downtown Chicago where thousands upon thousands of people would be on the street all at once and traffic would be backed up and moving ever so slowly yet in a rush. The guy also explained to Marilyn how to get back from Plano to Dallas.

  Marilyn’s face lit up with excitement as she talked to this guy she didn’t even know. She wrote down every bit of information he gave her about where the gay section of Dallas was located and the places she could visit there. Marilyn turned to me and said that maybe we should look for an apartment in the area called Oaklawn the guy was describing to her. According to Marilyn’s new friend, the Oaklawn area was the only part of Dallas with any kind of culture and substance. Marilyn was anxious to go there.

  When we got to downtown Dallas I was astonished at how empty the streets were compared to Chicago. As I looked around, acknowledging the differences between Dallas and Chicago, Marilyn got the black guy’s number and hugged him good-bye. She then pulled me toward the bus headed to Plano, which had arrived without me noticing it.

  Marilyn and the gay guy waved and smiled at each other like they would be missing each other dearly. I was just happy that she had found a reason to give Dallas a chance to be our home.

  We rode the bus to Plano, Texas, looking in desperation at the landscapes that passed us as the bus crawled along Central Expressway. We were looking for both differences and similarities to a bus ride in Chicago. All we could find were differences. The scenery consisted of one building housing one business after another. Even after we had long left downtown Dallas behind, the business buildings continued until we got off the bus in Plano.

  The lack of homes with family and friends hanging out in front, kids playing, a fire hydrant spraying water, which would be a heavenly feeling in the hot Texas sun, was disheartening to us. For a couple looking to work, make money, and move on to another city the view was wonderful. But for those with plans to find a place to settle down and call home, Dallas didn’t look like it could offer that dream.

  We got off the bus in Plano and became acquainted with the Texas sun. It was the first time since we arrived that we had the opportunity to walk any significant distance. Suddenly it started making sense to me why everyone drove and hardly anyone rode the bus. With the distance between bus stops and the inconvenience of the routes, only those without the luxury of an automobile needed to bother with Dallas’s transportation system.

  It was about half a block’s walk to the car rental agency from the bus stop, and the heat was excruciating, even for two people accustomed to walking long distances. By the time we reached the agency we had convinced ourselves that we would have to make peace with the sun in the months to come. We didn’t care what kind of car we got so long as it had a working air conditioner.

  At Rent-a-Wreck I started a conversation with an older gentleman who wore a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap. “The Cowboys haven’t been doing so good,” I said as I filled out the rental application. “Now the Bears, that’s a team to cheer for,” I added. “Oh, that’s because they stole Mike Ditka from Dallas,” he responded.

  We sat there talking football while the Rent-a-Wreck agent processed the application and the rental car keys were handed to me. The older gentleman gave me very detailed directions about the Dallas Expressway system and ho
w to get to the apartment locator’s office and then back to the hotel. I shook his hand and followed the Rent-a-Wreck agent to a car that certainly seemed destined for the junkyard. After assuring ourselves that the air conditioner worked, Marilyn and I headed back toward Dallas.

  I mentioned how nice it was for the older gentleman at the rental car agency to give me such detailed directions. Marilyn said that the directions weren’t really necessary as the directions she had written down from the gay black guy were just as detailed and accurate. I told her that I understood the directions given by the old man better than the ones she had written down.

  There was a moment of silence and then Marilyn responded to my remark in a very cynical way. “The directions are the same,” she said. “Maybe you understand things better when discussing meaningless subjects.” “Maybe you understand things better when talking to people you have something in common with,” I shot back. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “You like men, he likes men, you have something in common,” I said in a smart aleck tone. “Oh, yeah, that’s an intelligent conclusion,” Marilyn said.

  Again there was a moment of silence that should have put an end to the conversation, but, unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The little exchange between us seemed destined to become an argument, at least from my standpoint. It was an argument I didn’t plan on losing.

  “What is it with you and gay people?” I asked Marilyn in a loud, angry voice. “Why do you insist on defending a fuckin’ faggot you don’t even know?” “That faggot was nice enough to give us directions on where to get this car. You didn’t mind him being a faggot then, did you?” Marilyn calmly said.

  My anger grew without reason. I could feel my muscles tightening and my head becoming hot. “Don’t you think for one minute that you’re going to be calling that fag,” I told Marilyn in a voice that was more threatening than demanding. “I’ll call him and anybody else I feel like calling,” Marilyn responded.

  I became enraged and began yelling obscenities at Marilyn at the top of my lungs. I pounded on the steering wheel violently as Marilyn melted into the car seat like a small animal cowering into a corner to avoid danger. I continued my barrage of profanities and took to degrading gay people, particularly the black guy we’d met on the bus that morning. Marilyn just sat there, staring into oblivion, not saying a word or even attempting to look my way. I turned up the radio, smiled, and sang along with the music. I was celebrating the victory of the argument.

  By the time we got to the apartment locator’s office, my anger had passed. I was talking sweet and being kind and gentle as if the argument had never taken place. She ignored me. I parked outside the agency and waited for Marilyn to go inside and get the apartment information. Fifteen minutes later she came out, got in the car, handed me a piece of paper with directions to the apartment complex, and we went on our way. “The directions should be easy for you to read,” Marilyn said softly as I positioned the paper on the steering wheel in front of me. “She wasn’t gay.” Although I was quite irritated by her comment, I remained quiet. A few minutes later we arrived at the apartment complex and I forgot all about it.

  The rental agents were expecting us. I was impressed that they called us by name as soon as we walked through the door. The leasing agent who took care of us said that the apartment owner would rent us the apartment if we could provide a cosigner for a six-month lease. Marilyn asked to use the phone and called her sister in Chicago. We didn’t even ask to see the apartment because we didn’t have much choice. After Marilyn’s sister agreed to co-sign, the agent faxed her the contract and, within half an hour of stepping into the apartment complex office, we had our first apartment as a couple.

  16 Is This Love?

  OUR FIRST APARTMENT was a huge empty space that was really a lot more than we needed, but we didn’t have any choice. Staying at the hotel was draining our savings, so we had to take what we could get. Marilyn and I were still uncertain how long we would be staying in Dallas, so we decided not to bother with furnishing the place. The apartment was fully carpeted and came equipped with a stove, refrigerator, and central air and heat. This was more than we would ever get in an apartment in Chicago and at a fraction of the cost.

  The only articles we bought for our comfort were a nice thick queen-sized comforter we used as a bed, a sheet and pillow case set of the same size, and a couple of pillows. This was our bedroom set. For the kitchen we purchased a very cheap set of pots and pans and an even cheaper set of dishes, bowls, spoons, and forks enough for two people. Our entertainment came from sex and a thirteen-inch color television set that we bought only because it was on sale for sixty-nine dollars. It was an unknown brand and the display model.

  After we moved in and began going on job interviews, things went well for us. In the three days that we had the rental car, we were able to buy our basic necessities and also locate employment. Marilyn quickly found a job as a waitress in a nearby restaurant, which lasted for about a week until she was employed in a professional field. Marilyn dropped her idea of not seeking employment that required a degree and was hired as a counselor at an abortion clinic. She was really happy to have found that job, as it was her ultimate goal to make a career in counseling. With my limited work history and lack of higher education, I didn’t fare as well, but I did find employment. I got a part-time job at a children’s physical therapy clinic and a full-time cashier position at a local Kroger grocery store. I worked two jobs and still didn’t make nearly as much money as Marilyn. The need for a college education or at least some kind of vocational training became even clearer to me.

  At the clinic, I assisted the therapist in handling children with various kinds of physical disabilities, mostly caused by muscular dystrophy. I didn’t perform actual therapy, but I helped hold them in place and carry them from station to station. After a therapy session I would clean and disinfect the room and get it ready for the next patient. Working there and seeing children struggle just to live taught me to stop feeling sorry for myself and count every single day of my life as a blessing.

  I became attached to the children at the clinic, and they to me. The experience I had interacting with them helped me put my life more into perspective. I watched them struggle to walk, talk, and do the simplest basic tasks with so much enthusiasm. I often found myself wondering if their disabilities were caused by abuse or drug use by their parents, or if it was just their destiny. I couldn’t help but picture myself in the same dilemma as these kids were in, and I visualized them in my life. How much more suffering would they be enduring if they’d had a family member like my cousin who had raped me as a child. I would look into their brightly lit eyes when they looked at me. I shared their joy in the accomplishment of taking a couple of steps without help, and I wished I could give them the things I took for granted. I watched them get embarrassed when they drooled all over themselves when trying to talk, and I wanted to hold them and in some way share my motor skills with them. I thought it was so unfair that such innocent beings had to suffer without cause. That’s when I realized that I had a childhood in common with them. It saddened me to realize that it had taken me so long to stop my own personal suffering, and that the children I was learning so much from would probably never have that opportunity.

  As positive as my experiences around the kids were, my experiences with some of the staff were totally opposite. All too often I would go into the staff break room and hear complaints about the drooling, crying, and stubbornness of the children. The sad part was that their anger seemed to focus on how little they thought they were paid to put up with being drooled on. I would sit there, slowly drinking a soda, listening to them and wondering how the police felt when they dealt with perfectly healthy kids who were out trying to kill one another. I started to think about how a police officer must feel, knowing that he or she could be killed just for approaching a twelve- or thirteen-year-old kid with the intention of helping. For the first time in my life, I found myself respecting the
police profession and, in many ways, understanding the excessive force they sometimes used. All this I gathered from hearing a few therapists complain about children who had no say in how they were born.

  I started work at the clinic at eight in the morning and left at two in the afternoon. It took me about an hour to get home, where I would rest for an hour and then make the half-hour walk to Kroger. There I worked until closing at 11 P.M., and sometimes stayed to help stock shelves. I also worked there on the weekends. I sometimes worked ten to twelve hours a day if I was allowed to. I only saw Marilyn late at night when I got home during the weekdays and in the evenings on the weekend. We were working toward our ultimate goal—being able to move to California.

  THE COMMON BOND connecting Marilyn and me was that we both seemed to be looking for reassurance and reasons for our existence. We were both seeking approval from others and hoped that others would not judge us for our backgrounds. Neither of us had had any control over our upbringing, and therefore we should not be judged by our past. The same love, respect, explanations, and basic acknowledgment that I yearned for from my mother, Marilyn yearned for from her father. I suffered from within, knowing that my mother and I would probably never have an intelligent, understanding conversation regarding my childhood, and Marilyn suffered because she would never have the opportunity to have that same conversation with her father.

  We’d had very different traumas, yet we were equally traumatized. While I chose violence, sex, alcohol, and drugs to relieve my pain, Marilyn chose books as her way to escape. I still had hope of gaining the reconciliation and approval that I so much desired. Marilyn, however, lived with the knowledge that her questions would never be answered.