Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood (30 page)

“You don’t smoke.”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Your mother’s going to kill you.”

She shrugged. “Just give me one,” she said. So I did. She didn’t even cough when she lit it. She was a natural. Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, taking to a bad habit like that.

She looked at me. “How come you never talk to me, Sammy?”

“I don’t?”

“No. You don’t. You talk to everybody. Except me.”

“Is that true?” I felt stupid. Maybe it was true. Well, it was true. I never knew what to say to her. She was always so quiet. It seemed like so much work to talk to her. Even though I liked her. How could you not like Angel?

“Yeah, Sammy, it’s true. You just see me as Gigi’s friend—someone who follows her around. A cat she carries around. Or a dog she walks around the block.”

“Where do you get that? People don’t do that crap in Hollywood. Dogs. Cats. That’s crap.”

“You know what I mean. You think I’m just her little friend.”

“That’s not true.” It was. It was true. Shit. I wasn’t doing well here. She knew I was lying. Girls, they always knew. They had a little compass inside them.

She nodded. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

“With who?”

“Gigi.”

René and Susie had stopped arguing, and they decided to join our conversation. That was the problem with traveling in cars—no privacy.

“Hell no,” René said. “He’s not in love with her. You think he’s fucking nuts? Are you in love with me, Angel? Are you?”

Angel looked at René like she’d look at a brother who was always being stupid in front of the whole world. “Who can love you, René? There’s only one thing you want from a girl, and you want it when you want it. And if you don’t get it, you move on. And if you do get it, you still move on.”

Susie laughed. “The whole world knows about you, René.”

“You and me don’t have anything to do with what Sammy feels for Gigi.”

“You’re the one who brought up the subject, René,” Angel said. Something was happening to her. She was busting out of herself.

René wasn’t keeping his eyes on the road. He kept trying to turn around as he talked. That made me nervous. Angel was a better driver. “Well, I say Sammy doesn’t love her.”

“Drive,” I said, “you’re gonna kill us. I don’t want to die. And I can talk, you know?” I looked at Angel. “I’ve never loved Gigi. I haven’t. Not ever.” I felt like I traitor. I was betraying her. Like there was something wrong with being in love with her. Like she wasn’t worth anything. That’s not what I meant. I felt like she was a part of me. What I felt for Gigi wasn’t
nice and neat. Not everything fit into neat little categories. Especially not Gigi. I’ve never loved her. I felt like I was slapping her in the face.

“So how come you and Gigi are always talking?”

“She’s like my sister. She calls me. ¿Qué quieres que haga? You want me to hang up on her?”

“Admit it. You like talking to her.”

“Sure I do. Who doesn’t? So what? Who doesn’t like talking to Gigi? She’s like a sister.”

“You have a sister.”

“She’s ten, Angel. Damn. Can’t guys be friends with girls?”

“René can’t.” That was Susie. Then she and Angel started laughing. They were having a good time, laughing at René. That was kind of a hobby for them—laughing at guys. Especially at guys like René.

“Tengo muchas amigas. Girls like my ass.” René at least knew enough not to believe his own bullshit. His words were as empty as his wallet.

“Your ass is the only part of you they like,” Susie said. She could be like Gigi sometimes.

“Name one,” Angel said. “Name one girl who’s your friend.”

René was thinking. “Hatty Garrison. Hatty Garrison. She’s my friend.”

“You never see Hatty Garrison. Never. And besides, you asked her out, and she turned you down flat.”

“You did? You asked her out?” I said. “You did?”

“That’s a damned lie. I didn’t. No way in hell.”

“Yes, you did,” Susie said. “The whole school knew. Hatty told Pauline. And Pauline told the whole school. Ya sabes como es la Pauline. She told the whole world.”

René didn’t say anything. “Why are we talking about shit like this? Chingao. Who cares?” He lit a cigarette as he drove. He looked at Angel. “Angel, you’re my friend.”

“Being friends was my idea. Not yours.”

“Who cares whose idea it was? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

I watched Angel puff on her cigarette. “Yeah,” she said, “we’re friends.”

“Not by choice,” Susie said. “Guys. Guys are all the same. They don’t know how to be friends with a girl. Not one damn guy.”

“Gigi and I are friends,” I said. I looked at Angel. “Angel and I are friends.” I looked at Susie. “You and me, we could be friends. Only you’re not interested in having guys be your friends, are you?—So what are you screaming at guys for? Hell, you’re just as bad.”

René laughed at that one. And then we were all laughing. At each other. At our dumb conversation. Who knew why were laughing? Who cared? We just wanted to laugh. We’d known each other all our lives. We’d graduated from high school together. We were scared of what was going to happen tomorrow. Sure we were. Everything we knew was gone now. We were scared. Why not laugh? At the stupid things we said.

René parked the car in front of the abandoned farmhouse right behind Cruces High. Site of a hundred fights. That’s where everyone went to have it out. That’s where everyone went when they needed to explode—take out their rage on some other’s guys face. I’d been there a few times myself. Against my will. And when it wasn’t against my will, it was always against my better judgment. I hated to fight. But you’d never know it. Too many fights. That was the thing about high school. Too many fights. I was glad it was over.

That farmhouse, it made me think of Pifas. Pifas was always getting cars to follow him here. He could come to blows with someone he’d be
hanging out with a week later. That Pifas. I missed him. “What are we doing here?” I said.

“Right this way,” René said as he got out of the car. “Órale! We’re gonna have some fun. Baby, baby, fun.” Fun was his favorite word. Maybe that’s why his mom called him Chiste. René was yelling and laughing like a crazy man. So we piled out of both cars and followed René into the old farmhouse, which wasn’t anything but a small four-room adobe place with dirt floors and busted-out windows.

Once we were in the front room, René started lighting candles. And as he lit the candles, we could all see there was a table there, and on the table there were some bottles of wine and some plastic glasses, and there was some ice in an ice chest with beer in it, and there was Bacardi rum and Coke and lime to make cuba libres. And there was even some Fritos and potato chips and stuff. And after René finished lighting the candles, he screams out like he was James Brown or something like that, “Yeeeooooow! ¡Órale, let’s party! Let’s swing some nalga, baby!” And then he let out another scream and took a swig from a bottle of Bacardi and then he yelled out, “Listen, everyone. Welcome! Welcome to Hollywood!” And then he just laughed like a pendejo. Like he was drunk. But he wasn’t. He was just letting go. But, God, he made me smile, that guy. He could be so many different things, René. I was beginning to understand that he was a lot of different people. And that was the good thing about him, that he could be so many people, all in one body. And maybe all those people inside him were all fighting for control. I wondered how he was gonna turn out. “Welcome to Hollywood!” he screamed. “Where the girls tease you more than please you. . .” God, sometimes he was as good a performer as Gigi. He went on for a while, making us laugh. That’s what he wanted to do, make us laugh. Because
that had been Pifas’ job. And Pifas was gone. So now René was taking his place. This party, I guess it was his gift to us. And he’d planned it and paid for it. All by himself.

It was fun, hanging out in that farmhouse. René must’ve worked hard to clean it up because the last time I was there, it was full of junk and all kinds of crap. He’d cleaned it up. In some places, there was the faint smell of urine. But not too bad. Who cared about a little urine?

It was fun. God, I hadn’t had enough of that in my years at Cruces High. I hadn’t. Too serious. I needed to change. Already, I was making other plans. To change myself. I was addicted to making plans.

We were drinking and smoking. But we weren’t drinking too much. René and Charlie—they were the biggest drinkers. Angel, she was drinking more than usual. I noticed that.

After a while, a few more cars showed up. I guess René invited some other people. And after a while, there were maybe forty people there, and the radio was going, and people would dance when there was a good song, and everyone was laughing about the stupid things we did. And I could smell pot which was better than smelling urine. And this one girl did this great impersonation of Gigi’s speech when she ran for president of the senior class, and we all clapped and laughed our asses off and Gigi said, “Not bad—but you didn’t move your hips right.” And then René starts reenacting that time when we were passing out flyers to change the dress code. “Change the dress code! Change the dress code!” he yelled. Just like he’d yelled it that day. Like he was selling peanuts at a ballgame.

I remember sneaking out of the farmhouse to get some air. I looked up at the stars. There were millions. And from Las Cruces, New Mexico,
in 1969, you could see them all. I swear. You could see every damn beautiful star in the sky.

And then I heard this voice, “Someday, Sammy, you’re gonna be up there.”

I knew that voice. It was a voice I’d keep with me forever. I didn’t even turn around. “I don’t think so, Gigi. But I like it here. On the ground. It’s a good place. Maybe I’ll be a farmer.”

“Yeah,” Gigi said, “maybe I’ll be a nun.”

We both laughed.

“You think in another life we were brother and sister?”

That made me smile. When she said that. “Maybe. Maybe we were.”

“We had this huge hacienda in Mexico before the Revolution. And our father was this big badass patrón.”

“We were probably twins,” I said. “And our dad was a peón who worked for that badass patrón.”

She laughed. It was a soft laugh. “I got you something,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s not much,” she said. She looked in her purse and handed me her lighter. “Here,” she said, “so you can see.”

I flicked the lighter. In her hand she was holding a small pin of the Mexican eagle. The farm worker eagle. “It’s for people who fight for good things, Sammy.” She kissed me on the cheek, and pressed the farm worker eagle into my hand. When I clutched it tight, I thought of Juliana’s fist.

“Gigi,” I said. “Do you like my shirt?”

“That’s a funny question.”

“I’m a funny guy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, I like your shirt. It’s a beautiful shirt. The most beautiful shirt you’ve ever worn.”

“I want to give it to you.”

“Really?”

“It’s the only shirt I’ve ever bought.”

“Really?” She laughed. “Estás loco, ¿sabes? You’re one crazy Hollywood guy, Sammy.”

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

“You’d give me your shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Now,” I said. And so I took off my shirt. Not that I felt too naked. I mean, I’ve always worn t-shirts. My mom, she said a man should always wear a t-shirt. She took the shirt and stared at it. Then she put it on over her beautiful yellow dress.

And then she started to cry. “Shhhh,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“I’m scared,” she said. “What’s gonna happen, now, Sammy?”

We never left the old farmhouse that night. All those plans we had about going to all those parties. Up in smoke, those plans. About three o’clock in the morning, people started wandering off. They played my song on the radio. Frankie Valle singing
You’re just too good
and Angel came up to me and said, “Sammy, you want to dance?”

And I said, “Angel, I think I would.”

And it scared me, the way she fit in my arms. It really scared me. And the way she smelled made me tremble. And I wanted to kiss her. And that scared me too. Because I didn’t really know Angel. I knew Gigi. I’d known Juliana—at least as much as anybody had known her. But, Angel, I didn’t
know her. So why did I want to kiss her?

Because she fit in my arms.

When the song was over, we looked at each other. And then I felt stupid. She felt stupid too. So that made me feel better. Not much. But some.

And then we went outside and looked up at the stars. On the radio, Janis Joplin was asking the Lord to buy her a Mercedes Benz. In 1969, she was still alive. And so were we. Angel and I, we listened to her sing. And we didn’t say a word. And I think we were kissing each other in our heads.

A couple of
weeks after I started my job at Safeway, I got trained as a checker. I liked it, punching in all those prices. You had to think, concentrate, and you had to memorize all the prices. It wasn’t bad. I could do this. For a summer. It was only for a summer. René got a job roofing houses. Shit. Hard work. “I like it,” he said. “When I get home, I’m good and tired.” Gigi, she was working at the Rexall Drug Store. “You should see who goes in there to buy rubbers,” she said. Like I wanted to have a copy of the list.