A Nation of Amor

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A Nation of Amor Page 10

by Christopher McConnell


  “On the morning of April 4, 1968, Earl Ray shot and killed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. outside a hotel room in Memphis. CNN was still a decade away from being a glint in another white Southerner’s eye, so it took a little time for the news to spread. It started in schools, thousands of black kids pulling up and meeting in parks, on corners, anyplace where a crowd could mingle, percolate, and froth. Twelve blocks south of here all those black school kids met up with folks who were just as concerned with Dr. King’s death but no longer felt the need to attend an educational establishment. Namely, people like Angel, but they were black; Rangers, Disciples, Panthers, and they marched down Madison Street burning and looting everything in their path before the police kept them from getting to the Loop by raising the bridges at the Chicago River.

  “City of Big Shoulders, Hog Butcher to the World; these are practical, workaday euphemisms which evoke images of broad-shouldered guys named Stan who care more for getting the job done than whether a few fingers end up in the sausage grinder. How was the rest of the city to be kept from burning? The Mayor needed to find some can-do kinda guys.

  “That afternoon an unmarked police car picked Angel and me up from Dayton Street and drove us, via Lake Shore Drive because Cabrini Green was turning into Beirut, down to city hall. Destination, the fifth floor, Da Boss’s office. Angel was 18 years old. He wore his bowling shirt, sans-a-belts, cockroach killer shoes, and a black leather jacket.

  “We sat in an anteroom to his office. I figured we were waiting to see the Pope. Angel chain-smoked Pall Malls amongst a room full of serge-suited, ivory-collared, heavily perspiring black clergymen, each one nervously fondling a felt hat. I had to pee, and Angel promised he wouldn’t go into the Mayor’s office without me, his top adviser. Two cops took me down the hall to a washroom where the urinals were as tall as me, where a police captain was getting a shoeshine, where a little old black man who walked like Fred Sanford handed me a real towel to be used once, then throw into a basket.

  “The men’s room on the fifth floor of city hall was bigger than our apartment. The lack of privacy gave me stage fright. One of the cops accompanying me turned on the tap and told me to repeat the phrase Niagara Falls, Niagara Falls … A piece of advice I still put to use. After rehearsing my scowl in the mirror, I joined my escorts and returned to the anteroom a new man.

  “Angel retained a lit cigarette as we were ushered into the room, which I thought a faux pas, but everyone in there seemed to have about six going at once. Mayor Richard J. Daley had the biggest head I’d ever seen, a huge chunk of meat, like a standing rib roast bolted to his shoulders. A little guy, only 5 feet 3 inches or so, he was seated with his ass on the edge of the desk, feet dangling above the floor. He wore white anklets and black lace-up shoes so shiny he could see up a girl’s dress in any dance hall. Little wisps of hair stuck out from the three inches of chapped gam revealed between anklet top and pant cuff. To sit around like that and greet somebody, you gotta be important, jefe of all jefes. He noted our presence with a nod of his brush-topped head.

  “With the blinds drawn I couldn’t see into the recesses of the immense office, but there seemed to be quite a few people back in the smoky shadows. We weren’t offered a chair, but a jumpy white guy, skinny with glasses, paced around us and held an ashtray for Angel.

  “Mayor Daley didn’t look too worried, his little feet swaying above the carpet, but the guy with the ashtray, who was to do the talking, needed a shave and a fresh shirt. He said to Angel, ‘We understand you may be able to keep the riots from spreading to Lincoln Park?’

  “Angel raised the two-inch ash on his square and the skinny guy raced over and held the ashtray while Angel snubbed it out. The silence was overpowering, when Angel finally slapped shut the lid on his Zippo after lighting another, you’d have thought every door at city hall was slammed at once. Angel grinned at the mayor.

  “Angel said, ‘Mr. Mayor, this is my baby brother, Reynaldito. I like to give him educational experiences. I had to share this honor with him.’

  “Angel nudged me and I walked up to the Mayor and offered a trembling, fishy, half-assed excuse for a hand. Mayor Daley chuckled. Boy, did I have something to pimp about at school mañana. Mayor Daley gave me the hearty handclasp and asked, ‘White Sox or Cubs fan?’

  “At that point in time I was probably the only sports fan in Chicago ignorant of the fact that Richard J. Daley grew up within spitting distance from Comiskey Park. ‘Cubs!’ I blurted. The room, in direct proportion to the Mayor’s jowls, shook with laughter.

  “The skinny guy held the ashtray for Angel again. He asked, ‘Will your people go to the streets over King or not?’

  “Angel shrugged and answered, ‘King who? Only King our way be Latin Kings.’ Somebody in the shadows said Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And he wasn’t praying.

  “Angel took a long drag from his square. ‘That dead co-colo? He don’t look too familiar from our hood.’ He knew the Mayor couldn’t spare one cop for Lincoln Park that night. Angel was a prince of the city. ‘Mr. Mayor, Puerto Ricans don’t burn their own homes.’

  “Mayor Daley mussed my hair and sent me back to Angel, who put his arm around me and said, ‘I got lots of little brothers to take care of, not just Reynaldito. The Latin Kings are straight.’ Somebody in the shadows said, ‘Christ Almighty.’

  “Mayor Daley hopped off his desk and lost six inches in height. He shook Angel’s hand, only after Angel deposited a burning ash on the mayoral carpet.

  “But Angel wasn’t finished. ‘Mr. Mayor, I read about your daughter’s wedding and I would like to congratulate you and your family. I hope you enjoy the day.’ Mayor Daley turned and asked, ‘You have kids yet?’ Angel shook his head. ‘Sons are cheaper,’ the Mayor told him.

  “That night, a Nation of Amor was a police-free zone. The Latin Kings proudly roamed the quietest inner city streets in America. Two weeks later, Angel and I received invitations to the wedding ceremony of Mary Kate Daley, at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, ceremony to be performed by John Cardinal Cody.”

  MARIZA DEL RIOS

  January 6, at work

  The Nurse says,

  “Hurry up Mariza, I want to get home.”

  Three more assholes to clean and I can afford a stroller. Working should be a career, not a job. Well, a job would be straight if it paid more than $3.35 an hour. Oh please none of you wake up while I got to clean you off still. Lucky to push this cart to the end of the row without throwing up.

  The Breathing Machine says,

  “Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm …”

  What’s that they say? Havin’ no money is the mother of conventions? At least with my belly Mano trusts me not to play him dirty no more. He’d be happier if I wasn’t around. If there was no baby. Today, my first ever payday, $3.35 an hour times 20 hours. Can a person live on that? I’d work it out with Teacher Tom but it’s too embarrassing letting people know what I do. When Rey gave us three weeks for Christmas vacation he looked stone depressed.

  Rey said,

  “If any of you even think of calling me on the telephone, I’ll kill you.”

  Saw those ads in the lavandería a hundred times, but it’s only now that I would ever think of looking for a job while washing Mano’s dirty underwears. The Westtown Institute for Success, like it said, I need $$$ results, not years of dead end school. With money I might even get my own place to live someday. My sister asked mama real careful if I could come stay, but she ain’t lettin’ a baby back in the house. Lucky, cuz you got to have a public aid card to get into the Westtown Institute for Success. After signing up I had to put the public aid card back in mama’s mailbox on the way home. Mama don’t want to see me. I musta drove by the Westtown Institute for Success so many times with Mano, never thinking once about walking through the doors. Life can be funny that way.

  The Success Lady said,

  “We have career opportunities in food services, health care, or beautology.”

  That’s when it hit me, straig
ht, a nurse, yeah, to work in the clinic and treat all the girls like me nice. Not like little sluts to make them feel sucio about themselves. Plenty of women are nurses, and it’s a career, thinking about how caring for people is one thing I never see too much of at the clinic. But more, it would be straight to have a nurse called Maria or Belia, who could talk with you from understanding, not just another person doin’ a job like in some factory. Everybody knows that ain’t the same, especially when it’s so embarrassing with your feet up in the air and you can’t even see who’s looking inside you. In my white uniform, smiling at people, that is always one of my good qualities. Promising niños the shot won’t hurt and not lying. Getting a little apartment near the hospital I could walk to work to have more time to spend with my baby. Lots of nurses must have babies so there must be some kind of way they know, a day-care center or something, and after a long day to play with her and put her down in our own little crib …

  I said,

  “I wanna be a nurse.”

  This Success Lady doin’ her job like a smiling snake, smart enough not to talk snotty. But no diploma, no GED, and when I stepped back from the counter, the look on her face, not surprised and angry, but a smile as if I was making her job easier.

  The Success Lady said,

  “Your condition limits us. Doesn’t it?”

  First time I ever heard a baby called a limit. But I guess it’s true somehow, all of a sudden I can only do 40 mph when before 65 mph was too slow.

  The Success Lady said,

  “I can offer you our one week pre-employment course which includes the world-of-work induction, resume preparation workshop, and job referral.”

  One week and into a job! The first step on my career ladder. That’s how people start out, at the bottom, but if I start at sixteen I should be able to work my way up to a nurse in a couple years, right? And everybody was so nice there. All women, most with kids but some just pregnant like me, in a place that was like a big secret for all of us. Together to bochinche all day about our men, babies, tall talkin’ shit cuz nobody could hear us and we didn’t even know where each other lived. No Teacher Tom rolling his eyes. No Rey preachin’ all day. And we get jobs. When the Success Lady gave me a certificate that said Mariza Del Rios, I thought, girlfriend, this time you’re on to a tall con. I never got no certificate before.

  Once I had the address for this place, like a little kid, I was so excited I even went to the library. Old folks need nurses just as much, even if I was starting out only as an unregistered care assistant. Used my initiative, kickin’ myself in the ass for not initiativin’ Mano back in July. The elderly need to be talked to, not at. You can’t baby them too much. Always ask before doing something nasty and personal to respect their dignity …

  The Breathing Machine says,

  “Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm …”

  If only I could ask any of these old people on my ward. I can hear the TV in back, the Nurse with her scarf around her neck chewing her nails, waiting for me to clean the last two. How come if they can’t even breathe by themselves they can still dirty diapers so easy? First day the Nurse gives me an extra fat uniform, so this ain’t the first time she saw a Mari comin’ to work. At least I don’t have to clean that too. People here nice and friendly, the Nurse showed me the station where I can watch TV all night and how to make coffee in the machine.

  The Nurse said,

  “Honey, you just be around at 6 p.m. and 9 p.m. for the bedpans.”

  I didn’t even know what a bedpan was. Didn’t need to, most of these poor old people can’t even use one of those. It’s like walkin’ down the alley, these viejos all wrapped in the same blankets the color of garbage bags. A head stickin’ up as if the bag wasn’t tied up too good. Some have no legs or arms, maybe just one of each, the shapes I see in the dark could be dogs underneath those blankets.

  The Breathing Machine says,

  “Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm …”

  I got paid, what, $30 plus bus fare at the Westtown Institute for Success. But it wasn’t too far so I wore two pairs of socks to keep my feet warm and walked to save the money. Bought these boots, ugly ass, waterproof boots with fake fur inside. I don’t care how they look. Before, I could spend all day in a shoe store, beggin’ mama for just one more pair that I hadta have. Needed different colors for every day of a school week. Walkin’ home from the shoe shop I looked like some bag lady with these violin cases on my feet. But they’re warm. I carried my old canvas shoes in a bag on the first day of work so I wouldn’t get the floor of the old folks’ home dirty.

  The Nurse said,

  “In here are your supplies.”

  The diapers on my cart look like little quilty pillows, puffed up and folded over in piles, tape on the edges, same color as the blankets. Remember to bring towels and cloths, new ones for each person, like cleaning windows. And plenty of those wet wipes …

  The Nurse says,

  “Finished yet Mariza?”

  On the last bed his legs be cut off, at the knees, like two fists sticking out the bottom of his body. I knew this was part-time when I came here but with my initiative I could prove myself and get some more hours. But even if I clean every dirty asshole in the place, change every diaper, they only got twenty hours for me, $3.35 an hour. If I stop working now, I can’t see when I’ll ever get off public aid. I can work ten or twelve more weeks on these hours if I finish my homework instead of watching TV between 6 p.m. and 9 p.m. It will be enough to get what me and the baby need, not want. Only if the public aid people don’t find out. The Nurse told me that I got to go to college to be like her, so Monday I’ll have to go back to school and never tell Rey or nobody else there that I clean up people’s own shit so I could buy a stroller and crib, and yeah, I need some baby clothes too.

  REYNALDO MATOS

  January 21, at the mall

  The man at my trouser cuff has to be a product of some new genetic engineering laboratory at Marshall Field’s Department Store. I didn’t know guys like him exist anymore; a stooped Italian tailor, tape measure around his neck, bar of soap in hand, muttering in a Chico Marx accent through a mouthful of pins.

  “But will it match a Guayabera?” a voice asks. And that is not Chico Marx. Shit! That green, Fieldian voice chimes from my past, from somewhere over my shoulder, from a dangerously close proximity. No 35-hour-a-weeker with a misspelled nameplate voice either, the for real deal, great-granddaughter of the merchandising tycoon who coined the infamous retail ethos, “Give the Lady what she wants!”

  As the attention to my pant cuff intensifies, I get the distinct impression that although my tailor has just pierced his tongue for the first time, the hazel-eyed gaze of Jessica Field Simpson will assure some top-drawer alterations to my suit.

  Jessica fingers my lapel, languishing in the knowledge that my initial reaction of flight is impeded by the projectiles at my inseam. Look at that. No chunk of ice, no gold band. Can’t pawn my adrenaline off on a hit of pre-sexual revolution chivalry. Safe sex? Naww, implausible from the end of the gene pool where Jessica normally dips a toe.

  “You’re 35 years old Rey, why does your mother still buy your clothes for you?”

  And why aren’t you ferrying a Range Rover full of amply boned, pre-fascist offspring around Aspen?

  “Slumming Jessica?” I retort.

  Taller than me in her heels, she deftly outflanks Chico and plants a tender, though seemingly innocent, smacker upon my unprepared lips. I get wood.

  “No, working. All those certain someone’s legal fees to pay.”

  “Come again? So your uncle was that one newspaper owner in America who didn’t charge Rupert Murdoch at the tourist rate?”

  “Bad form to discuss one’s income’s income, Rey.”

  As I live and pant, the headliner of my most salacious nightmares curls a shock of my hair between her fingers. The ungangsterable; in a glen plaid skirt suit, silk blouse, pearls, and the sexiest streak of premature gray through her ginger hair. I used to
think that nobody was ungangsterable. Then I met Jessica. Fucking Protestants, any tenet validating a personal relationship with God destroys the Trinity of the gangstered; fear, guilt, and self-preservation.

  Jessica follows me into the changing room and I feel like a budding adolescent whose mother has walked in on while bathing.

  “How about some discretion, huh Jess?”

  “Why? Somebody damage the goods in prison?”

  She draws the curtain, sits on a stool and crosses her legs. “Why haven’t you called Rey?”

  I slide my pants on, choosing a crafty angle which obscures any display of my physical response to her presence. “My Filo-Fax is like the corner of State & Madison darling. Say, you used to be a little quicker on the uptake. Been hanging around with your own kind again, haven’t you?”

  Her shoes are off, that used to drive me crazy. The woman is incapable of setting her ass on any surface without freeing her tootsies. At restaurants, Marshall Field III’s niece routinely devoted 20 minutes to crawling beneath tables in the hope of locating where a waiter had accidentally punted her shoes.

  I don my overcoat, the same one from when we met, a black leather trench. We all had them, trooping through Lincoln Park like a Gestapo regiment on the low road to Nuremberg. Now, the leather’s brittle, cracked, stained with salt, the lapels are too wide, belt buckle enormous. With a leopard skin hat I could complete the Huggy Bear look. But I can’t give it up.

  “Still have your gun Rey?”

  You never were like the other angel food cupcakes that rolled up to the door of CLASSFU in search of a cultural experience. I always had a gun in my coat at dances, waiting for the moment when some fine blanco thigh would press too close, tell her to be careful, I’m carrying a gun. Which I did, unloaded and for no other reason than to impress it upon the legs of white chicks. That gun was true Spanish Fly. Until Jessica, who said “Really?” Then reached into my pocket and pulled it out. Girl could’ve got me arrested! A game of sexual chicken, my low rider Chevy careening toward your pink Cadillac, but you never got scared and we collided head-on.

 

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