“Looks like McDonald’s, Coca-Cola, KFC, and even Nike took a dive this prime time,” she cooed. “With a live offering like this, a remote control could go into automatic. Tsk. Tsk,” she clucked.
“The way you pay attention to this, you’d think you were the station chief,” Gabriel derided.
“I have a five-year plan.”
“How about a reality check?”
“Hey, I don’t wanna hear about your glass ceiling, okay? We’re not going to weep into our sake today, are we?” Emi leaned over, snatched one of the gooey ducks and wiggled the long meaty end of it at Gabriel. “I worked hard to make it this far, but I don’t have any illusions about what I do. I take a show, speed it up electronically, and if that’s not enough, we slash and burn. Mostly it’s very delicate. You hardly notice. Cut. Cut. Snip. Snip. Snip. The point is to keep the integrity of the show (well, sort of), and still get everything to wrap around the commercials. I get it to the second, mind you. There are people below me who would kill for my job, and there are producers who would kill me if they knew who I was. Mostly it’s second-rate stuff. So do I care?” Emi chomped on the gooey duck.
“What’s the point?”
“The point is that anybody can do it. You just have to want to. It’s just about money. It’s not about good honest people like you or about whether us Chicanos or Asians get a bum rap or whether third world countries deserve dictators or whether we should make the world safe for democracy. It’s about selling things: Reebok, Pepsi, Chevrolet, AllState, Pampers, Pollo Loco, Levis, Fritos, Larry Parker Esq., Tide, Raid, the Pillsbury Doughboy, and Famous Amos. Them that’s smart took away the pretense and do the home shopping thing, twenty-four hours. Hey, we’re all on board to buy. So who needs a reality check?”
“It’s depressing talking to you.”
“Let’s change the subject,” Emi agreed.
This time Gabriel did the rounds of tepid sake.
“How’s that gooey duck?”
“Crunchy.”
Emi looked down and around, following the curve of the counter, scrutinizing the customers in varying stages of filling their faces with sushi, tea, and ginger. “Ouu. Let’s people watch.”
Gabriel moaned. This was one of those high school pastimes that Emi had turned into a kind of sophisticated voyeurism. Usually she did it while driving, peering into cars and speculating about the owners and passengers. Emi had a gift for fabricating the most intimate details about other people’s lives. She could easily have written for the National Enquirer. She also had a gift for spotting famous people in bizarre places. Emi called these sightings. Gabriel never recognized half of them, as famous as Emi insisted they might be. Exchanging stalls with Uma Thurman in the women’s room of the Formosa Café or reaching for sausages with Quentin Tarantino in the meat section at Hughes seemed long shots, but there was always a good story.
“Gee, Gabe,” she perked up. “Here we all are, your multicultural mosaic. There’s you and me and the gays at the end of the bar and the guy with the turban. And how about those Caucasian Japanophiles who talk real Japanese with the sushi man? Can we count them too?”
“Sure. Why not.” Gabriel felt generous.
“There’s even white people here.”
The woman sitting next to Emi turned and glared momentarily. Emi absorbed the glare like it was a tanning lamp. Gabriel looked the other way.
Emi continued, “Over there, that woman must be Persian and her friend’s gotta be Cherokee.”
“Cherokee?”
“Okay. Navajo.”
“Sorry to bust your bubble. The one you think is Persian is Chicana.”
“Hey I know a Persian when I see a Persian.”
“Chicana. I know my people, see.”
“What about her date?”
“White.”
“Oouuu, he likes wasabi. Yeah, definitely white meat. Humph.” Emi tossed her hair and swiveled around. “That couple over there is South African wouldn’t you say? And her, what do you think? I figure one-quarter Micronesian, one-quarter Armenian, and one-half Mesoamerican.”
“Her parents met in New Delhi.”
“Yeah her father was a nuclear physicist working for the Soviets, and her mother was a stewardess for Air Peru.”
“He lost his job when the Berlin wall came down.”
“She died in a crash in the Andes.”
“Very tragic.”
Emi paused, mulling over the tragedy of it all—the end of communism and the plane crash over Cuzco, and crossed her legs in the other direction. “Gabe, it’s all bullshit.”
“I know.”
“Cultural diversity is bullshit.”
Gabriel sighed. Of course it would come to this. As usual, Emi would pronounce a new sacrilege.
“Do you know what cultural diversity really is?”
“I’m thinking.”
“It’s a white guy wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and dreads. That’s cultural diversity.” Emi looked up at the sushi chef. “Don’t you hate being multicultural?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
The woman next to Emi bristled under her silk blouse and handcrafted silver. She looked apologetically at the sushimaker and said, “Hiro-san, having a hard day?”
“Hiro,” Emi butted back in. “I hate being multicultural.”
“Can’t you calm down?” The woman never looked at Emi, but offered up a patronizing smile for Hiro-san. “We’re trying to enjoy our tea. By the way, Hiro-san, it’s just delicious today.”
“See what I mean, Hiro? You’re invisible. I’m invisible. We’re all invisible. It’s just tea, ginger, raw fish, and a credit card.”
“Whatever is your problem?”
Gabriel knew better than to introduce more ammunition. He said plainly, “I’d like a California roll.”
The woman went on. “I happen to adore the Japanese culture. What can I say? I adore different cultures. I’ve traveled all over the world. I love living in L.A. because I can find anything in the world to eat, right here. It’s such a meeting place for all sorts of people. A true celebration of an international world. It just makes me sick to hear people speak so cynically about something so positive and to make assumptions about people based on their color. Really, I’m sorry. I can’t understand your attitude at all.”
Emi stared into a compact mirror and reapplied a glossy layer of red lipstick before she turned around in her seat to meet her sushi bar neighbor in her full frontal glory.
“Emi—” Gabriel felt a sudden panic.
Emi sighed. She noticed the woman’s hair was held together miraculously by two ornately-lacquered chopsticks. Maybe there was some precedent for this hairdo. Gabriel later remembered something about Oedipus blinding himself with his mother’s hairpins. Not an Asian myth however.
Emi said, “Hiro, could we have two forks, please?”
Hiro quickly motioned and signaled for the occidental eating utensils.
Emi examined the forks carefully and held them up for her neighbor. “Would you consider using these in your hair? Or would you consider that,” Emi paused, “unsanitary?”
The woman blanched. Gabriel missed chomping into his California roll. For some reason, the entire sushi bar seemed to tilt and sag with an indescribable elasticity. Gabriel’s elbow lost its surface, and that seaweed, rice, crab, and avocado delicacy tumbled and tumbled.
CHAPTER 21:
To EatLa Cantina de Miseria y Hambre
Arcangel sat alone at a table outside the Cantina de Miseria y Hambre. It was a cantina like any other, but he had chosen it for its name, Misery & Hunger—perhaps not an auspicious one for such a business, but perhaps not inappropriate. All day and night long the tables and chairs of the Cantina of Misery & Hunger were filled with people. Of course, some were miserable, some hungry, some miserable and hungry. They saw the sign from a distance as they crossed the street, wending their way through life’s travails to a place of commonalities. As such, it could be construed as a
miserable and hungry place, filled with miserable and hungry people, but it was in fact bustling with life. It was as life is: spilling its guts and filling its belly, endlessly.
The waiter came with his plate of nopales. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” the waiter asked.
“Where were you born?”
“Near San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas. My people have worked an ejido there for three generations.”
“You were born in the cornfields?”
“How did you know?”
“How old are you now?”
“Almost twenty.”
Arcangel nodded, “Has it been that long?”
The waiter was baffled and took the liberty of sitting down while Arcangel began to fill his mouth with forkfuls of the steaming and slightly slimy nopales. “So it’s true that I know you then?”
“I think so.” Arcangel scrutinized the puzzled young man. “Yes, but you’ve changed a bit since I last saw you.”
“You have not changed at all,” the waiter said, “but I do not know how to explain how I know that.”
Arcangel shrugged and pointed at his plate. “My compliments to the cook.”
“Perhaps you would like a beer?” the waiter suggested.
“Perhaps.”
“It’s on me. For old time’s sake.” The waiter returned with a can of Bud Light.
“Beer in cans? What’s this?”
“Bud Light.”
“What other sort of beer do you have?”
“We have Budweiser, too. Schlitz. Hamms. Michelob. Coors. Miller. Miller Lite. Samuel Adams.”
“You don’t think it strange?”
“Strange? That I remember you from my birth?”
“No. About the beers. All American beers. But we are in México, are we not? Where are the Mexican beers?”
“Perhaps you would prefer Coca-Cola or Pepsi?”
“Perhaps I would like a hamburger, Fritos, and catsup.”
“It is our special today.”
It was true. Arcangel looked around at all the hungry and miserable people in the cantina—all eating hamburgers, Fritos, catsup, and drinking American beers. Only he, who had asked the cook the favor of cooking his raw cactus leaves, ate nopales. He scratched the rugged stubble in the hollow of his cheek and ran his fingers across his chin. “The cantina is very full today. Is it always so?”
“We do a good business. But today, even better. Most of these people are on their way to the cockfight.”
Arcangel left with the crowd, their prizefighters hidden in sacks, resting in the dark before their perhaps final events. He followed them to a small arena, watched the owners groom their proud birds, sun glancing off the satin sheen of their black and emerald feathers and the terrible glare of the knives at their heels. He watched the money exchange hands, the excitement of the deal, the glint in the eyes of both men and birds. He wondered when his time would come, when he would be forced to spar with knives at his heels, to meet the final destiny of those with wings. The slain bodies of the most elegant, well-fed, and trained roosters were carried sadly away. The victors who remained strutted the ring, seemingly boastful, but only the owners were foolish enough to be truly boastful.
Now it was Arcangel’s turn to strut to the center. Unseen by anyone, he had transformed himself into a motley personage: part superhero, part professional wrestler, part Subcomandante Marcos. Ski mask in camouflage nylon, blue cape with the magic image of Guadalupe in an aura of gold feathers and blood roses, leopard bicycle tights, and blue boots. Someone shouted, “It’s El Gran Mojado!” Instant recognition. An awe-struck murmur ran through the crowd. Could it be? Indeed the man going north had appeared. “El Gran Mojado, what are you doing here?” someone in the crowd wanted to know.
“Fool. He is going north, of course.” Everyone knew his story. His manifest destiny.
“Ah,” said El Gran Mojado, lifting a can of Budweiser, “But for the moment the North has come South.”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s because of SUPERNAFTA!” someone shouted. “While you are busy going north, he’s here kicking ass. And he’s saying we are North, too!”
Another said, “It’s all hot air what he says. What’s the good of being North when it feels, looks, tastes, smells, shits South?”
“That’s right! If Martians landed here, they would know. They would swim nude in Acapulco, buy sombreros, ride burros, take pictures of the pyramids, build a maquiladora, hire us, and leave.”
“El Gran Mojado! Stay here and save us! Why do you want to go North and save those bastards up there?”
“He’s afraid of SUPERNAFTA! He hasn’t got the balls!”
“GRRRRR!” El Gran Mojado roared. He strutted to the edges of the crowds, gesticulating. Everyone backed away. “You can spread rumors of what you have heard, but it is what you see and hear for yourself that matters. You can see me! I have come to you! But who has seen this SUPERNAFTA anyway? Anyone?”
A murmur ran through the crowd. No one had actually seen the wrestling giant. “We have seen his picture. His posters are everywhere. They say his silver clothing is made of titanium. His hair is on fire, and he has the power to duplicate, even triplicate, himself. And he is twice your size. You are a skinny old man compared to him!”
“A picture can be made to look like anything. That’s why you never see pictures of me, yet everyone knows El Gran Mojado. I,” he beat his chest, “am a vision in your very minds!”
“What good is a vision up against something like SUPERNAFTA? When he appears, where will you be? In our heads?”
“I have made a challenge to this super-fake no one has ever seen. If he is indeed the fighter his posters declare, then he will find me. Me, El Gran Mojado! He will come to where I am, like a true warrior, and fight to the death!” El Gran Mojado gestured widely. His voice reverberated everywhere even long after he was silent. The cocks shifted in their canvas bags or crowed like crazy from their cages. No one could mistake the intention of his words. He continued,
Have you forgotten 1848 and the
Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?
With a stroke of the pen,
México gave California to the gringos.
The following year,
1849,
everyone rushed to get the gold in California,
and all of you Californianos who were already there
and all of you indígenas who crossed
and still cross the new border
for a piece of the gold have become
wetbacks.
My struggle is for all of you.
El Gran Mojado derives his great strength
from the noble hearts of his people!
Let’s see if this SUPERSCUMNAFTA is not a
coward!
He is only concerned with the
commerce of money and things.
What is this compared to the great
commerce of humankind?
His challenge is doomed to failure!
So be it!
He will know where to find me.
All of you,
his finger threatened the crowd,
will point the way.
The crowd and its menagerie of birds parted a path northward, and El Gran Mojado disappeared.
“It will be the greatest battle ever witnessed!” The declarations were immediate and exaggerated.
“Imagine! Two great champions to the death!”
“I will wager everything on El Gran Mojado!”
“But I have heard this NAFTA has a secret hidden weapon. It will not be a clean fight.”
“This NAFTA will draw blood.”
“A fight not to be missed!”
“A historic event.”
“If I see nothing in this life, I will see this fight!”
In a moment a great turbulence had been created. Already, it was being billed as the Greatest Fight of the Century: El Contrato Con América. And the others would also be there, superheroes and supervilla
ins alike: Super-Barrio, La Chingada y El Gran Chingón, Super-Migra, Super-Ilegal, Super-Chicano, Super-Gringo, and La Raza Cósmica.
And the crowd, lusting for battle and blood, moved North with its Latin birds and American beers.
THURSDAY:
The Eternal Buzz
CHAPTER 22:
You Give Us 22 MinutesThe World
The world teeter-tottered. That was as near as Buzzworm could define it. Whoa. Maybe this twenty-four-hour attachment to the waves was doing it. Doing it to his brain. But, on a scale of reality to substance abuse, it was definitely the vision thing. Time stood still momentarily. Time stood still eternally. Whatever it was doing, it was standing. Just standing. Buzzworm was sure of that. Second hands on the watches never moved. Seconds on LCD displays neither. Twelve noon just standing there. It could be one watch might not be in sync, but not all the watches. Actually, watches weren’t the real tip-off: radio stations on every dial were holding their notes, their words, their voices, their dead air. Just holding. Howard Stern saying sex like seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeex forever but never getting to the x. Reminded Buzzworm of the sportscasters on Mexican radio doing the goooooooooooooooooooooal thing. Then there was some call-in cop talking about an assault with a deadly weapon and this individual, this individual, this individual, this individual, this individual like a broken record; coulda been an entire population of individuals. Jazz station had Miles blasting his piston at an eternal and breathless high C wanting to break your drums, your amps, your resolve. It kept on keeping on. Maybe Miles coulda done it anyway without time standing on it. Buzzworm didn’t know, but it filled his head and his chest with a long hurt. And then there were those stations with the dead air like a dead hum, a buzz: the eternal buzz.
Then it was back to normal-like. Baca Boyz calling their sisters, “Baby-girl! Nicole of Paramount got her a birthday today! Happy Birthday, baby-girl! And have we got some faxes today. You all faxin’ in your hellos. Got one here arriving now from La Puente! Another from West Covina! You all gonna get free passes to the Power event. Yeah, tell me about it!”
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