spread itself
as tanned leather over a drum, the hooks
drawing the large lobes of skin
backwards. In fact,
the entire surface of Arcangel’s person—
from the skin on his face and his flowing white hair
to the legs of his pants—
seemed to be drawn back toward the truck,
as if he were facing
a great tunnel of wind.
Slowly, his torso leaned into his footsteps
one at a time,
gripping the surface of the asphalt and
pulling inch by inch
the truck and its entire load
of oranges.
Those who witnessed this performance
felt themselves the excruciating weight
of the machine and its fruit
tearing at their bodies.
People choked with amazement and fear
that they might see a man
stripped of his fleshy covering.
Why should they allow him to do such a thing?
What were they thinking?
They should push the truck themselves!
Fools!
But they all strained themselves
with watching and yearning in hushed awe
that the feat should be achieved.
And so Arcangel, attached to his great burden, inched his way down the street toward the marketplace, every muscle in his body intent upon its task. By the time he had traversed fifty meters, women and children had run forward to spread flowers in his path, to cup their hands to catch the blood and sweat from his torn stigmata; people tossed coins; fruit and vegetables were collected on his behalf. Another fifty meters and the street was clear. Arcangel unhooked himself, recoiled the steel cable, repacked his baggage, while gathering, exchanging, and distributing his gifts and tokens of appreciation. He wiped the glistening layer of sweat from his body and slipped his arms into his shirt. The traffic flowed past him, and the street was once again engulfed in the business of the day.
As he had meant to, he continued on to the marketplace. It was perhaps more than a coincidence, but
the woman in his dreams,
with the cactus leaves,
was sitting there on a crate,
carefully slicing the thorns from the leaves.
She looked up at Arcangel. “The very freshest. Cut today.”
He nodded. He could see
the orange tossed to one side
with the refuse of thorns and
green shavings of cactus skin.
“I will take a bag of cut nopales.” He had just pulled an entire truckload of oranges with his bare skin, but still he said, “And that orange, too. How much do you want for it?”
“This orange? Worthless. I’ll be honest with you. It is not imported. A local fruit out of season.”
“I have a need for the taste of an orange.”
He opened his suitcase and put the orange and the bag of cactus leaves in one corner.
“Where are you going with that?” the woman pointed at the suitcase.
“North,” Arcangel smiled. “I am going north.”
CHAPTER 12:
Car Payment DueTijuana via Singapore
Letter came today. Go figure. Never heard of this cousin, but he’s got it all right: name of Bobby’s dad, name of his mom, name of his uncles. Bobby reads it again. Reads it three times. Cousin from Hong Tian in Fujian, same village as his mother’s father. Gotta be a distant cousin. Could be a trick, but could be legit. Besides, how’d he find him? How’d he know Bobby was Chinese from Singapore? Knows everything. Knows Bobby’s Chinese name. Knows about the family bicycle business. Cousin’s in trouble. Musta got smuggled in. One of those boat people. Most never make it. This one might not either. All he’s got is Bobby’s name and address. Now the smugglers want their money. But where’s the cousin? Tijuana. Just turn over the money. Five thou to get the cousin across. If he makes it, five thou to get him free. China to Chinatown. That’s the deal.
Nothing from Rafaela. What about the boy? What about Sol? Goddamn woman. What’s he done to deserve this? How many years it’s been? Ten? At least. First he knew her brother Pepe. Pepe got himself over the border. Pepe got a story like any other. Still, it’s a story. Not as bad as some, like the Guatemalans, the ones from El Salvador. Not as bad. But still they don’t want you in the Unaite Estays. Pepe didn’t pay no coyote. Just crossed the Rio Tijuana with a bunch of others. Got caught twice by la migra and sent back. Third time he made it. Crossed I-5 dead of night. You don’t understand traffic till you dodge cars going seventy miles an hour across ten lanes. Pepe didn’t want the same for his sister, but she was crazy to come. He was making her wait in Tijuana. Meanwhile he was having to hustle it on Pico and LaBrea. Folks back in Culiacán were worried. Pepe was telling Bobby he’s gotta find a way for his sister. Maybe Bobby’d wanna help him out. Marry her maybe. To help out. You loco! That’s what Bobby said.
Then next best thing was to do Pepe a favor. Take some money and a letter to his sister. Wire the money and mail the letter Bobby said. Couldn’t do that. Sister was not in a place you could trust the mail. As for money, it was out of the question. Hadn’t heard from his sister in a while. The money’d probably run out. She was too proud to go home to Culiacán. Anything happened to her, he was in big trouble. Folks’d say he was responsible. What was there to do?
Bobby got his instructions. Wasn’t an address. More like a map. Go to the center of town. Calle Malinche. Two streets this way. Five streets this way. Go straight. Two kilometers. Go left. Go right. He’d never been to Tijuana. Spoke Mexican, but was gonna be a miracle if he found Pepe’s sister. Was a house between a luncheonette and a tire place. La lonchería y la vulcanizadora. Did you have any idea how many luncheonettes and tire places there are in Tijuana? Rafaela Cortés. That’s Pepe’s sister’s name. She had wavy brown hair and brown eyes and a pretty smile. Hey! Bobby said, this gotta be a description of every chica in México! Don’t worry, said Pepe. She was gonna be the pretty one.
Bobby made it to the house between the luncheonette and the tire place. Rafaela Cortés? Bobby just missed her. She’d moved out two days ago. Where? Somewhere where the rent was cheaper. But how cheap could it be unless she wanted it free? This place wasn’t much, but at least it was safe. If her brother only knew. She just couldn’t be convinced. It was friendly advice. Call her brother up North they suggested; he’d be making money by now. Send her enough for the rent. It was friendly advice; after all this was a business. She owed us the past month. Never said a word and left. That’s the thanks. We all have bills to pay. Bobby pulled out the past month’s rent. But Bobby wasn’t dumb. He held it out. Found out first where he could find Rafaela. Heard maybe she’s working at a shop on the Avenida Revolución selling American T-shirts. That’s it.
Bobby found the t-shirt shop on the Avenida. It was like Pepe said. She was the pretty one. Pretty soon, Bobby was in Tijuana every weekend. He doesn’t know how this happened. He never felt this way. No one ever looked so good next to a bunch of American T-shirts. UCLA. Nike. Princeton. Bulls. Lakers. Dodgers. Reebok.
That was ten years ago.
And what about this Chinese cousin? Bobby hasn’t been to Tijuana since. There’s an address in Chinatown. Better check it out. Ten thousand dollars. Are they crazy? Ten years ago, cost him four thou. Paid the lawyer to get Rafaela a green card. Goddamn lawyer. Goddamn smugglers. Goddamn border.
What’s today? June 23rd. Car payment due. It’s Rafaela’s car. The one he bought her. Red ’96 Camaro z28. Sitting out there on the street all new with The Club on the wheel. Pretty soon someone’s gonna notice it’s abandoned. Then it’s gone. Might as well. How come he’s gotta pay for it now she’s gone? How come she didn’t take it? Didn’t take the car seat neither. Can’t go nowhere without the car seat for Sol. Where did she go where she don’t need a car seat? Where?
Maybe Pepe knows, but h
e’s not telling. Bobby thought Pepe was his friend. Now he’s just a brother-in-law. Shit. Pepe says he can’t help out. It’s between the two of you, he says.
Celia Oh from next door comes by. She’s Korean-born Brazil side. Talks to him Portuñol. Wants to know about Rafaela and the kid. Didn’t know Rafaela split. At least it wasn’t a raid; every time there’s a raid somewhere, folks get split up. Get deported to the border while the babies get left behind. Her mother’s been taking care of a baby like that. Cries for its momma who can’t get back to this side.
Meantime, Celia’s been down in the garment district twenty-four hours ever since her dad’s photo place burned down. Rebuilding L.A. with a sewing machine. Brother got shot in the head. April 1992. Some kinda quin-centennial pre-blowout. Bobby found him on the street. Dragged the body home. Maybe Bobby’s hurt is not so big anyway.
Celia Oh goes home, but first she says she’s gonna put some water on Rafaela’s herbs. How come he’s letting everything die? He can hear the water going outside, just like Rafaela’s home. Celia brings in a sunflower. Sticks it in a vase. He stares at it like it’s gonna attack him. Goddamn sunflower.
Bobby needs a smoke. He needs one bad, but he made a promise. He’s drinking pure ginseng like crazy. Day number two without a smoke. He’s gotta get help. Gotta go to Chinatown anyway. Better get some herbs. Get a custom concoction from a Chinese pharmacy. That’s it.
The phone rings. Hello, he says.
Yuespequespanish?
Every night he gets these calls. Of course he speaks Spanish. But it’s the wrong number. They call. They leave messages. They want work. Trabajo de limpieza. Yes, he’s got a company. But, no he never put in no ad. It’s the wrong number. El número equivocado. But isn’t this 953-5351? Yes, but he doesn’t have work. Sí. No. Sí. No. Ever since she left, it’s been like this. Phone calls like this every day. Everybody looking for work. Work.
Ever since he’s been here, never stopped working. Always working. Washing dishes. Chopping vegetables. Cleaning floors. Cooking hamburgers. Painting walls. Laying brick. Cutting hedges. Mowing lawn. Digging ditches. Sweeping trash. Fixing pipes. Pumping toilets. Scrubbing urinals. Washing clothes. Pressing clothes. Sewing clothes. Planting trees. Changing tires. Changing oil and filters. Stocking shelves. Lifting sacks. Loading trucks. Smashing trash. Recycling plastic. Recycling aluminum. Recycling cans and glass. Drilling asphalt. Pouring cement. Building up. Tearing down. Fixing up. Cleaning up. Keeping up.
Rafaela told Bobby, people like him doing all the work. Couldn’t he see that? Of course he could. Hey, he coulda been gangbanging weren’t for his little bro. Maybe he wasn’t bonafide Vietnamese, but wasn’t too long ago some v Boys come ’round recruiting, suggesting he could take in the scene at the Asian Garden Mall. They could use his expertise, hype some chips, pocket a Mercedes. Easy money, but so what? First here, he was stupid; used to hang with a mixed gang, but it was having its toll on his carnal. Saw his homies die at gunpoint, go to juvey. He didn’t want that life for the brother.
But she kept talking, saying we’re not wanted here. Nobody respects our work. Say we cost money. Live on welfare. It’s a lie. We pay taxes. Bobby knows he pays taxes. She said since Bobby smokes like a chimney, he probably pays more sales taxes than anyone else. That’s it. He said he pays enough taxes. He’ll quit smoking. So what’s the point?
Bobby thinks about this now. Rafaela was serious. He didn’t want to listen. She was serious. She respected his work. But she wanted more. She left the cherry-red Camaro Z28 with the car seat and The Club. She left the house and the 32" Sony KV32V25 stereo TV with picture-in-picture and the Panasonic PUS4670 Super-VHS VCR, the Sony Super-ESP CD player, the AT&T 9100 cordless phone, the furniture, the clothing, the two-door Frigidaire with the icemaker, the Maytag super-capacity washer and gas dryer, the Sharp Carousel R1471 microwave, everything. She just took some books, Sol’s clothing, and some toys. She just left. Didn’t even lock the security door. Left. She didn’t want any of this. She wanted more. It’s like his kid brother in college. He keeps sending him money. Paying for tuition. Paying for books. He’s so proud of the bro. But when they get together, there’s nothing to say. Bobby’s too busy working. The kid brother wants something more. Rafaela wanted something more. Maybe she was right.
CHAPTER 13:
OldiesThis Old Hood
Buzzworm studied the map. Balboa’d torn it out of a book for him to study. Quartz City or some such title. He followed the thick lines on the map showing the territorial standing of Crips versus Bloods. Old map. 1972. He shook his head. Even if it were true. Even if it were true, whose territory was it anyway? Might as well show which police departments covered which beats; which local, state and federal politicians claimed which constituents; which kind of colored people (brown, black, yellow) lived where; which churches/temples served which people; which schools got which kids; which taxpayers were registered to vote; which houses were owned or rented; which businesses were self-employed; which corner liquor stores served which people; which houses were crack; which houses banging; which houses on welfare; which houses making more than twenty thou a year; which houses had young couples with children; which elderly; which people been in the neighborhood more than thirty years. And where in Compton did George Bush used to live anyway? If someone could put down all the layers of the real map, maybe he could get the real picture.
So far he was thinking how he owned his house. Owned it outright. Paid for it a long time ago. Like those plates say, Don’t laugh; it’s paid for. Took up where his grandmother left off, paying like clockwork every month. Old lady was proud of it. Never missed her payment day. Could go without food or clothing, but not her house. Eat out of the garden out back. Patch up the clothing, starch it, dye it another color. But pay for the house. Day it was paid for good and clear, Buzzworm paid a visit to her grave site. Took the paperwork to prove it. Taken thirty years, double that and then some, counting the time to save the down payment—her lifetime and some of his. The house itself couldn’t be worth nothing. Only so much repair he could afford to do. Been meaning to paint it now some five, six years. Kept the lawn mowed and the flower bed weeded. Was it the land? The garden? Some real estate person come round and offer hundred thou, maybe be a blessing. Was this his territory? According to the map, it was in Crips or Bloods territory.
Buzzworm remembered conversations he had with people saying they used to live here or there. Now here or there is a shopping mall, locate the old house somewhere between Mrs. Field’s and the Footlocker. Or here or there is now the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, or Union Station, or the Bank of America, Arco Towers, New Otani, or the freeway. People saying if they coulda owned the property, if the property had been worth anything at the time, if they’d a known then every square foot of that land was worth millions. If they’d a known the view’d be so expensive. If they’d a known. And then Buzzworm thinking about before that. About the Mexican rancheros and before that, about the Chumash and the Yangna. If they’d a known.
Somebody else must have the big map. Or maybe just the next map. The one with the new layers you can’t even imagine. Where was his house on this map? Between Mrs. Field’s and the Footlocker? Somebody’s parking lot? Somebody’s tennis court? Or just the driveway to some gated community? Roll over grandma. He could never go to heaven to tell her such things. He’d have to go to hell.
He remembered years ago. Neighborhood meeting at the old recreation center. City bureaucrats come over to explain how they were gonna widen the freeway. Move some houses over, appropriate streets, buy out the people in the way. Some woman just like grandma stood up and wanted to know what the master plan was. How’d she know it wasn’t gonna be more than just widen the freeway? How’d she know wasn’t gonna be more than one ramp? Wasn’t gonna be some other surprises? An airport maybe? Condominium and hotels and convention halls? Who was gonna guarantee she was gonna have a place to live under the master plan? Bureaucrats unveiled their poster boards and sca
le models. Everything in pastels, modern-like. Made the hood look cleaned up. Quaint. Made the palm trees look decorative. This was the plan. Just a little freeway widening. Wasn’t gonna affect her house. Her house was her house. Wasn’t gonna affect her.
Bureaucrats acted like she was crazy paranoid. But they knew better. Anything can happen. Time and paper on their side. By the time the freeway could be widened, people forget what they got promised. Politicians who promised could be gone. Situations change, bureaucrats don’t. So they said it wasn’t gonna affect her. They’d be around to make sure. Make sure it took five years to clear out the houses. Make sure the houses left to be broken into and tagged. Let the houses be there for everyone to see. Use for illegal purposes. Pass drugs. House homeless. Make sure the ramp took another five years. Slow down the foot traffic and the flow. Break down the overpass crossing the freeway. Make it impossible for people to pass. Stop people from using the shops that used to be convenient. Stop people from coming to her dress shop. Used to be a respectable shop. Anybody who’s anybody, she did it custom. Haute couture. Entire wedding line-ups. Now homeless, dope dealers, prostitutes only ones passing her shop. No master plan. No ma’am. Wasn’t gonna affect her no way.
Was no wonder you could make a map. Call it all gang territory. Was no wonder homies tagging their territory. They wanted it all back. Claim it for the hood. Futile gestures without a master plan. Leave it crumbling and abandoned enough; nothing left but for bulldozers. Just plow it away. Take it all away for free.
Buzzworm had a plan. Called it gentrification. Not the sort brings in poor artists. Sort where people living there become their own gentry. Self-gentrification by a self-made set of standards and respectability. Do-it-yourself gentrification. Latinos had this word, gente. Something translated like us. Like folks. That sort of gente-fication. Restore the neighborhood. Clean up the streets. Take care of the people. Trim and water the palm trees. Some laughed at Buzzworm’s plan. Called his plan This Old Hood. They could laugh, but he was still trying to go to heaven.
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