A Nation of Amor

by Christopher McConnell

  “Yes I know, oh I know,” he responds.

  He places the calendar back in the breast pocket of his suit and checks his watch.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes Thomas?”

  “Has Alderman Matos accepted the new development?”

  “It’s close,” he says, “very close. To be successful, Goose Island must initiate the regeneration of all Westtown. Our consortium has acquired every available site from the river to Western Boulevard. The only obstacle will be the public hearings. Alderman Matos has the magic wand. Only he can ensure the community will support the changes.”

  “How will you convince him?”

  “I’m fighting a dangerous battle. The party is getting impatient. Alderman Matos is a young, solidly supported politician who is wise enough to risk short-term local popularity to keep the Democratic Party machine behind him. But he’s a homegrown Puerto Rican; that makes him far too accountable to his electorate. Consequently, many in the party view Alderman Matos as a liability, another alderman-for-life hog-tied by every crackpot community group suspicious of economic development. The party cannot sustain its token Hispanic in what is arguably the most important ward in the city for economic development.

  “Some want to discredit Alderman Matos and identify a more malleable and less locally accountable candidate. Matos has a sensitive background, plenty of fishy dealings, and he’s very short of money so is infinitely bribable. Some have suggested an internal inquiry, coordinated by police, the party, people from the community he’s screwed in the past … Then, a private confrontation accompanied by a threat to go public.

  “But, I believe, why create a prodigal son? Let’s reward sensible, grass roots leadership. The party has the power to gerrymander the congressional district and back him for the candidacy. You see, I refuse to be part of a cultural vendetta against the poor. Let’s get him out of the way by sending him to Washington. He’s powerless there anyway. The community feels proud and flattered, and we can move more quickly without risking a confrontation. We could even encourage Alderman Matos to help us identify his successor.

  “But, I’m afraid the dinosaurs in the party have already made their decision. So, data mounts, a dossier is formed, quite a few people are gunning for Alderman Matos if he refuses to play ball. C’mon, I’ll drop you by the house.”

  Back of Sophie’s is a tiny parking lot surrounded by a high, barbed-wire-topped chain link fence. Though overlooked by three junky infested transient hotels, cars are always safe here, even my father’s Mercedes sedan.

  He backs the car into the alley, pausing to allow a tiny Puerto Rican woman and her children to cross. We stop at a red light at the corner of Division Street and Western Boulevard.

  “I envy you son. I’m stuck in dreary boardrooms. You get your hands dirty, right in the trenches with these youngsters. Your partnership is real, human.”

  My vantage from the passenger side offers a clear view of Sara pressing the buzzer at the iron gate of my house. Father, preoccupied and nearsighted, is, thankfully, unable to share the sight with me.

  “I’ll jump out here Dad, save you circling back.”

  I open the door and spring from the car, an imprint of my body left like a dusty fingerprint on the dark, leather seat.

  “Call your mother Thom—”

  But I slam the door shut before he finishes, the light changes, and I wave him away.

  Unaware of my approach, Sara searches the windows like an anxious alcoholic awaiting opening time. Stymied by the lack of a response, she dances a stationary, frustrated jig. Finally spying me, she urges me to hurry with a harried, pleading wave of her arm. She tugs me through the gate and up the front steps and rushes me indoors. Not until we are safely locked inside does she take my hand, squeezing it between her cold palms.

  “Where have you been?” she cries.

  “Lunching …”

  I pull her to me. But she backs away, dragging me up the stairs to my second-floor bedroom. She wears a long, black duster, her Vuarnets, and tall, leather cowboy boots. Once in the bedroom she sinks into me, resting her cheek on my chest, smudging her dark skin on the plaster dust.

  In my room I have little but a king-sized bed and bookshelves against an exposed brick wall. The only place to sit is on the broad, window seat at the bay overlooking Western Boulevard. She walks to it and sits facing the glass, still in her coat and sunglasses. She takes off her leather gloves and stuffs them in the pocket of her coat.

  On the bookshelf is a bottle of wine we left unfinished from last night. I fill dirty glasses and offer her one of them. She accepts it, knocking half of the glass back with a gulp. She won’t look at me. I can’t see her eyes, nothing but her hands. She is behind all of her clothing, draped like a sculpture awaiting an unveiling. She crosses her legs and lights a cigarette, staring out the window at the bright, cool sun.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and lean back on my hands. “I thought we were going out later? What’s up?”

  She takes off her sunglasses and reveals a greenish lump beneath her left eye.

  I start up from the bed, but she doesn’t respond, she sits and swells. She doesn’t want me near her now, she wants to breathe, to breathe easily and not watch her back, to be someplace safe where she can compose herself. She has unbuttoned her coat and is wearing a short skirt with no stockings. The boots were tugged on her feet in a hurry. Over her torso is a man’s jersey, one of mine, that fits loosely over her thin frame. The open neck exposes her sternum and collarbone. She wears no make-up or jewelry. She has calmed a bit; gone is the frantic, adrenaline panting of flight. I walk to her and fill her glass. She still won’t speak, so I return to the bed.

  “I’ll call the cops. Even if you won’t, I will,” I tell her.

  There is a brimming ashtray on the window seat and she forces her cigarette into the mound. She sways her head back and forth.

  “No, no, no, no cops.” She sips at her wine. “You don’t understand. I’m not safe, not at home, not anywhere.”

  A tremendous boom rattles the ceiling, reverberations shake the house to its foundation.

  “What the hell is that?” She starts.

  “That fucking kid. I have one of the students doing some work for me upstairs.”

  “That why you’re covered in all this shit?”

  I laugh, drawing my hand through my hair and sprinkling the bed with plaster dust. “Kinda rugged, huh?”

  But she won’t allow herself to smile. Her eyes are downcast, the sun shining behind her, a golden aura glowing around her head.

  “Tommy … I don’t wanna live like this.”

  And she walks to me, eyes averted, until she drops to her knees before me and lays her cheek on my thigh. She lifts her arms and wraps them around my waist, working her face into my dusty pant leg as she sobs.

  “I don’t want it no more. I have dreams … I want to do things …”

  I rub the back of her head with my palm, stroking her brittle hair, trying to ease the tension from her. I lean over and kiss the top of her head, but she cries out, as if I have stabbed her, so I increase my caresses, my kisses, but she burrows her face harder and harder into my lap. “Shhh, shhh, I’ll take care of it.” But I can’t console her. “It’s all right, it’s all right baby.” I don’t know what to do but keep going, say something to divert the pain. “If you want, I’m ready, move in here with me.”

  She shrieks again, the sobs pouring forth in long wails of misery, but I can’t stop now. “I have it all figured out. Live here, you’ll be safe. I can get you into college. I’ll get you a job if you want one. I’ll take care of everything.”

  On and on and on, her cries sustaining themselves, nourishing themselves, each cry triggered by another of my pledges until I stop talking, stop caressing, and I am leaning back, watching as her body expels the tears and begins to calm from exhaustion.

  The pain is exorcised. She stand before me, eyes still averted, and lifts the jersey over her head
to expose her naked chest, her fine brown skin and round breasts, then unzips the skirt and steps out of it. She pushes me back on the bed with her palms and soon we are both naked, hot, wallowing in the fine, white paste of the plaster dust, smearing each other with pale streaks.

  MANO MATOS

  December 5, a night out

  Once there was a man who was hardened by life. He learned to trust only himself, and to fight for what he wanted. Given a chance at freedom, he took it, and made a new life. He escaped the skeletons of his past, just in time for it all to come crashing down, again …

  I gotta relax some. Try to enjoy myself a little. Say what? And these two guys, Uncle Bobo and Uncle Rey, two monkeys sellin’ a tall GED con, be like handin’ out Band-Aids at Khe Sahn. This pressure’s gettin’ to me.

  I work my body, hard. I get money. But Mari balks and squawks, her used to be fine hips waddling into the public aid office for a handout. Mari’s young, but she won’t learn the easy way. I must be patient and guide her. My duty: to love and protect.

  It’s an evil plot, all my enemies joining forces to conspire against me. Boil, boil, toil and trouble, they all stand around a bubbling cauldron, my face smiling in the brew …

  A WITCHES SABBATH!!!

  Get a grip Mano ole boy. Bobby passes me the pipe from the back seat, have a little jam on the glass saxophone. Get me some R & R at the Battle of the DJs, House Boy Benny vs. Rockin’ Ralphy Rosario. J-J-J-J-Jack the House tonight, move your body from left to right …

  P-Dub parks the car and we spill out into the clear night. Easy does it, we gently push the doors shut with barely a click.

  “Is it safe?” I ask.

  “Party colors Mano. Bugsy puts on these house battles all the time.”

  I got Richie, ET, P-Dub, and Bobby to watch my back. But I wish Flaco was here. Flaco be like the good hands People, my disaster insurance, my good neighbor. We leave our headless hats in the car.

  Outside the old Rainbow Theater it’s still too early for any fights. The Rainbow be changed too, can’t nothin’ stay the same? Somebody turned it into a roller rink. Some white T-shirts hangin’ at the door, all the big, bold Folks dressed up like Casper the Friendly Ghost tonight. Party colors, more like pussy colors.

  Bugsy and that Folky Omar be at the door. So they say this is the future. People be calling it détente. A new era of cooperation. But it smells like alewives to me. Black and Gold usedta mean something in this hood. I ain’t runnin’ no Webelos pack. I’m gonna change up on the changes, bring it back to man style.

  Them like Bugsy and Omar just gettin’ old. Gray gangsters sleeping with the enemy. What kind of gangbanger can you be at 20?

  This Bugsy gets amnesia sometimes, forgets who his friends are. Very interesting, but stupid. Mano keeps Bugsy in beepers. Bugsy be lookin’ outside the hood, playin’ with Folks and such. Tell me Bugsy, who’s watching your back these days? And his lady dumped him for Teacher Tom. That’s right, the bochinche gets around on you Bugsy boy.

  Bugsy frisks me. His time has gone, Bugsy has outlived his usefulness. But not now, not here. What’s the use of an old gangbanger? Hand in your gun, hang up those spurs, ride off into the sunset hombre …

  Bugsy wanna be some Once and Future King.

  He makes with a Mr. Ed smile, but it don’t make that runt of the litter shit he been givin’ us any better on my nose. No rocks, it’s all cut down, old and dry. Where’s the quality merchandise goin’? If I got to ride, I’ll ride the white horse. Don’t ride no white pony. A horse is a horse of course of course …

  Damn, that shit Bobby’s got tonight is fine. Frank Lopez said don’t get high on your own supply! Then what’s the use of bein’ in business? Just say no! But we say yes. Spark dat doob bro’! Share da wealth. But never underestimate the other guy’s greed.

  Omar’s boys frisk us too, then we make for the doors to the roller rink. Somebody inside dials the power up to eleven. Suddenly it’s Sensurround.

  Bugsy yells at us, “Mano! Hold on bro’.”

  P-Dub’s got his fingers on the door handle but he don’t open it. It’s a long, thin hallway. Except for some Folky fans hangin’ by the other end, nobody else here but us chickens.

  Bugsy whispers in my ear, “We need to talk.”

  He leads me toward a door marked Staff Only. The boys are backin’ me up. Bobby waits outside.

  Inside be rows and rows of skates, piled high on shelves, size 12 almost hits the ceiling.

  “We’re straight, right bro’?” Bugsy’s got a speech all prepared.

  I withhold judgment.

  “I know, that fucking Omar’s a punk. But his uncle owns this place. Claro?”

  P-Dub’s got a skate over his hand, spinning wheels go round and round.

  “Oye Mano, you know this guy that works for your uncle? This Coldero, in the alderman’s office? Coldero thinks he don’t have to be straight with people. He wears a suit and carries your uncle’s briefcase. He makes my wallet hurt. He gives me cash flow headaches. What hurts me hurts you. Because of this guy, I’m in a credit crunch. Claro?”

  Too many chiefs around here, not enough Indians. Why is it that every time somebody needs some milk spilled, they all start lookin’ for Mano. Cuz Mano likes to play it Mad Max style.

  Bugsy starts up again. “Coldero’s out there right now. He comes around here all the time and acts like he don’t know me. That’s cold-blooded. Habla con tu tío, for me. You know, walk softly, but …”

  And everybody wants to make boredom sound like the answer to all my dreams. Ain’t no discipline ’round here no more. Poppy didn’t need to walk softly. Instead of thinking, he leaped.

  We march into the rink and it’s like gettin’ hit by electric walls of sound. House Boy Benny is up on stage, tall amps surround him, he’s hard at work over a turntable. Benny’s got a valet who wears a suit, paid to stand to one side and watch Benny’s brow. When Benny gets hot and bothered the valet wipes off the sweat with a white silk hanky. That’s stylin’.

  In the mix, in the mix … All this scratchin’ is makin’ me itch. But it’s Candyland in here without any colors. The crystal ball hanging from the ceiling shoots laser lights over the roller skaters. Pink and green, yellow and blue, white on everybody, hundreds of gangsters dressed up like clowns. What is it with kids these days?

  P-Dub pulls Coldero from the floor. P-Dub rolls him out the door, nice and easy. I think P-Dub be Coldero’s cousin or some shit. Me and the boys follow him into the Staff Only room.

  Coldero’s got a mustache and a Rolex watch, but he’s wearing roller skates like this be his fourth grade birthday party. He holds on to one of the skate racks to keep his balance.

  Bobby and Richie are behind him, the motherfucker’s got nobody to watch his back. They wrap the long skate laces around their wrists. Get some momentum goin’ for those steel wheels.

  P-Dub gives his cousin a square. Coldero lights it and smiles at me. He says, “You’re growin’ up into a real asshole Mano. You know that? One of these days your uncle is gonna wake up. Then he’ll send you down to PR for a while. Those fucking jungle bunnies fight with machetes down there.”

  Coldero laughs at us.

  “Mano,” he whines, “the little Caesar pose is gettin’ old bro’. Why don’t you grow up?”

  Justice. Truth. The Latin King Way. This hood ain’t straight for your average gangbanger no more.

  Help me think right Poppy. Good and evil. Right and wrong. The reasons to fight were simple. Nobody questioned you, Poppy. Now, everybody forgets about pride, about a Nation of Amor. I’m tired of bow wow wow yippee yi yippee yo from punks like this guy and that. It’s Saturday night, I’m confused, I’m dangerous …

  But I like it!

  “You runnin’ some shit now Coldero?”

  Whoosh!! Bobby swings the skate heavy into Coldero’s kidneys. Zinggg!! The punk’s roller feet go out from under him. Richie bashes at his fingers so they lose their grip on the rack and he’s down for
the count. Thud!! Thud!! Thud!! It’s roller skates and Air Jordans to the body time. Leave it. The vultures can take whatever’s left.

  Seven ways to make you jack! Seven ways and we take no slack! You’re soft as a pillow but I’m hard as steel.

  Rockin’ Ralphy Rosario’s on stage, ladies everywhere, round and round they go, where she stops nobody knows. Folky faces, People faces, laughing, dancing, skating, pass me by and then pass me by again. What do they think when they see my Crowns!

  I don’t tag for my health. I’m spreadin’ Amor with spray paint, a lover’s Nation of tall gangsters. Matos, Mano Matos, shaken not stirred. Like Poppy, we look poorly on failure. Poppy taught me the value of rewarding success, and punishing failure.

  Hamuna-Hamuna-Hamuna, Norton my friend …

  I turn to Richie, he’s leaning on the rail watching the same thing pass by as me.

  I ask him, “You know this girl?”

  Richie says, “I seen her here before.”

  She got eyes on her thighs, cat’s eyes. She’s wearin’ some skin-tight leggings that say CATS down the sides of her legs, two emerald eyes pass by only to come back again on her next lap. Ouch …

  Every time I think of Mariza all I can see is her pimpin’ into that public aid office without me. She got no respect. Girlie girl thinks she knows the world. All that time, we lived on our own summer of love. Why’s that got to change so? Bringin’ caseworkers and sisters and mothers into our world. Why? I’ve committed no crime Mariza. Charge me or free me. Come on then.

  In this hood, Mamas for miles magnetized by what was the Woolworth’s before I was a man. Now they call it a public aid office. Grandma used to buy me Lick-a-Maid, Zotz, and Bazooka Joes in there.

  Boil boil toil and trouble, Mariza’s just another hag for the Witch’s Sabbath!!!

  “Richie, get that girl to stop next time ’round.”

  “No Mano, you don’t want that shit. That’s Omar’s new lady. She’s Folks from way back.”