Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood (21 page)

“Sometimes dreams come true, don’t they, Sammy?”

I wanted to tell Elena that the bad ones, they’re the ones that come true. But I just said, “Yeah, sometimes dreams come true.”

“Hey! Hey you!
Where’s your belt?”

I was practically running down the hall, late for second period, hated being late, hated standing there waiting for an unexcused absence, Mr. Romero staring at me like I was a few inches away from landing in prison. Like maybe if it were up to him I would be landing in prison. Such a big deal over unexcused tardies. Tardies lead to chaos, that’s what our teachers told us. As if what went on in class wasn’t chaos. Tardies, hell, and girls, they got away with everything. Boys, they never got away with anything. All a girl ever had to say was “personal.” Personal, that meant it was that time of the month. Lied. Girls were liars. Personal always got them an excused tardy. Guys, what could be personal about guys? Sometimes, when I was staring at the slip of paper that said REASON FOR TARDINESS, I’d get the urge to write: I was zipping up my pants at the urinal and I recircumcised myself. A tragedy, a personal tragedy. Personal. Excused.

“I said, ‘Where’s your belt?’” I stopped. I looked around and saw Colonel Wright. Everybody hated Colonel Wright. You didn’t have to be in his class to hate him. He was staring at me. I pointed to myself. Like an idiot. Like a complete and total menso. Who me?

“Yeah you. Where’s your belt?”

I looked down, shit, no belt. How could I have forgotten my belt?

I shrugged. I must’ve left it in the bathroom. That’s what I was thinking of blurting out. Yeah, yeah, he would’ve believed that one.

“Who’s your homeroom teacher?” He said it like he was about to have her court-martialed.

“Mrs. Scott.”

“And she didn’t do anything about this situation?”

It was a situation. The Viet Nam war wasn’t a war. It was a conflict. My not wearing a belt—that was a situation. And they wanted us to learn English. Yeah, yeah.

“I guess not,” I said. It was hard to say who he blamed more—me or Mrs. Scott. But I knew who he was about to come down on.

“What’s your name?”

“Sammy.”

“You got a last name there, son?”

“Santos.”

“Santos, go to the office. Explain your situation to Mr. Romero.”

“I have a test,” I said.

“Well, that’s too bad.”

The bell rang. Shit. It’s a belt, I wanted say, just a stupid little piece of leather. Just a belt. I knew he could see the disgust on my face.

“What’s that I see on your face?”

“Mustard,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t like back talk, Santos.”

I hated the way he said Santos. I nodded.

He pointed toward the office. I walked down the empty hall to handle my situation.

Mr. Romero was in the office. He smiled. But it wasn’t a nice smile. Romero didn’t have a nice smile. Crooked teeth. Crooked brain, too, I think. Nope. Not nice. “Mr. Santos,” he said. “Have you and Mr. Montoya gone on any more river patrols?”

Bastard. “Yeah,” I said. “Last night we beat the crap outa La Llorona. That’s what she gets for drowning her kids.”

“A comedian.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve never liked you, Santos.”

“I’ve always felt bad about that, sir.” It wasn’t the first time we’d had conversations like this. He always looked at me the same way. I always looked at him the same way. I wondered what was wrong with me. I was getting an attitude. I’d always had one. Hid it, though. I guess I just wasn’t in the mood for hiding. It’s like someone had lit a fuse inside me.

He looked me over. “Where’s your belt?”

“That’s exactly what Colonel Wright wanted to know.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it wore out. I told him I was too poor to buy another. I’m from Hollywood.”

“I hate smart mouths, Mr. Santos.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many days of detention do you think I should give you?”

“Should I pick a number between one and ten?”

“That’s it. That’s it. Eight days. Eight days of detention.” When he got mad, he always repeated himself. If he said it more than once, then maybe he was communicating more effectively. I knew about that. Eight days. That was the maximum. He tore out a tardy slip, stamped unexcused on it—handed it to me. “I feel better,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said. “I feel real good.”

He just stared at me. “Get outa here before I throw your ass out of this school.” He kept staring at me. I didn’t care. He knew my father. Even my father knew he was a chicken shit. Even my father knew that. And I didn’t give a damn what he thought. And sometimes, when I didn’t give a damn, I shot my mouth off. And lately I didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought. God, who lit the fuse? So, here I was popping off. Not that I was helping myself out here. Eight days of detention. That’s what it got me. For having forgotten to wear a belt. For opening my big mouth. I’d have to tell my dad. He’d say, “Sometimes, you should just be quiet, Sammy. You’re quiet when you should be talking—and you talk when you should be busy keeping your mouth shut.” That’s what he’d say. Yeah, yeah.

A belt. A stupid belt. This was January of 1969. America was falling apart. Black Panthers, Brown Berets, farm workers were organizing, every college in the nation was on fire. And what were we worried about at Las Cruces High? Boys’ belts. Dress codes. Tucked in shirts. Short hair. Short hair! Not that I wanted to wear my hair long. I didn’t like long hair—and I didn’t like bell bottoms. Me and ten other people in the world didn’t wear them. So what? Guys wanted long hair. So what? Girls wanted short dresses. So what?

Tardy. I hated that word. I handed Mr. Barnes my note. He looked at it. Unexcused. Shook his head. Handed me my test. I sat down, looked at it, multiple choice, wasn’t worried, stuff not worth knowing. Dates. That was history? Dates. I was going to remember them after the test? Yeah, yeah. This wasn’t learning. I knew that. I did know that. Hated history, hated Barnes who could quote Robert E. Lee and every other general who ever took a breath. Hated Barnes, hated Romero, hated
Colonel Wright. Hated Birdwail, though at least I didn’t have to spend any more time in his goddamned classroom. Hated my Civics teacher, Mrs. Jackson, who seemed to be only slightly better than Colonel Wright. Got up there and told us things like the S.D.S. was pinko. Pinko. Didn’t even know what that was. She’d make anybody want to be a pinko. Told us too many people were tearing down what we’d built up. Tearing everything down and paving the road for the Chinese or the Russians to come on in. Told us our fathers didn’t fight wars to hand the country over to hippies and other assorted peaceniks and cowards and other disrespectful vermin. Told us about the domino effect. And we just might be next to fall if we didn’t do our job in Viet Nam. That’s what she got up and told us. This was Civics—these are things we needed to know. And then she told us how the blacks were ungrateful. “After all we’ve done. For them.” I’m sure all of the citizens of Hollywood were supposed to be grateful, too. And she didn’t think much of César Chávez, either. Those people got jobs and no one else would hire them. Where exactly do they think they’re going to get a job? She took out pictures of D-Day, showed them to us. Your fathers fought hard for what we have. And what the hell did she know about why our fathers had fought? She didn’t know my father. She wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to him either. I knew that.

“My uncle died in Korea,” I said one day. I was mad. I was really mad. “He was a patriot,” she said. “Brave.” Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. What the hell did she know? He was dead. And I still didn’t understand why he had to die. And my father, the veteran, was heartbroken. I hated this stupid, worthless, good-for-nothing school. Right then, right there, all I felt was rage. Five more months. It didn’t matter one damn to me what life would be after this. I wanted out. Out! That’s what I wanted.

I turned in my test. Barnes smiled. I was the last to start. The first to finish.

Tomorrow, I would get it back. It would say: “A. Nice work, Sammy.” That’s what my papers always said.

I hated myself. Sometimes, I did. Because I took the crap they gave me and pretended like it was real food. I took it. I ate it. And I knew what it was—it was all crap. Anything I knew about America, I learned from my father. And from living in Hollywood. And from watching the news. And from reading books. I hated myself because they owned me. Because I let them own me. I knew that. I did know that. And I wasn’t gonna do a damn thing about it.

Hey! Hey, you! Where’s your belt?

On the fifth day of detention, a Monday, it started to snow. I sat in the back of the classroom—next to René. He’d forgotten to tuck his shirt back in after he’d gone to the bathroom. Lots of guys got caught that way. Colonel Wright had caught up with him in the hall. Colonel Wright, he could spot a guy with an untucked shirt fifty yards away.

I looked over to see what René was doing. Writing a letter to Pifas—he was in Nam now. No Germany for him. I looked out the window and watched the snow fall. It was beautiful, really beautiful. I thought I’d like walking home in it. That’s what I was thinking.

Colonel Wright was today’s monitor. “No looking out the window,” he said. Everyone looked up.

“It’s snowing,” I said.

“You’ve never seen snow before, Santos?”

“Not lately,” I said.

“I don’t like you, Santos.”

“Yes, sir. I can’t say that I blame you, sir.”

Made him mad. He was about to say something else when Gigi walks in. Gigi was always saving my ass. He looked at her. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Free Speech.” He looked at all of us. “We have a celebrity among us. You want to give that speech for us one more time? We sure enjoyed it.”

God, Gigi could give a look. She hated him. More than me, I think.

“And she’s late. Late to detention. What do you think about that? And she wanted to be President of the Senior Class. Do you think we should ask her if she has an excuse?”

“It was personal,” she said.

He just stared at her. They stayed that way for a while. Then she opened her purse and showed him her feminine hygiene products. Then found a seat.

“I didn’t say you could sit down, young lady.”

“I’m not in the Army, sir.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow there’s a mass for the deaf.”

We all laughed. Couldn’t help it. An old Mexican saying: Mañana hay misa pa’ los sordos. I’d never heard it translated into English. Maybe that’s why we all laughed, because it was odd to hear it in English. Gigi, she was a helluva translator.

God, the Colonel hated that we were laughing.

“Everybody. Everybody gets an extra day.” He looked at Gigi. “You want to do your classmates any more favors?”

Gigi shook her head. Her eyes were on fire. I knew those eyes.

René and Gigi and I had a snowball fight after detention. It was dark, but the cold of the snow was soft and good. And for a moment, the
world we lived in was perfect. Just for a second. And then afterwards, we drank hot chocolate at Shirley’s. “I hate this bullshit detention,” René said. “And I hate that Colonel. I hate that pinche.”

“He fought for your freedom,” Gigi smiled. “Just ask him. He’ll tell you.” We laughed. We were laughing at him. The only way we knew to fight back.

“We should do something,” Gigi said.

“Something,” I said. “An undetermined or unspecified thing.”

“Librarian,” Gigi said.

“I was just wanting to know what you meant by something.”

“A student strike.”

“Forget about it.”

René was all for it. A fight! Hey! A fight! Any kind of fight. His eyes. Sometimes they were like Gigi’s. On fire.

“I’m not gonna organize a pinche student strike,” I said.

“They’re doing it everywhere.”

“In colleges. We’re not in college.”

“Today is the first day of the rest of your fucking life.” René grinned.

“Not gonna do it. I’m not.”

“Oh, you’re such a pinche good boy, ¿sabes, Sammy?”

“Culo,” I said.

“You’re the culo,” Gigi said.

“I don’t know the first thing about organizing a student strike. I’m out. I’m all the way out.”

“What are you afraid of? Chicken, big gallina.”

“I’m going to college,” I said. “You and René can go to hell. In five months, I’m getting the hell out of Cruces High. And then, I’m going to college. And then my life is going to start. And I’m not gonna screw that
up just because we’re all pissed off. You think you’re the only ones pissed off at how things are run at that two bit 7-11 pop stand they call Cruces High? Why don’t you get all those gringos to help you out? See if they’ll organize a student strike. Let’s see how many of them are going to put their asses on the line.”

Gigi didn’t say anything. She wasn’t happy. She’d talked me into a hundred things since I’d known her—ever since second grade when she made me give my last nickel to some little guy she’d owed. Always got her way. Nope. Not this time.