She moved the photograph closer to Damian before continuing. “Look at yourself. How do you look? Don’t tell me that is the face of a happy man. I don’t like the photograph because it is the result of a machine that reduces men. It makes them tiny; it squashes them and smears them on a piece of paper. And that way we cannot embrace them.” Milagros stood up slowly and walked to the stove.
Octavio noticed his mother’s body tremble, struggling to control the hurt rushing from deep in her heart and mind. Her body shook. She fought back the sobs and continued to work. Octavio sat back and turned to his father who continued to eat, oblivious to Milagros’ emotional state. Damian finished and looked up to see his children’s eyes fixed on him. He pushed himself away from the table and rose.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” Damian yelled directly at Octavio. Everyone around the table had an answer, but at that moment none dared to speak up.
Pascuala Pedroza talked about the photograph to her sons and daughters while she sat in the living room prior to retiring. The children discussed how the men looked. They joked and laughed about this person’s father and that person’s uncle. Gonzalo talked about the photographer and how he had told the men that the photos taken that day were to be given to many other brick manufacturers and customers. He told Gonzalo and his men they were the working force of the biggest brickyard in the world. Pride beamed from Jesus, Elvira, Francisco and the other children’s faces as they listened to their father explain the importance of the photographs. Finally the photograph came to Pascuala. The children urged her to respond to what she held in her hands.
“Gonzalo, you look tired, completely drained. It’s because you work day and night. That is not right, Gonzalo. The children miss you at home. All these men are tired of working. There are many men, Gonzalo, few smiles. They seem to be covered with dust. You can have your photography; it is an exercise of another world. I’m afraid that someone, if they want to, could burn it and you too would burn.” Pascuala let the photograph fall from her hands.
“Pascuala, don’t speak that way. Can’t you see that you scare the children?” Gonzalo spoke sternly. “It’s time to be happy. The brickyard is producing at maximum capacity. We have so many requests that we can’t keep up with them. Now we have more trucks, and a train that Mr. Simons bought will multiply production. I wanted to surprise you. I think that what I tell you next will make you happy. They gave me a raise in salary. And do you know what we are going to buy? I bet you can’t guess.”
Gonzalo looked at his children who were sitting at the edge of their seats shouting what they thought their father would buy.
“Wait.” Gonzalo held his hands up, bringing silence to the children who waited eagerly. “We are going to buy an automobile so that we can take you on vacation, Pascuala.”
Gonzalo smiled at his wife before getting up. As was his habit, three to five times during the week after dinner, Gonzalo left the house. He would return at dawn, have breakfast and go to work.
Pascuala tolerated this life, never admitting that her husband had another woman. Despite what was common knowledge in Simons, she never acknowledged the fact that Gonzalo fathered children other than hers. When she contemplated the pride and excitement her children had for their father, she dared not complain. Now, at nine in the evening, the children slept. Gonzalo was with the other woman and Pascuala sat alone sipping warm milk, hoping that sleep would come to her. Lying on the kitchen table were hundreds of men looking at her from within the encasement of the photograph.
Octavio found his three brothers Federico, Maximiliano and Jose discussing the merits of different makes of automobiles pictured in a car magazine Federico had bought during an excursion with friends to the various Mexican dance halls and nightclubs in Los Angeles.
On Friday, Octavio had finished work, cleaned up and left for Maravilla to a poker game which went on until early Sunday morning. He had just returned, tired but filled with the feeling of success that only five hundred dollars in bills and gold coins could give a winner. He said hello to his brothers and stepped into the outhouse. When he came out, Federico and Maximiliano, dressed in dark pinstripe suits, stopped arguing about which was the better car for the money. Federico tilted his white cap and put his hand to his hips.
“Brother, how did it go?” he asked.
In the moments before the answer, Octavio experienced a weight of responsibility. He felt as if he had brought them to Simons and that he was duty-bound to them. Federico was twenty years old and seemed restless. Often he talked about leaving the house, perhaps going to work in another yard. Maximiliano, who at eighteen had shown hard-working brickman’s skills and a great passion for women, lately revealed a sickly paleness on his face. Jose, sixteen, talked a lot about impossible goals, played an excellent second-base and worked hard when he desired. Rogaciana, their fourteen-year-old sister, had recently blossomed into womanhood. She was a little uneasy with her brothers, but Octavio understood that to be natural. Felicitas, ten years old, was the youngest, a child who demanded everything and usually got her way.
Octavio heard his mother scolding Rogaciana who again could not find her shoes. Felicitas screamed that they would be late for church if they did not hurry. Octavio heard them all—all except his father.
“It went very well, Federico. So well that I can tell you that soon we will buy our own car,” Octavio said.
The three brothers immediately brought the car magazine up and showed Octavio the different makes.
“Octavio,” Milagros called and slowly stepped down the three steps from the kitchen entrance. Rogaciana and Felicitas joined the others, excited about the possibility of purchasing a car. Milagros walked her son toward the street.
“Octavio, your father has not given me any money for the house. The girls need shoes and dresses for school. And you and your brother need work clothes.”
Milagros knew her son’s reply; this was not the first time she had turned to him. She felt sad for him. Although she believed that the oldest son was obligated to contribute to the household to a higher degree than the others, she silently cursed Damian for making Octavio’s burden so heavy.
“Here Mama, take this.”
“Why does he make us carry this heavy cross?” Milagros thanked Octavio and went off to church with her daughters.
Octavio watched them for a while. Rogaciana and Felicitas turned to wave to their big brother. He took a deep breath. He was unshaven, clammy and hungry.
“Come with us. We are going to Montebello Park to the Ceballos’ picnic birthday party,” Federico implored.
“No thanks. I’m taking a bath and then I’m going to Gonzalo’s restaurant. Maybe I will find our father there.” Octavio started for the house when Jose approached him.
“Hey, Octavio. Have you heard about the orchestra?” Jose asked.
“What orchestra?” Octavio asked, unsure.
“Simons will have a big band. They already have been practicing for a few days. All the musicians are from Simons.” Jose raised his voice.
“Well, those boys have played together for a long time. They always play at Simons fiestas,” Octavio said, unimpressed.
“But this is going to be an official band. Mrs. Simons wants an orchestra with a conductor whom she will send to us. The orchestra will be hers. They will practice this afternoon at the big hall,” Jose called back from the gate leading out to the street. He looked back again and waved to his oldest brother.
Octavio entered the house, took off his clothes except for his boxer shorts, and shaved as he filled the tub. He sat in the warm water, relaxed and dozed off to sleep in short spurts of time. He enjoyed this state of drowsiness. He could savor that precious condition of sleep for intense short moments. The soap smelled clean and fresh. He rinsed with a hose attached to the bath faucet. He did not like to rinse off with the same can that everybody in the family used. One of these days soon he would build a shower outside and shorten a hose and connect it up high on the
bath wall. The family would have a shower inside and out. He considered the thought amusing as he dried his body.
He adjusted his tie, put on his cap and walked out of the house. Since the Simons amusement hall was on the way to the restaurant, Octavio decided to walk by. Perhaps the band, or as Jose had said, the official Simons orchestra, would be there getting ready to practice.
As he drew nearer to the hall he heard silence. The Simons musicians were there unloading garment bags and boxes from a truck. Octavio knew most of the men. He greeted them and walked into the hall where other men unpacked red and black trousers, green jackets, white frilly shirts and long black velvet scarves. From the boxes black bolero hats were drawn.
“Octavio, do you like our uniforms?” Don Vicente Limon asked.
“Yes, beautiful, Don Vicente,” Octavio answered.
A short man with baton in hand and dressed in a Simons Brick Company Orchestra uniform entered the hall.
“Gentlemen,” the conductor said, demanding complete attention. “Put your uniforms on and we will begin to work immediately. Thank you.”
He tapped the baton against a chair and went before a podium. As the men undressed and dressed, they passed by the conductor who handed them each a book of music.
“Excuse me, Octavio, but we are going to practice. Stay and listen.” Don Vicente Limon, decked out in his uniform, put his flute together, received his music, placed it on the stand and took his place in the front row.
Within ten minutes the Simons Brick Company Orchestra was in full uniform, assembled and ready to practice. Octavio, taken in by the excitement and rush of the musicians, moved back and found a seat. His mind was hooked by a musical note from a flute, then one from a trumpet, a tuba, a clarinet, a french horn, a trombone, a violin, a viola, drums, and a baritone saxophone. Finally the instruments were tuned. The conductor tapped the baton, raised his hands and the band began to play “Rhapsody in Blue,” “April Showers,” the Mexican national anthem, and the United States national anthem.
The conductor then worked with each musician on individual passages. He smiled all the while as the men perspired, trying their best to impress this man sent by Edit Simons. He spoke often, at times encouraging, at times scolding, often repeating her name, for she was his superior. The conductor demanded excellence from the band and insisted that each member strive for achievement beyond himself. After the musicians had gone through the individual parts, the conductor again began “Rhapsody in Blue.”
The music followed Octavio in the direction of Gonzalo’s restaurant. For half an hour he walked to his destination, but somehow he advanced slowly, meandering aimlessly through pieces of space and moments of time, allowing his vision to be filled with the changes that were occurring around him ... Everything is changing so rapidly, Octavio thought, standing before a row of about ten trucks ... Before they were mules and horses. And they changed as if by magic. And now by magic we have an official band. I bet they will take them to play for the gringos. He saw a plane landing at Vail Airport, then another and soon after another landed ... Machines will dominate the world ... He remembered what he had told his brothers about driving a car. He forgot one thing: he did not know how to drive ... I will learn.
Octavio stepped onto the general store porch and entered the restaurant. He took a table across from Gonzalo, who sat with Amalia. Jacobo Ramos drank a cup of coffee. Octavio said hello and searched the room for his father. Damian was nowhere to be found. The general conversation in the restaurant centered around the new conductor and band. The baseball team and the band would bring fame to Simons, but for the moment Octavio could give a damn about Simons. His main concern was where the next meal for the family would come from. He admired the band but felt that Edit could have used her money in a better way for the residents of Simons.
Several young men entered the restaurant and ordered two glasses of homemade beer.
“Hey, is that the Simons band?” one man asked all present.
Most nodded their heads affirmatively, and a few yesses rang out.
“They’re taking a lot of photographs of the band. Mrs. Simons is with the photographer. I heard her say that the musicians would get a photograph and also that they want more musicians. It’s true, this place is modernizing,” the young man said and took a long swig of beer.
About half-way home, Octavio followed the tracks for the new rail system that was being installed. The conversation of the young man in the restaurant came to him. One word—modernizing—danced in his mind. He understood the word to mean a force of reading, writing, mathematics, machines and everlasting change. He would allow that force to take him just so far.
The tall woman rang the doorbell and the piano music inside stopped. Two minutes went by and the woman grew impatient. She rang the doorbell again and finally the door opened. A noticeably pregnant Edit Simons shook Kaila Morisson’s hand and slowly led her to the library where they went through the formalities of offering and accepting afternoon tea and then setting the ground rules for the interview.
Kaila, a freelance writer and sociologist, was preparing an article that was to be published in one of the leading California sociological journals. She had long wanted to interview Edit Simons, for she had heard of the wonders which the Simonses had accomplished with housing for their Mexicans, the subject of Kaila’s study. Earlier that week Kaila had interviewed Joseph Simons at his home in Pasadena. The interview was short and not informative. Joseph seemed unwilling to speak freely and was uncomfortable when it came to discussing his brother’s factory in Simons.
As the interview with Edit started, Kaila realized that questions were not needed to help Edit speak about the Mexicans housed at her husband’s brick factory.
“My husband’s workers are all Mexican except for the supervisor and a few of the truck drivers. They are excellent, faithful workers. Our Mexicans are not those heavy-lipped, sleepy-eyed Latins reclining in the sun, too lazy to seek the shade. No, Miss Morisson, these men, women and children are lovely, hard workers.
“Yes, I am aware of the thousands of Mexicans who come to Los Angeles yearly seeking a job. You must consider that behind those dull eyes lies the tragedy of a nation. I agree, the Mexican is basically lazy. Their idleness is caused by a lack of mental development resulting from decades of violence and oppression. As people, they are content with very little, but I believe that is but the heritage of generations forced to adapt themselves to bitter poverty and horrible tyranny.” Edit poured tea and paused to rest.
“Mrs. Simons, what do you think of the housing you provide?” Kaila asked, moving to the edge of the chair and reaching for her tea. She sipped, put the cup down and prepared to take notes.
“Excellent. Mr. Simons and I are aware of the horrible housing conditions poor people are forced to live under. We have seen the Mexican courts, the one and two-room shacks where they cook on a very poor makeshift stove, where there are no electrical lights, no plumbing, no furniture, only a trunk where the family guards their most valuable possessions.
“We do not approve of unscrupulous landlords who provide only one toilet for an entire court which may house five families or more. This is inhumane treatment, not decent. Simons housing, on the other hand, is excellent. You will not find any of these deplorable conditions at our factory,” Edit said, watching Kaila transcribe her words.
“Why don’t the Mexicans complain to the authorities?” Kaila asked as she put a fresh sheet of paper on top.
“Because they are accustomed to very little in Mexico,” Edit answered, “and therefore they accept the very worst living conditions that Los Angeles offers. They are usually content with very little. They have been forced into the worst sections of the city. And I am sure, Miss Morisson, that you know the results. The city has been forced to increase its public health staff. The damp, unsanitary, dark homes of the Mexicans are constant sources of tuberculosis. And because of the crowded conditions, social diseases are rapidly spreading among these
people. Alcoholism, prostitution and gambling are rampant in the Mexican areas.
“These evils can only be eradicated by providing better homes and offering basic services as we have done in Simons. We provide excellent housing, a school and library, a health clinic, a baseball team, and we have even organized an orchestra that will perform in the Rose Parade this year. My husband and I take great pride in the way we treat our Mexicans. And in return they are totally dedicated to the factory and to Mr. Simons,” Edit said, handing Kaila a photograph of the orchestra.
Kaila placed the photograph in her briefcase and reached for her tea. The women traded glances and a smile, both satisfied with the manner in which the interview progressed.
“Back to what I was saying earlier,” Edit continued. “The Mexicans are childlike in their desires and accept what they are given. Seldom do they question their situation. If they are housed in ill-drained buildings, with insufficient light and air, with poor sanitary plumbing and small rooms, they will remain lazy and shiftless. Mr. Simons and I believe that the Mexicans must be made self-reliant, independent and proud of their efficiency. We have created a town in which the Mexicans can achieve these goals.” Edit looked out to the garden at the side of the house. The sound of gurgling fountains entertained the minds of both women.
“Your home is very beautiful,” Kaila commented. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
“I must confess a strange thought that just came to me,” Edit replied. “Mexicans, like cockroaches, are extremely adaptable. They will survive anything. Many might perish, but there will always be survivors to propagate the race. They’re just like cockroaches.”
Edit moved next to the window and brought out Leaves of Grass which she had been reading prior to playing the piano before Kaila’s arrival.
Chapter 10
The Brick People Page 16