Always Running (20 page)

There were a few Jewish lowriders I talked with in auto shop. We shared ideas about hydraulic lifts and pinstripe body designs. They even sported
cholo-
style clothes, slicked their hair back, and learned a few street songs and dances. But nobody else dealt with me.

One day I came in slightly late to my English Lit class and sat down; I placed a book on top of the desk. The teacher walked up to me and picked up the book.

“American Me
by Beatrice Griffith,” he said. “Where did you get this book?”

“It’s a library book—it’s about the
pachuco
experience in the 1940s.”

“Sounds good, but the book you were to bring here today was Wordsworth’s
Preludes.
That is your assignment, not
American Me.”

“This book is something I’d like to read. I can even do a report on it.”

“Young man, you don’t decide your assignments in this class. If you can’t participate like the rest of us, I suggest you leave.”

“Fine—who gives a fuck what I want!”

I stormed out of there. Needless to say, this was my last day in the English Lit class.

But the teachers’ strike of 1970 was the real reason I stopped going to Taft. The strike lasted a couple of months. But when the teachers settled with the Los Angeles School Board, I stayed out; I felt the school district hadn’t settled with me yet.

I ended up back in the streets. Somehow, though, it wasn’t the same as before. A power pulsed in those books I learned to savor, in the magical hours I spent in the library—and it called me back to them.

Sometimes I roamed the street with nothing to do and ended up in a library. Later on my own I picked up Wordsworth, Poe, Emerson and Whitman. Chicharrón and the others noticed the difference. Chicharrón even called me the “businessman” because whenever he’d ask me about the books I carried, I would say: “Just taking care of business.”

I also learned not to be angry with my father. I learned something about my father’s love, which he never expressed in words, but instead, at great risk, he gave me the world of books—a gift for a lifetime.

I lay, sprawled on the bed. Jazz sounds emanated from a stereo player, saxes everywhere. Loud knocking picked up the beat. They were Chicharrón’s knocks; I could tell.

“Get in here,” I yelled, bothered for being bothered.

“What’s up homes?” Chicharrón greeted. Somebody walked in behind him, some
lambe,
who tripped on the threshold.

“Who’s the shadow?” I asked.

“This is Arnie,” Chicharrón said. “Arnie, meet Chin.”

Arnie stuck his hand out. I ignored it. I gave Chicharrón a look like “what gives here?” Chicharrón grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

“Arnie? What kind of name is that?”

“It stands for Arnulfo.”

“Qué jodida—
that’s even worse.”

I grabbed a bottle of Silver Satin wine and offered it to Arnie.

“Take a
trago,
man.”

“What … what’s a … I don’t understand.”

“What’s the matter, don’t you know anything?”

“I don’t speak Spanish.”

“It’s mostly English, poop butt,” I responded, then looked hard at Chicharrón. “Man, where did you find this dude?”

I handed Arnie the bottle. He took a swig, swallowed it as if it were a ball in his throat, then just about fell down on the floor.

“Whew, is that strong!” Arnie finally said through a shriveled face.

“Yea, it packs a punch.”

“Hey homes,” Chicharrón clipped in. “How about getting some
refín?”

“You’re all the time eating.”

“I know and so what—let’s make our squints.”

I left the sounds on the stereo, and together we walked into the night. We made it to a big boulevard in Rosemead. Faces, gestures, street signs came and went. We infiltrated a packed sidewalk, winding through Christmas shoppers, above us multicolored lights, in front of us a mall resounding in chorales. Suddenly neon, on top of a stuffed restaurant.

“This looks like the place,” Chicharrón suggested.

We made our entrance. Waiters and busboys were dressed up in white shirts, black vests and bow ties; the counter girls were in pleated, plaid skirts with ribbons on their hair. Arnie looked uncomfortable, but I got the feeling he always did.

A hostess approached and offered us a table.

“Hey, we must rate around here,” Chicharrón said.

“Yeah, we rate all right,” I said. “They’d like us to get through as fast as possible so we can get the hell out.”

At our table, surrounded by family-type folk, I ordered the largest cheeseburger with fries and the biggest tastiest milk shake on the menu. Chicharrón, not to be outdone, asked for a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, with all the trims, and a super-duper banana split. Arnie looked amazed at us, and ordered a tuna sandwich.

“Hey Arnie—
homeboy,”
I responded with a furrowed brow. “You don’t go to a fancy place like this and order a tuna sandwich. Go for the works,
ése!”

Conceding, Arnie added a pie a la mode. I nodded approval. Once the food came, we got down to some heavy-duty chowing.

We rushed through the orders, then the time came to consider the bill. I looked at it, then moved my eyes toward Arnie.

Arnie looked at me, smiled, but—catching on—changed into a frown.

“Now, don’t look at me,” he said. “I, I didn’t bring any money.”

Not the right response.

“No money, what’s with you man?” Chicharrón scolded.

“I thought you guys were inviting me. How was I supposed to know …”

“Forget it, dude,” I said, already planning the next move. “Listen, it’s no problem. We’ll just take the long walk to the exit—and then run like your mother made you.”

“What are you saying? Just walk out and not pay?” Arnie asked.

“Shhhh! You want to make an announcement or what?” I said. “Listen, I ain’t got no
feria,
Chicharrón and you ain’t got none. There’s only one thing to do.”

I motioned my head toward the door.

“¡A la brava!”
Understand?”

“Yeah, sure,” Chicharrón agreed. “There’s a lot of people in the place. There’s a line at the cash register. It’s a good time to
esqüintar.”

“I don’t know about this you guys,” Arnie protested. “I never done this before.”

“It’s no big deal, a piece of taco,” I reassured him. “You guys just get up and walk out like nothin’ is happenin’. I’ll go to the head, to distract them, but we all can’t go—that’s a sure sign we’re walking. I’ll be right behind you.”

“I don’t know about this, you guys,” Arnie repeated.

“Well, Arnie, you can stay here an’ wash dishes, cuz we is jammin’.”

I got up and shuffled cool-like to the restroom. Once inside, I combed my hair. Scraped at a hang nail. Checked out a blemish. Then I straightened up and pushed out the restroom doors, heading toward the exit. I didn’t look around, just straight in front of me. People appeared too busy talking, eating and having a good time to notice a
cholo
make his way out the door.

Almost outside, I took in a deep breath, stepped onto the pavement and tried to walk away when two Frankensteins came up from behind and intervened. I went to hit one, but the other grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground. A woman shrieked. I could see faded images of people who stopped to look on as we battled on the sidewalk. I punched and pulled, but the dudes held me there on the ground. As soon as I calmed, they lifted me up as if I were a trapped rat and dragged me through the restaurant. Some people were already on their feet, others stunned in their chairs, all looking at me in a hush. I felt like I should get applause.

The Frankensteins pushed me through a storage area behind the restaurant and into a small office. A partly-bald man with a loosened tie over a wrinkled white shirt sat there, looking tired.

“Go ahead, sit down,” he told me, then turned to the Frankensteins. “Thank you. You did good.”

The dudes gave me a last look, like maybe they should’ve broken my arm or something.

“Just called the police,” the baldy said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

I sat there expressionless.

“What’s your name, kid?”

I looked at him.

“What’s
your
name—kid?” I answered.

Surprisingly, he laughed.

“The name is Kearney—Charles Kearney.”

Kearney looked at me with some interest behind a pile of papers.

“May I ask why you did it?”

“I was hungry.”

“Don’t you have food at home?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t live at home.”

“You’ve been arrested before, I gather.”

“Here and there—lightweight stuff.”

“Well, what you did was wrong,” Kearney explained. “It’s against the law to order food, eat it and not pay for it. It’s stealing!”

“I know.”

He shuffled one pile of papers to another.

“How old are you?”

“Going on sixteen.”

He shook his head.

“And you don’t have a home to go to, huh?”

I crossed my right leg over my left, placed my arms across the legs, and looked straight at Kearney.

“Listen Mr. Kurley—or whatever your name is. I was hungry. I don’t have no money. So I got something to eat. My moms works hard for the family. She don’t like me doing this, and I know she feels bad ’cause she can’t get enough for us. It’s not her fault. She threw me out of the house for being an asshole. So I can’t cry about it. I just have to make it on my own, do what I can to keep the pressure off moms and the family. You know what I’m talking about?”

“But stealing is against the law.”

“I understand I did wrong. I’m not making excuses. You caught me, up and up. I’ll go to jail.”

I paused, looked around the place a little, then back at Kearney.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like jail. They beat you in jail, but like I said: No excuses.”

“What do you mean—they beat you in jail?”

“Yeah, man, the cops,” I responded. “They beat on us all the time. Especially them sheriffs. They’re the worst. They don’t care if you’re hungry, if you have a job or not, or anything about hurting your moms who works so hard. They want control over you, including over your life. That’s a fact. That’s the way of the neighborhood.”

Kearney looked intently at me.

“I don’t know about any of this, all I know is you did wrong. You stole from me. You have to pay something for it.”

“I don’t mind that. The problem is we end up paying more for the same thing than other people do. On this side of town, the cops don’t beat up people. On this side of town, the cops don’t stop you for no reason. They don’t be hitting you in the head, trying to make you mad so you do something you’ll regret later.”

“I don’t mind paying for my mistakes,” I added. “But it seems like we’re paying for everyone else’s mistakes too. Sometimes we pay even when there’s been no mistake. Just for being who we are, you know what I mean? Just for being Mexican. That’s all the wrong I have to do.”

Kearney mulled over my words in silence. Soon a sheriff’s deputy entered the office. I recognized the ugly scar across his cheek. It belonged to Cowboy.

Kearney looked up at Cowboy, then at me. Cowboy recognized me too.

“What do we have here!” Cowboy exclaimed. “Chin, my man. Yeah, this is going to be fun—right Chin?”

“You know him?” Kearney asked me.

“Sure,” I said with disgust. “He’s one of those sheriffs I was telling you about.”

“Listen, Mr. Kearney, don’t let these punk kids con you into anything,” Cowboy said. “If you ask me, they all need a swift kick in the behind.”

Cowboy pulled out a note pad and prepared to ask Kearney questions. But Kearney did a most startling thing.

“It’s okay, officer, I don’t want to press charges.”

Cowboy smiled and removed a pencil from his jacket.

“I know how it looks, but don’t feel sorry for these clowns,” Cowboy responded. “They’d just as soon shoot you as steal from you.”

“I understand, but it’s all right,” Kearney persisted. “I don’t want you to take him. I’ll take care of this.”

“Are you nuts?” Cowboy lost his patience. “This guy is bad news. I know him. He’s been arrested so many times, his record could cover the floor.”

Man, I thought, Cowboy wants me so bad he could taste it.

“No, officer, I’m sorry for having called you and making you come all the way down here,” Kearney insisted. “But this is my final decision. I’m not going to let you take him.”

Cowboy’s face turned red, infuriated. He jammed the pencil back into his jacket and stuffed the note pad into his back pants pocket. He turned toward me, fire in his eyes and a tremble in his lip. Then, without a word, he swung around on his boots and left, slamming the door behind him.

What a relief! I already imagined the beating Cowboy had in store for me.

“Look kid,” Kearney said. “I want you to get out of here. Don’t misunderstand what I’ve done. I don’t want to see you in my restaurant ever again, you hear?”

“That’s fine with me—and thanks.”

Kearney allowed me to leave out the back door. I cross-looked down the alley. I sensed Cowboy lurking around somewhere, waiting for me.

I sprinted up the alley.

“Orale,
homes,” a voice came at me from some bushes. I looked over and saw Chicharrón emerge through the branches with a piece of pipe in his hand.

“Chingao,
am I glad to see you,” I said. “You been here all this time?”

“Sure, man, I saw them get you,” Chícharrón explained. “So I hid back here and then Cowboy parked and went inside. I figured as soon as he brought you out, I’d bash him over the head with this pipe. But he came out alone. What the hell happened?”

“You’ll never believe it,” I said. “I can hardly believe it myself. I’ll tell you later.”

Then I looked around for Arnie.

“What happened to the
lambe.”

“Arnie—that
puto!
As soon as I get the pipe and tell him what we’re going to do, he babbles some nonsense about us being crazy and takes off running.”

“No matter,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before Cowboy finds us.”

Chente entered the John Fabela Youth Center, the place dense with smoke, and the slow-talk and laughter of
vatos
and
rucas.
As director of the center’s activities, Chente played administrator, father-figure, counselor and the law. But he had to do it through strength of character. With style. He knew these teenagers didn’t respect imposed authority.