Made his trek outta the freeway valley, taking a detour by Margarita’s old corner. For a moment, Indian momma there took him by surprise; coulda been his Margarita. This one had her wares out: big glass bottles of cold fruit juice. It was all passion. Not an orange in sight, neither domestic or imported. Paradigm had definitely shifted. Even so, Indian momma coulda been his Margarita.
Buzzworm finally went home. Grandma’s house down Fifth and Jefferson was still intact. Took a bath. Took a nap. Swept the porch out. Watered the palms: the California and the Mexican fan palms, not forgetting the Washingtonia Robustas. Tossed some seeds out there. Seeds from one of the brothers doing urban gardening on the freeway. Grow there; grow here too.
Been some time since the radio frequencies were screwed. Power was doin’ religion. AM stations were pledgin’. Jazz doin’ hard rock. Hard rock doin’ Warren Alney–like in-depth news coverage. In-depth news doin’ Persian. Persian doin’ Radio Free Cuba. Someone said radio’d become eclectic. Eclectic used to be Tom Schnabel, but he was doin’ gardening. FCC guys must have been jumpin’ off cliffs.
Buzzworm couldn’t get no satisfaction from radio like this. Only thing he noticed with the jumble was that radio was like one big love song. I love you. You love me. I love myself. We love us. We love the world. We love God. We love ourselves but hate some of you. I hate myself but would love you if. You screwed me and I’m learning to love me or that other one. I loved you so I killed you. Radio was more tripped up than his own mind. He pulled the plug.
Same thing with the time. Couldn’t get the coordinates on anything no more. It was like they said. No radio, no watch, nobody would give him the time of day. Once he made his decision, it was easy. Threw his entire collection of watches into a couple of large paper bags and distributed every one. Went up and down everywhere and handed ’em all out like candy. Antique, historic value, oddity, anachronism. They all just went.
Last radio frequency he’d tuned to was Hour 25. Talked about mythic realities, like everyone gets plugged into a myth and builds a reality around it. Or was it the other way around? Everybody gets plugged into a reality and builds a myth around it. He didn’t know which. Things would be what he and everybody else chose to do and make of it. It wasn’t gonna be something imagined.
He had some serious itineratin’ to do. Homeboys fixin’ to do good like a bunch of fool boy scouts, invokin’ the name of Bobby Seale and the Black Panthers. Leftover homeless with their eyes on Worthington Ford’s used-car deals. Congress woman Waters saying we gotta get to the bottom of this orange conspiracy. Contingent of New Age Santa Monicans talkin’ ’bout plantin’ a palm tree for every casualty in the freeway massacre. Vigilante groups disbandin’ to Bel Air. Attorney General arrestin’ and investigatin’. Heal L.A. or heel L.A.
And everybody was wanting to know how to get those airbags back into their boxes.
Unplugged and timeless, thinking like this was scary, Buzzworm gritted his teeth. Took a breath. Manzanar’s symphony swelled against his diaphragm, reverberated through his veteran bones. Solar-powered, he could not run out of time.
CHAPTER 49:
American ExpressMi Casa/Su Casa
Pacific Rim Auditorium’s bigger than he thought. He’s late. People already packed in like pay-per-view. Ticket windows all closed. Sold out. Scalpers hanging round with offers like it’s the World Cup. People panting with wads of cash, putting out like it’s life or death. Gonna go broke and not eat for one month. Gonna die to see this one. Bobby’s a cash man, but this is more than he carries. Line in front of the Versateller’s a mile long. So many fans pumping that baby, it’s busted.
Bobby jives a scalper, “You take American Express?”
“Sure. Why not?”
That’s it. He’s in.
Inside it’s a circus. Check for guns and hand grenades at the door. Giving away free condoms. Someone’s got them blown up like giant balloons. Got ski masks on the ends. Safe sex. Liberation sex. What the heck. He buys a balloon.
American Express gets him the best. Ringside seats.
Sure enough. Sol’s in the ring with the heavyweight. Looks like he’s part of the act. What’s Rafaela thinking? Putting the boy in the circus? Two enmascarados. One’s got his hair on fire. Other’s a juggling act. “Sol!” he’s yelling. “Sol!” Enmascarado gives him the boy. Throws him an orange too. Sol wants the orange bad. Don’t he want the balloon? No way. Had to lose the balloon to get the orange. What does Bobby know? He hasn’t been around to know it’s the last orange this side of the border. Don’t know everybody else thinks it’s a toy.
Fight gets started. Bobby’s there with his son like it’s a bonding thing. Kid’s only two. You gotta be nuts. Thing gets going. It’s entertainment. Stuff you see regularly on TV. Can’t be too bad. Pretty soon, ringside, it’s looking real. Bobby’s like the crowd. He’s into it.
Suddenly, Rafaela’s there. She’s back again. She’s pointing at Sol’s orange. Got that line that’s tripping into town. That’s why she’s here in the first place. Can’t Bobby see it? Can’t he see the line? It’s why everything is changed. He’s looking hard, but what’s this line she’s talking about? Is it a dream? Mirage caused by lack of cigarettes? Go figure. She’s saying this is no place for Sol. Sol shouldn’t see this violence. Get Sol outta here.
It’s too late. Everything happens too fast. The rudo with the head of fire is a goner. People cheering like crazy, but Bobby knows: winged warrior’s a goner too. Rafaela knows it too. She knows this enmascarado. She tells Sol to give her the orange. Boy doesn’t want to, but she gives him the look. He hands it over. Then she’s yelling at Bobby to cut it.
“Cut what?”
“The orange.” She’s got a fancy pocketknife knotted in her dress. Hands it to Bobby. “Cut it now!”
“Okay. Okay.” He cuts it. But then he sees it too. He sees the line where it gets cut through the orange. So he grabs the two ends. Is he some kind of fool? Maybe so. But he’s hanging on.
Meanwhile, Rafaela’s in the ring. She’s peeling the orange and feeding the pieces to the enmascarado. Like it’s gonna help. Like she’s a soccer mom at half-time. Like it’s the last rites. Enmascarado chews and smiles. It’s all over. Crowds rushing in. Picking him up. Taking him away with orange peels scattered on his chest, stink of orange on his lips, like he’s floating on a human wave. Gonna take him home. Home where mi casa es su casa. Bury him under an orange tree. Plant him at the very edge of the sun’s shadow. Maybe grow another line right there. Mark the place. Tag it good.
Little by little the slack on the line’s gone. Thing’s stretching tight. Just Bobby grabbing the two sides. Making the connection. Pretty soon he’s sweating it. Lines ripping through the palms. How long can he hold on? Dude’s skinny, but he’s an Atlas. Hold on ’til his body gets split in two. Hold on ’til he dies, famous-like.
Rafaela picks up Sol. Boy’s straddling her hip and hanging on her neck. She’s beat up bad, but she’s some kind of angel. Never looked so beautiful. Tears running down her face, kissing Sol. Spent so much time worrying about her and the boy. Trying to lock ’em up. Lock out the bad elements. Then it happens anyway. Wasn’t there to protect his family after all. Waves of people running past them. Look like a puny twosome. Fragile. His little family. What’s he gonna do? Tied fast to these lines. Family out there. Still stuck on the other side. He’s gritting his teeth and crying like a fool. What are these goddamn lines anyway? What do they connect? What do they divide? What’s he holding on to? What’s he holding on to?
He gropes forward, inching nearer. Anybody looking sees his arms open wide like he’s flying. Like he’s flying forward to embrace. Don’t nobody know he’s hanging on to these invisible bungy cords. That’s when he lets go. Lets the lines slither around his wrists, past his palms, through his fingers. Lets go. Go figure. Embrace.
That’s it.
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New and Reissued Works by Karen Tei Yamashita
Letters to Memory
Brazil-Maru
Through the Arc of the Rain Forest
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