Reaching Out

by Francisco Jiménez

  As the coastal fog rolled in and covered the valley like a large gray sheet, I felt chilly and went back inside and got ready for bed. My mother, father, and sister slept in one room. My three younger brothers, Trampita, Torito, and Rubén, slept in the second room in a twin bed next to mine, which I had shared with Roberto before he got married.

  The next day, and for the rest of the summer, I worked again for the Santa Maria Window Cleaners, the janitorial company that employed me during high school. It was the same company that Trampita worked for after I left for college so he could continue helping to support our family. That summer Trampita and Torito picked strawberries for Ito, the Japanese sharecropper. As usual, my old job was routine and tedious. In the early morning, every day, I cleaned the Western Union before it opened at seven, and Betty's Fabrics. I then helped Mike Nevel, the owner of the company, clean houses—doing windows, washing walls, stripping and waxing floors. In the afternoons, I worked alone, cleaning and scraping paint off windows, appliances, and tile counters in the newly built apartments near Hancock College. In the evenings I cleaned the gas company on Main Street and, late at night twice a week, the Standard Oil Company. I worked seventy hours each week, and the money I earned helped my family make ends meet.

  Unfortunately, I had little time to spend at home. As time went by, though, I did not mind this too much because of my father. His dark moods, which worsened every day, were quickly dominating our lives. He regularly complained about everything and criticized everyone, especially my mother. Often he stayed in bed all day and refused to shave, eat, or talk to anyone. At times, he locked himself in a storage shed that was in the middle of the ranch where Bonetti kept building supplies. None of us felt relaxed or happy around him, but we continued praying for him and being respectful. When I had free time, I visited my brother and his wife and their baby daughter, Jackie, who lived in a one-room apartment in town, Roberto worked as a janitor for the Santa Maria Unified School District during the week and cleaned commercial offices on weekends.

  One evening when I got home from work, a week before I was to return to college, my mother told me that my father had gone to the storage shed again that morning and refused to come out. "Go get him, mijo. Maybe he'll listen to you," my mother said, tearing up.

  "I'll try," I put my arm around her. She then took two bananas and a handful of Fig Newton cookies and filled a glass with milk and placed them on large plate and handed it to me.

  "See if he'll take this. He hasn't eaten all day." My father liked eating bananas and milk products because he said they eased his stomach pain.

  When my mother hurriedly opened the front door to our house for me, I stood on the front steps for a few seconds until my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I walked carefully, holding the plate with both hands, until I got to the storage shed. I set the plate down on the ground and placed my ear against the front door. I could not hear anything. My heart was racing. I knocked lightly. No answer. I knocked again more forcefully.

  "¿Quién es...?" I heard my father ask wearily.

  "It's me, Panchito. I've got something for you to eat." I waited and waited for a response. I then heard moaning and boards rattling.

  "Papá, are you okay?" The door creaked open slightly and a dim light went on inside. I pushed the door wide open and went in. My father was struggling to lie down on a makeshift bed he had made out of old plywood boards. He was as pale as a white sheet and had dark circles under his eyes and disheveled hair.

  "I am very tired," he said, reaching out to touch me, I bent over and held his hand. I then helped him sir up with his back leaning against the wall.

  "You have to eat." I brought in the plate, placed it by his side, and peeled one banana and handed it to him. He chewed slowly, staring into Space. After he finished eating, I persuaded him to come back in the house. My mother, anxiously waiting for us at the door of our barrack, helped me put him into bed.

  "Pobrecito, qué lástima me da verlo sufrir," she said, crying. It hurts me to see him suffering.

  "I know," I said, gently placing my arm around her shoulder. I felt a deep sadness. My father had changed so much from the time we first crossed the border.

  A Stranger's Gift

  I never expected to meet him. I had cleaned his office every day after school during my four years of high school and never once did I see him. His office was on the first floor, in the rear of the gas company, a large building with a main office that connected to a back structure two stories high. I feather-dusted the desks and Venetian blinds, emptied and washed the ashtrays, dust-mopped the floors, and emptied the wastebaskets throughout the building. I always did his office last because it was the cleanest and most private. I often wondered whether or not he used it, because everything in it always remained the same. He had his own entrance off a corridor that ran the length of the building. His door had a framed beveled-glass window with his name, ROBERT E. EASTON, in black letters. Entering his office was like going back in time. It had a musty odor and every piece of furniture was old and made of dark wood. The top of his large desk, which sat in the middle of the office, had inlayed gold-color banding around it, and on it were neat piles of yellowish papers and file folders, a small brass lamp with a porcelain shade, and a black rotary phone. His bookshelves were packed with leather-bound books and ledgers. In the corner, behind the door, was a coat rack, and above it hung a black-and-white aerial picture of Santa Maria Valley taken in the 1940s. After I finished cleaning his office, I would sit at his desk and do my homework, because I had no place to study at home. Sitting there, I often wondered who this man was and if I would ever actually meet him.

  And here I was, cleaning his office again in the evenings, five days a week, during the summer vacation at the end of my freshman year in college, but still there was no sight of him. Then one Friday evening, Mike Nevel, the owner of the Santa Maria Window Cleaners, asked me to help him strip and wax the floors of a commercial building and postpone cleaning the back building of the gas company until the following day. On Saturday morning, after cleaning the Western Union and Betty's Fabrics, I went to the gas company, picked up the cleaning cart from the janitors' room, and began cleaning the offices on the first floor. As I dust-mopped the corridor, an elderly, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses appeared. He was dressed in a dark navy pinstriped suit and vest, a starched white shirt, a bow tie, and a black felt hat. In his right hand, he carried a walking cane. This must be him, I thought, trying to hide my excitement.

  "Good morning, young man," he said.

  "Good morning, sir."

  "I am Robert Easton," he said, shaking my hand. His wrinkled face and hands were full of brown spots.

  "People call me Frankie." I smiled from ear to ear. "I am very happy to meet you!"

  "It's a pleasure, son. So you're the lad who cleans for us." He smiled, and his eyes sparkled as he talked. "Are you still in school?"

  "I graduated from Santa Maria High School last year..."

  "Splendid," he said.

  "I just finished my first year in college; I am going back next week,"

  "Marvelous. What college?"

  "The University of Santa Clara," I responded proudly.

  "Oh, yes, I know about Santa Clara. I've been in that neck of the woods. In fact, I was born in Santa Cruz ... many years ago, of course. I spent my childhood there."

  "It can't be that long ago."

  "Oh, it was, son. I was born in 1875, and if my calculations are correct, I am eighty-seven years old. But I am still standing," he said, chuckling. He switched his cane to his right hand and shifted his weight, "University of Santa Clara ... I remember when it was a football powerhouse back in the thirties. It won the Sugar Bowl in 1936 or '37; I can't recall the exact year."

  "It was around that time." I pretended to know something about it. I had no clue, but I felt proud of it once he told me. "Where did you go after you left Santa Cruz?"

  "How do you know I lived in Santa Cruz...?" He frowned, lo
oked up at the ceiling, and exclaimed, "Oh! I told you, didn't I?" He straightened his body, coughed, and added, "Do you really want to know? I don't want to bore you, son..."

  Before I had a chance to respond, he continued. "Well, okay then. After Santa Cruz, my parents went to Benicia, then to Berkeley, where I attended school." He paused, shifted his weight to his other leg, and looked at me intently as though to make sure I was listening and really interested in what he was saying. I took a step closer to him. "I then went to Cal, and after I graduated from there I worked for a contracting and field surveying firm for two years."

  "So, when did you begin working for the gas company?"

  "Oh, that's a long story," he said, taking a deep breath and continuing. "Before I got involved with the gas company, I organized the Home Telephone and Telegraph Company, The year was 1907, and two years later in 1909—February of 1909 to be exact—I was one of the cofounders of the Gas and Power Company, which became the Santa Maria Gas Company."

  "So, you have been working here for over fifty years."

  "Not exactly. I retired as president of the company when it merged with the Southern Counties Gas Company in 1941." He paused, looked away, and added, "Alas, now I am completely retired, but I keep my office and come in once in a while." His voice trailed off, and he had a sad look on his face.

  "I like your office." I wanted to cheer him up. "In fact I was about to tell him that I used his office to study, but I changed my mind. He might not have liked that.

  "What were you going to say?"

  Pretending to attempt to recall, I touched my chin with my right index finger, looked up, and after a few seconds I said, "I forgot; I forgot what I was going to say!" I laughed nervously.

  "Oh, you're too young to be forgetting things." He smiled, but his grin quickly disappeared. "Forgive me for saying so, son, but I notice that your gums are very red. You need to see your dentist."

  Instinctively, I covered my mouth with the palm of my hand. "I've never been to a dentist." I was embarrassed.

  "Oh, dear! We must take care of this."

  I was surprised he did not ask me why I had never seen a dentist. I figured he must have guessed the reason. "Come, I want you to meet Mary, my secretary. I'll have her make an appointment with my dentist to see you. She's in my office waiting for me."

  I was completely taken by surprise. Struggling for words, all I could say was "Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Easton," He hobbled back to his office and introduced me to Mary, a friendly elderly lady who was about fifteen years younger than Mr. Easton.

  A few days later, Mary left me a message at the gas company indicating that she had made an appointment for me to see the dentist the following Wednesday and to meet her in front of the main office at three o'clock in the afternoon on that day. She picked me up right on time. On the way to the dentist's office, she told me that she had retired at the same time Mr. Easton stopped working for the gas company. As a favor to him, she took care of his personal business and drove him to his office once in a while since he could no longer drive. She waited for me at the dentist's office while I had a cavity filled and my teeth cleaned. She then charged the bill to Mr. Easton's account and drove me back to the gas company. Before she left, I thanked her for her help and kindness. That evening, after I finished cleaning Mr. Easton's office, I wrote him a thank-you note and left it on top of his desk, hoping to see him again. My note was still there the last day I cleaned the gas company that summer.

  Making Ends Meet

  At the end of that summer, I returned to Santa Clara with mixed feelings. I was glad to leave behind my tiresome and tedious janitorial work and escape my father's depressing moods and strange behavior. But I was worried about him and I was sad to leave my family. They were still struggling to make ends meet even though I had given them my summer earnings. Trampita's salary from working at my old job while going to school, Torito's take-home pay from picking carrots after school and on weekends, and my mother's earnings from taking care of babies for migrant families and ironing for them were barely enough to pay the monthly rent and buy groceries and other basic necessities.

  I too had a financial challenge: financing my second year of college. I managed to pay for tuition and room and board with scholarships I received from the university and the Santa Maria Valley Scholarship Association and by borrowing another thousand dollars from the federal government under the National Defense Student Loan Fund. But this was not enough. I had to find a job. My family needed help and ! had to buy my books and pay for living expenses such as clothes, toiletries, and laundry.

  The first week of September, I moved into room 225 of McLaughlin Hall and registered for classes. Smokey and I agreed to room together that second year, but we hardly spent time together. He was busy with extracurricular activities and classes and I was occupied with studying and work. That fall I took seventeen semester units. The classes and professors I most enjoyed were History of Philosophy with Father Austin Fagothey, who was the chairman of the Department of Philosophy; History of Christianity with Father Bartholomew O'Neill; and Latin American Literature with Dr. Martha James Hardman de Bautista.

  The second week of classes I went to see Dr. Hardman de Bautista about being her reader. The door to her sparsely decorated office in the basement of O'Connor Hall was open. I poked my head in and knocked. "Come in, Mr. Jiménez," she said, smiling and placing a book on her desk. As usual, she was wearing sandals, a long one-piece white dress bound at the waist by a wide, colorful woven sash, and a small mantle over her shoulders fastened at the front with a straight silver pin. Her yellowish-brown hair was parted in the middle and pulled back with a headband. "I enjoy having you in my class."

  "Thank you, Professor." I was surprised she had already learned my name. "I like outclass. It's small," I added nervously, trying to make casual conversation.

  "Yes. And everyone in the class is a native Spanish speaker, mostly from Central America, except for one student. Please have a seat." She brought her chair from behind the desk and sat facing me. She had a radiant round face and large blue eyes. "So, what can I do for you?"

  "I was wondering if you needed a reader." I proceeded to tell her why I needed a job, without mentioning my family. I did not feel comfortable telling her about my home situation. She listened intently, and at the end of my explanation she asked me questions, in Spanish, about my language background. She then switched to English.

  "You're Mexican, aren't you?"

  I was amazed that she knew this.

  "Yes, I am Mexican, but I was born in Colton, California."

  She must have noticed my surprise because she said, "I can tell that you're Mexican by your intonation and some of your vocabulary. You see, I am an anthropological linguist, I study languages."

  "What languages?" I had never heard of an anthropological linguist before.

  "Currently I am doing research on the language of the Aymara Indians of the Andes. I'm studying the phonological and grammatical structure of their language." She became more and more animated, and her face became flushed as she described her work. "The majority of the Bolivian population, the country where I've done most of my research, belongs to Aymara and Quechua Indian groups. Yet education in Bolivia is delivered solely in Spanish without regard for the indigenous languages, and as a result there is social, economic, and racial discrimination. My hope is that once we create a written language, the Aymara speakers will learn to read and write it so that in the future they will be able to document their own history, in their own language!"

  I admired her enthusiasm. "That's very interesting. What you're saying relates to what we're studying in your class about pre-Columbian literature and the Spanish Conquest."

  "Exactly! Now, would you be interested in helping me with my research? I need help coding and cataloging the data I collected on the Aymara language, I have it on hundreds of index cards."

  I did not respond right away because I was not sure I was capable of doing the wor
k. Noticing my hesitation, she said, "I'll show you how to do it; it isn't difficult. And I have grant money to pay you."

  "Thank you, Professor. I'd like to try it." I felt slightly more confident. She then carefully explained to me how she wanted the data coded and cataloged and gave me a key to her office so that I could do the work in the evenings and on weekends. She also hired me as a reader, correcting papers and quizzes for her elementary and intermediate Spanish courses.

  My flexible work schedule for Professor Hardman de Bautista made it possible to get two other part-time jobs, I worked in the language lab two hours a day, and on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons I tutored students in Spanish at Bellarmine College Preparatory High School in San Jose, which was a little over a mile from the university. I worked an average of twenty-five hours a week.

  I enjoyed working at Bellarmine, but it was time-consuming and frustrating. It took me approximately forty-five minutes to walk to and from campus, and when no students showed up for tutoring, I did not get paid. So I tried to get another job on campus by taking advantage of my experience working as a janitor. I wrote a letter to the president of the university, Father Patrick Donohoe, suggesting that students be hired to do the custodial work in the dormitories in exchange for room and board. I argued that by having students do the cleaning, other students would be less likely to mess tip their rooms and the hallways. I described my extensive janitorial expertise and concluded by offering my services. I never got a response.