Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood (11 page)

The music was really going. Someone had put on Carlos Santana. Everybody in Hollywood loved Santana. Loved, loved him. He was Pifas’ favorite musician.
Man, man, man
, that’s what Pifas said every time one of his songs came on the radio at work.
Fuckin’ A, fuckin’ A.
Maybe we’d be listening to Santana all night. That was okay with me.

Everybody was having a good time. Lots of laughing. I liked that about parties. Mostly people were hanging around outside. Someone had hung a string of Christmas-tree lights across the front yard that crisscrossed from Pifas’ brother’s trailer to the trailer next door.

Someone was smoking dope. I could smell it. The smell was good. I liked it. I looked at the corner of the yard, and there was a group of older
guys huddled around. Long hair and beards like they were trying to copy an album cover of Credence Clearwater Revival. I watched them for a while. I wondered what it would be like to smoke some. Bet it was good. But I wasn’t about to do any weed. Nope. Not tonight.

I didn’t notice her standing next to me.

“You like to watch people, don’t you?”

I smiled at her. Too much make up. The short dress was good, though. “How is it, Gigi?”

“I’m good, Sammy. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, I like to watch people. People are good.”

“Maybe it’s easíer to watch people than to talk to them.”

“I like to talk to people, Gigi.”

“Maybe you just don’t like to talk to me.”

“Where do you get this idea that I have something against you? You know, I think you’re the best. Really, Gigi. You’re fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Sammy.”

“Don’t start, Gigi.” I looked at her. “I’m not gonna fight a war with you. I’m just not. You wanna dance?”

“You asking me to dance?”

I grabbed her hand. That scared me. Why did I grab her hand? And maybe I heard a flutter of wings—but then the sound went away. We walked to where everyone was dancing. And then we danced. She was a good dancer. Not that I had any doubts. I mean, I guess I thought that anybody who could sing could dance, too. Me, I didn’t do either of those things. Not a singer, not a dancer. But you don’t always have to be good at something to do it. And I was in the mood to dance. I don’t know. It was a nice night and I just wanted to dance.

I don’t know how long we danced. Long time. It was good. We
looked at each other. I’d smile. She’d smile. Her smile was different than mine. I didn’t like that. It scared me. “Let’s get a beer,” she said over the loud music.

I went over to the keg and poured a beer for me, and one for Gigi. We sat a little away from the music. And Gigi was singing along with Santana and nodding her head. She was happy. Like the music was inside her. Then Pifas comes over and sits with us. “This is it. Fuckin’ A, Sammy.”

“You’re okay, Pifas,” I said. I lifted my plastic cup. He lifted his. So did Gigi. “Here’s to the Army. Watch your ass, baby.”

Gigi started to cry.

“No, no, no,” Pifas said. “Don’t do that. Man, man, man, don’t do that, Gigi.” He hugged her.

Then she laughed. “I’m better,” she said. Then she hit him on the shoulder. “Just don’t get your ass shot, okay?”

“Look, when I come back, I’m gonna go to college on the G.I. Bill.”

“Oh yeah?” I said.

“Yeah. I’m gonna be a college man—just like you, Sammy.”

I could feel myself starting to leave. I did that, sometimes, I just left. It was hard to be there. To look at him. To play this game like everything was fine, like he was just going away to camp or on vacation or like he was just moving away to California. I wasn’t good at pretending. But I knew that’s the only way people survived. Stay, I told myself. Just stay. Pretend. Like the rest of the world. We talked a while. Angel and René and Reyes and Jaime and Susie and Frances, they came over—and we all stood around and made fun of each other. It was good. We were laughing. We were really laughing. We were just kids.

Somewhere along the line that night, I decided to get really drunk. I’d never been drunk before. And I wanted to know what it was like. No, that’s not it. It was another way of pretending.

I remember posing for a picture with Pifas and the rest of us Hollywood types. We were all in it. All of us. I still have that picture. I don’t know how I wound up with it—but I still have it. Pifas is right in the center. And I’m standing right next to him. And we’re all smiling.

I remember throwing up behind the trailer house. I remember hearing Jaime’s voice, “The fucking Librarian’s throwing up.” I remember Gigi being so nice to me. Maybe she didn’t want to fight with me anymore.

And I remember promising to meet Pifas at the bus station.

Gigi drove me home in my dad’s car. Someone must’ve followed us, because she kissed me as we stood in front of my house. Like a sister. But there was more behind the kiss. I knew there was, even though I was drunk. And that’s when I really understood that Gigi had a beautiful bird living inside her—really beautiful—and I could almost see it and hear it, and I knew that someday that bird was gonna make Gigi free. Well, maybe I was just thinking all this crap because I was drunk. But how come I couldn’t shut down all these crazy thoughts? I thought booze was supposed to make you forget about things.

I sat there, still as a rock, and watched Gigi as she ran off and got in some car. Pifas. Pifas was in the car.

The next morning, I felt like a cat had crawled in my mouth and shed all it’s fur in there. The room spun around if I closed my eyes. My head felt like someone had been using it for a sidewalk. I drank lots of water, took three aspirin. I looked at the clock. There was a note on the kitchen table, my dad informing me that he’d taken Elena bowling. She loved to bowl on Saturday mornings, that little sister of mine. How the hell was I
gonna get to the bus station? I called René. His mother said that he was still asleep.

“Can you wake him up?”

I heard nothing on the other end.

“Please, Mrs. Montoya. Please.” I must’ve sounded desperate. When I heard René’s voice on the other end, all I said was, “Get your ass over here. I need a ride to see Pifas at the bus station.”

“Órale,” he said, then hung up.

When we got to the bus station, Pifas was there with his whole family. I didn’t say much. Pifas didn’t say much either. Mrs. Espinosa started crying. Pifas told her not to cry. “No llores, Mamá. Be back before you know it.” Mr. Espinosa held her, and he had this sick look on his face. He looked like someone was punching him. He stood there and took it.

I’d never said goodbye to anybody. I didn’t know what you were supposed to do. There must have been rules. But what the hell was there to say, anyway? Why not just speak in all the clichés we’d been taught? Why not? What was wrong with saying,
Take care of yourself, don’t get your ass shot, we’ll miss you, write.
What was wrong with saying any of those things?

“Listen, Pifas,” I said, “if you write, I’ll write back. I promise.”

He nodded. He looked like maybe he was gonna break down and cry. Cry right there. God, he looked closer to fifteen than eighteen. Right there, I wanted to say, “Look, Pifas, René and I, we’ll take you to Canada. Fuck the Army. We’ll take you to Canada.” That’s what I should have said. But I didn’t. And what the hell was Pifas supposed to do in Canada anyway? Loiter?

Pifas nodded at me. “I’ll write, ese. Fuckin’ A, I’ll write.” We shook hands. I should have at least hugged him. But I didn’t. We shook hands. Even René hugged him. What was wrong with me? Why did I always
freeze up at all the important moments? Damnit, I hated myself. And I felt those wings beating inside me again—only it wasn’t love that woke those wings up from their sleep. It wasn’t. It was something bad, something mean. It was anger. I didn’t know anger could do that. When Juliana made those wings appear, I thought it was because of love. But it wasn’t true. Hate could make the wings grow strong. And the thought scared me. It really scared me. Damnit! Why were all these bad things happening? Juliana getting killed, and Pifas going off to war, and my insides being torn up.

I sat there. Still as a stone. I watched Pifas climbing on the bus. He was leaving. And all I’d done was shake his hand. I couldn’t let him—“Pifas!” It was me. I was yelling his name. It was me. I wasn’t even thinking. “Look! Look, take this.” I took off the chain I was wearing—the crucifix my mom had given me. I never took it off. Never. “Here,” I said, “wear it. Don’t ever take it off. It’ll bring you luck.” He looked at it, then looked at me. Don’t cry. Just don’t do that. He clutched the crucifix in his fist. He kept nodding. He got on the bus. He opened the window and waved. His hands were big. I’d never noticed that. He was a small guy. But his hands were big.

See ya, Pifas. See ya around.

His family lingered awhile. They looked lost—then finally they just wandered home. Mrs. Espinosa told us to visit her. A nice lady. She promised to make tortillas for us. As if she didn’t have enough to do. “Todos son mis hijos,” she said. She was one sweet lady. She was. We told her we’d visit. We wouldn’t. There was nothing to do but lie to her.

René and I, we hung around for a while longer. We looked at each other. “I think Gigi was with Pifas last night, ¿sabes?”

I nodded.

“I don’t think he’s ever been laid.”

Some guys would have thought less of Gigi for doing that—but not me. She wanted to give him something. She wanted to make him feel like he was worth something.

“I’m dead,” René said.

I felt for the place around my neck where my crucifix used to hang. I thought of my mom. I thought of Juliana. “I’m dead, too,” I said.

With Pifas gone,
my job wasn’t much fun. I missed his commentaries. The last two weeks of worked dragged on and on. I thought they’d never end. But like everything else, they
would
end. On the last day of work, the foreman came by. He nodded at me. He didn’t like me much. I didn’t blame him. I hadn’t been all that nice to him. “Want a cigarette?” I said.

He nodded. “Fuckin’ A,” he said.

“Fuckin’ A,” I said.

The summer of 1968 was over. It was time for the leaves to change. School started. It would be my last year. I wouldn’t miss it when it was all over. I swore I wouldn’t. It felt strange to walk the halls. I felt like I was a foreigner. An alien. I didn’t belong there anymore. But I had to finish out the last season.

I walked by Juliana’s old locker. I heard two girls talking. “Yeah, you didn’t hear? Remember, at the beginning of the summer, her dad goes all crazy and shoots them all, Juliana and all her brothers and sisters.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that—that was Juliana? My God? It’s really awful. And she was so pretty.” I just kept walking.

Spanish IV-S was my homeroom class. S. For Spanish Speakers. That meant me and Jaime Rede and René Montoya. And that gringo, Eric Fry,
who was too good to be in one of the Spanish IV-E classes. E. For English speakers. Mrs. Scott was our homeroom teacher. Ofelia Montes Scott. She was “one of
us
who’d married one of
them.”
That’s how René put it. René had it in for gringos. He said I had it all wrong. “They have it in for us. It’s them, Sammy. Them. ¿Qué pues, Sammy? You’re really a pendejo about these things.” Yeah, yeah. I don’t know where he got the idea that I was on the other side of the issue—it’s just that he talked about the same damn thing over and over.
Just give it a rest, René.
That’s what I’d tell him. Not that he did. René never gave anything a rest. Maybe Gigi was wrong, maybe he would make a good boxer. He sure as hell liked to fight.

First thing that happened on the first day of school is that they gave us all the new rules. The new rules, they were a lot like the old ones. We’d heard it all. But they liked to tell us. Just in case we’d all forgotten. They figured summers were for forgetting. Maybe they figured right. So they read the rules. Boys, no hair below your collar. Girls, skirts two inches above the knee—any higher and you go home. Boys, tuck your shirts in. Wear belts. You know what those are, those things your father has to take off once in a while and threaten you with. No patches on your pants. No t-shirts. Girls, no pants. Pants are for boys. And no shorts. No shorts for girls. No shorts for boys. And boys, no hair allowed on your face. Clean cut. Oh, and one more thing, boys: no taps on your shoes. That was meant for all the pachucos who loved to wear taps on their shoes. “Saves your shoes,” René said. He had taps. “Órale, the nuns wear ‘em, why the shit can’t we?” Oh, and one last thing, no public displays of affection. No holding hands. No kissing. Mrs. Scott seemed to enjoy reading the rules. Then she switched to Spanish. We got them in two languages. “Jaime Rede, are you rolling your eyes?” She hated Jaime Rede. She had that in her favor.

“Sí Señora, I’m rolling my eyes.” I had to hand it to Jaime. He didn’t hold back.

“We’re not going to have a good year, are we, Jaime?”

“We’re going to have a great year,” he said. He actually sounded happy. I wondered what was wrong with him. Happy and Jaime Rede didn’t go together. I swear. What was the matter with him?

The dialogue between teacher and student was cut short when the principal, Marvin C. Fitz, got on the intercom to make an announcement. “Welcome back, all of you. Welcome to all new students, and welcome especially to the Senior Class, the Class of 1969. . .” I hated his voice. He sounded like he was made of plastic. He sort of looked like that, too.