To Selena, With Love

by Chris Perez

  “Shut up,” she said. “You know how I am.”

  “I do,” I said, and kissed her.

  TEN

  A WILD RIDE WITH SELENA

  Courtesy of Ernest “Choco” Garza

  The front door slammed so hard that the walls shook. I had been playing guitar, trying to work something out. Now I looked up. “Selena?” I called.

  She stormed into the house but walked right past me without saying a word, her face dark with anger, her hair flying, muttering something I couldn’t quite catch.

  “Selena?” I followed her into the bedroom, where I found her just sitting there, her hands balled into fists, tears streaming down her face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “We have to move,” she announced. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I can’t stay in this house!”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s my dad,” Selena said miserably. “We need our own space, Chris. We need to be on our own. Really on our own!”

  I knew what she meant. We had been living in the house next door to Selena’s parents for almost a year, and we often felt like we were being watched. The entire Quintanilla family was still living in the same modest Corpus Christi neighborhood; Abraham and Marcella in one house, A.B. with his wife and kids in another; and Selena and me in the third. Now it looked like Selena had gotten into another argument with Abraham. Most likely it had been about the boutique that she wanted to open.

  Whenever Selena tried to discuss her desire to get into the fashion business, Abraham’s standard response was to try to talk her out of it. “What do you want to do that for?” he’d say. “That’s a crazy idea. You’re making plenty of money and you don’t have enough time as it is. Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy life?”

  I could see Abraham’s point. It was true that the band was making considerably more money now than we ever had before. Selena and I were comfortable financially. I earned a good salary as a guitarist under the umbrella of Los Dinos, and Selena and her family were commanding more money than ever for live shows.

  While some people accused Abraham of controlling Selena and her money, that simply wasn’t true. Whatever Selena and the band earned, Abraham would first take care of the payroll. Then the family split whatever was left in four equal parts. They divided the money from the Coca-Cola sponsorship as well, with the family splitting the first three payments in a year three ways and Selena keeping the fourth.

  Opening fashion boutiques probably wouldn’t add much to Selena’s income, at least not at first, and getting this kind of business up and running would be extremely time-consuming. On the other hand, living with Selena had shown me firsthand that she was an incredibly hard worker, and I knew how much she wanted to do this. Her family didn’t fully grasp how badly Selena needed to do something just for herself.

  The longer I knew and loved Selena, the clearer it became that she loved me in part because I accepted her completely. No matter what she wanted to try—whether it was something as small as wanting that aquarium headboard or a new dog, or a plan as complex as starting a fashion business on top of her musical career—I loved Selena for who she was, and never put up the kind of resistance she often felt from her family and even from certain friends.

  Selena was creative and she could be exceedingly impulsive, but no matter what ideas she expressed to me, I was never negative—I’d had enough negativity in my own family when I first tried to become a rock guitarist, so I knew how bad that could feel. Instead, she and I would talk things through in an attempt to encourage Selena to be less impulsive, do a little planning, and articulate her vision clearly enough so that she could see whether her idea was workable or not. Her dreams were my dreams. If something was important to Selena, it was important to me, too. That’s how much I loved her.

  Selena was quick to appreciate this about me, too. “Thank you, Chris,” she’d say, whenever I supported her position on something. “Thank you for helping me.”

  Now, Selena brought the newspaper into the kitchen, where I watched her comb through the classified ads and circle various houses for rent.

  “You really want to move this time?” I asked. We had been down this road together before, usually after similar family arguments.

  “Oh, I really do,” Selena said. “We need to get out of here.”

  Without much more discussion, we got in the car and started driving around, even pulling into the driveways of houses at the addresses she’d circled. Afterward, Selena made some phone calls, but that was the end of it. I’m sure part of the reason she dropped the idea was that it would be a lot of work to move, and she was usually exhausted just from her recording and performance obligations. But Selena wasn’t ready yet to put even that much distance between herself and her family.

  To me, it didn’t really matter where we lived. What mattered to me was Selena’s happiness. As long as she wanted to live in that neighborhood, and in that house alongside her father and brother, I could be happy there. If Selena ever really wanted to leave, I would be right beside her, helping her every step of the way.

  Selena was as supportive of me as I was of her, with one important exception: the time I talked about leaving Los Dinos to pursue my dream of starting a rock band, she shut me down cold.

  We were nearly at the pinnacle of our success by 1993, and I loved making a living playing in a Tejano band as successful as Los Dinos. That was my work and I took pride in it. I even developed a certain love and respect for Tejano music. Still, I was a musician before I met Selena, and I had my own taste. I continued to listen to rock music and even introduced Selena to a lot of the bands I liked. A big part of me still longed to play that music.

  Selena and I always listened to music on road trips, and she was open-minded. She could appreciate most of my choices, which included everything from Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam to Green Day. We had a sort of unspoken agreement that she would listen to my music if I listened to hers; at the time, her favorite artists were Bonnie Raitt, Whitney Houston, and Janet Jackson. Selena especially loved Jackson’s song “Black Cat,” which Janet wrote for her Rhythm Nation 1814 album. I can’t even count how many times Selena and I listened to that single.

  After we had been married for a few months, I confessed to Selena that I still harbored those desires to play a different kind of music. I had become a fan of Latin rock, and I was listening to a lot of that on my headphones or with her. I thought maybe I could start a Latin rock band and make my own way in that direction.

  “I love Tejano music,” I told Selena, “and you know I love playing with Los Dinos. But you have to admit that Tejano music isn’t really geared toward guitar players. I’m just playing the same chords over and over again.”

  “That’s not true,” she protested. “A.B. lets you play a lot of things the way you want.”

  She was right, but even though I was pushing the boundaries a little bit in the context of Tejano music, I still couldn’t see any way to continue developing as a guitar player if I restricted myself to this genre. The music just wasn’t challenging enough and I was feeling stifled, I told her.

  “Uh-huh,” Selena said. She was watching me with an odd sort of sideways look while I fumbled through this conversation.

  I tried again. “I want to try something different,” I said. “I love you, and I love being onstage with you. You know that. But I’m bored, Selena, and that’s the truth. It’s time I tried something else, like Latin rock.”

  Selena came around to stand in front of me. She looked me in the eye without saying anything at first. She just pinned me in place with her dark eyes.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Selena said. “If you quit the band and do something else, Chris, it will be over between us.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked in alarm. By now my palms were sweating because of that cold look she was giving me. “Why would it be over just because I wanted to try playing another kin
d of music?”

  Her voice was still calm, but with an undercurrent of tension that made me afraid to touch her. “You would be on the road away from me,” she said. “I’ve been on the road all my life, so I know what it’s like for guys. I saw how you were with women and drinking before we were together. If you and I were on the road separately, I would think about that and worry.”

  As soon as Selena said that, I knew that it was the truth. Even though I was a year older, Selena had been on the road far longer than I had; she had been doing this since she was a kid. She knew the reality of the music business.

  We didn’t know life apart from each other as a couple. Since falling in love, we had always been together—on buses, in planes, and on stages at this hotel or that arena. Selena knew that, no matter how much we vowed to be faithful to one another, that vow would be too easy to break if we weren’t playing in a band together.

  Selena had also seen me at my worst. She had known me when I got arrested for drunk driving, and she had nearly left me when I trashed that hotel room with the road crew and nearly trashed her family’s reputation in the process.

  My wife had taught me that the meaning of true love is forgiveness. Here was somebody who had seen me make some of the worst mistakes of my life, yet she had accepted my apologies and believed in me. I owed Selena the same kind of trust and loyalty that she had shown me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess you’re right.”

  Selena smiled, her brown eyes alight with warmth again. “So you’ll stay with Los Dinos?”

  “I’ll keep backing you up,” I said. I meant what I said to apply to our lives both offstage and on, and Selena knew it.

  I never resented Selena for making me stay. Far from it. What possible gripe could I have? I was making a living playing my guitar. I was in a Tejano band, true, but it was a badass Tejano band fronted by the love of my life.

  Most important of all, this girl had my back, and I was going to have hers until we were old and left this earth. Little did I know that my time with her would be so short.

  I had been wanting a motorcycle for a while. My father was a motorcycle rider until he got into a massive accident. My cousins and uncles on my father’s side always had bikes around, too. Finally I told Selena that I was going to buy one for myself.

  Most women I know have problems accepting the idea that the thrill of riding a motorcycle is worth the risk, but not Selena. Right up there with loving her family, our dogs, fashion, and me, she was crazy about any kind of vehicle. She excitedly accompanied me to the dealer in San Antonio when I bought the bike I’d been longing for—a Kawasaki Ninja.

  On the drive back home to Corpus Christi, Selena drew up beside me on the highway in her BMW M3. “Race you,” she called, goading me into it with one of those wild looks in her eyes.

  “You bet,” I said.

  Within seconds, we were flying side by side down the highway. The bike wouldn’t break 100 mph no matter how flat I lay on that gas tank to decrease the wind resistance or how hard I pushed it. Selena easily pulled in front of me, laughing her foolish head off as she passed, then gunned the BMW even faster just to prove her point: she’d won another dare.

  Selena and I spent as much of our time together as possible, even when we weren’t on the road. Despite having been married a year and having known each other for three, we were still fully aware every day of how lucky we were to be married now, because we could do things like just go to the grocery store. Life couldn’t get any better than that.

  Selena especially loved going for rides on that motorcycle with me, especially at night when it wasn’t so hot. We’d cruise along the shoreline in Corpus Christi, admiring all of the fancy houses on the waterfront. Sometimes we would pull over and park, then get off the bike to sit on the seawall or walk along the jetties, just as we had when we were seeing each other secretly.

  Not long after I got the Ninja, Selena and I had taken just such a cooling night ride, her body pressed against mine as we leaned around the turns, the breeze in our faces. We were resting on the seawall, admiring the reflection of the lights on the water, when she suddenly declared, “I want to learn how to drive the bike.”

  “Um, how about no?” I said. “No way.”

  “Why not?” Selena started to argue with me.

  Maybe it was because she grew up as the youngest in her family, or maybe it was because she was the most like Abraham. For whatever reason, Selena was one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever known. She never liked anyone to tell her “no”—not A.B., Suzette, or her parents, much less her own husband, whom she knew she had wrapped around her little finger.

  “Oh, come on, Chris. I can drive a motorcycle if you can do it,” she said.

  “You think it’s easy to drive this motorcycle?” I asked in disbelief. “It’s not like riding a bicycle, you know. You just think the Ninja is lightweight because it’s always upright when you get on it. But I can promise you this: if you drove this motorcycle and let it lean past a certain point, it would fall over and you wouldn’t be able to pick it back up. It would probably fall on your leg and break it.”

  Now Selena was giving me that puppy look with her big brown eyes and frowning. “But I want to learn how to drive the bike,” she insisted.

  I sighed. I knew Selena well enough by now to understand that, once she got an idea in her head about something she wanted to do, there was no stopping her. Selena was like our mini Doberman, André, with a toy. She would shake that idea of hers until she’d succeeded in tearing it to pieces, and God help anybody who tried to take it away.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “We’ll go to the grocery store parking lot to see if you can balance on the bike. But that’s all we’re going to do, okay?”

  “Okay,” she promised.

  Selena was fairly mechanical and a very hands-on person. She also loved to drive, so it wasn’t really any surprise to me that, within minutes of me explaining them, she understood how the clutch, the brake, and the gears worked on the motorcycle. This, plus the fact that we were now in a huge, empty parking lot, put me a little more at ease.

  “Okay, I’m getting on behind you,” I said. “I’ll hold the bike up.”

  She straddled the bike in front of me. “This is so cool,” she said.

  Cool unless you wreck my bike, I thought. “Yeah, it is cool, as long as you’re careful,” I reminded her. “Just think what your dad will do to me if I let you get hurt. All right. I’m getting off now. See if you can keep the bike balanced.”

  Selena wobbled a little from side to side. “Whoa! You’re right. It is heavy.”

  “Remember that,” I warned. “You’re really going to get hurt if you start to fall over and don’t put your foot down in time to catch yourself.”

  I showed her how to work the clutch and throttle, telling her to imagine her hand on the bar was like her foot working the accelerator. We talked things through as she engaged the clutch and explored the brakes. Meanwhile, I was thinking, Bad idea to do this, Chris.

  But there was no backing out now. Selena’s dark eyes were bright with excitement beneath the big helmet. Just then, the bike did a little hiccup, and she jumped. “What’s that?” she asked, looking down at the motorcycle between her knees.

  “It’s cool,” I said. “You’re in first gear now.”

  “Can I ride it? For real?”

  I had to smile. “Sure. Go for it. Click it up into second gear, but don’t go past that. And remember where your brakes are!” I yelled as Selena started to drive away from me. “That’s the most important thing!”

  Selena took off slowly and without wobbling. I was proud of her; the bike didn’t jump forward or stall. It was a nice, smooth start.

  In seconds, of course, she was all the way across the parking lot and I couldn’t see anything but the lights on my bike. “Okay!” I yelled. “That’s far enough. You can come back now.”

  Selena rode back toward me, the big motorcycle purring between her kn
ees. “How do I do the other gears?” she asked.

  I taught her that, too, and then Selena took off around the parking lot again. She drove for about five minutes, getting more and more comfortable. Soon she started doing figure eights while I held my breath, watching her. As always, Selena had surprised me by how quickly she could learn something new.

  She rode back eventually and said, “I think I got it.”

  “You do,” I agreed. “You’re doing everything right. Now let’s try adding in the blinkers and practice that.” I hadn’t wanted to teach her too many things at once, but Selena had no trouble using the turn signals as she toured the parking lot again.

  Pretty soon she was beside me again. “Get on,” she suggested.

  “Ha-ha. That’s really funny,” I said, rolling my eyes at her. “How about you get off.”

  “Come on, please?” Selena said. “Can I drive home?”

  “You’re scaring me,” I said. “No. I can’t let you do that. We have to get on the highway to drive home.”

  Selena, of course, got that bullheaded expression and started arguing. “What if I just stay on the access road?”

  “That’s even scarier,” I said. “There are all kinds of intersections and stop signs.”

  “I’ll go real slow,” she promised. “Please?”

  Eventually, she wore me down. What’s the harm? I decided. If I were on the back of the bike, I could take control of the machine if she made a mistake.

  “All right. Let’s do it,” I said.

  Her grin was wide and white beneath that helmet as I got on the back of the bike behind her.

  Selena eased the bike carefully out of the parking lot and onto the access road. As we got to the light near the access ramp for the highway, she wobbled a bit but I held us steady. That made me realize that she would probably do better on the highway; we’d be safer if she didn’t have to stop or turn. Plus, there would be little traffic at night.