Rain of Gold

by Victor Villaseñor

  “You saw it, eh?” said Juan, glancing across the yard to the powder men who were all sitting together and eating.

  “Of course,” said Rodolfo, “and we knew it was coming the moment we learned that one of our people had gotten a job so elevated.”

  “Go ahead,” said Julio to Juan, taking the shovel off the little fire, “take a taco before this son-of-a-bitch schoolteacher from Monterrey eats all our lunches again.” Saying this, Julio picked up one of the tacos with his fingertips from the hot shovel and tossed it to Juan, who reflexively caught it. “Eat, hombre,” he said to Juan good-naturedly, “so you can fart like a burro and screw those gringo sons-of-bitches this afternoon!”

  “Which leads us to a very important question,” said Rodolfo, the tall schoolteacher from Monterrey, “just how’d you ever get up there, anyway?”

  “I have a powder license,” said Juan, starting to eat.

  “Oh, and how did you manage that miracle?” asked Rodolfo. “Hell, we got men here who know how to drill and set dynamite with the best of them, but none of them has been able to get a license.” He ate his taco in two huge bites, working his big, lean jaws like a wolf.

  “In Montana,” said Juan, eating in small, courteous bites to show that he wasn’t starving—but he was. “The Greeks up there, they’d never seen a Mexican, and so they’d thought I was Chinese and they made me a driller, thinking all Chinese know powder.”

  The Mexicans burst out laughing, but Rodolfo laughed the hardest of all.

  “So that’s how it’s done, eh?” said Rodolfo. “We mejicanos got to be Chinese!”

  “It worked for me,” said Juan, laughing, too.

  “I’ll be damned,” said the teacher, reaching for another taco. “Next you’ll tell me that we’d be better off if we were Negroes, too.”

  “Shit, yes!” said Julio, who was very dark-skinned. “The blacker the better!”

  They all laughed and ate together and Juan felt good to be back among his people. The jokes, the gestures, and the way they laughed with their heads thrown back and their mouths open, it was all so familiar.

  Then the horn blew, and it was time to get back to work. The pock-faced man came close to Juan. “Be careful, my friend,” he said. “That scar you wear may only be a small token compared to what awaits you this afternoon.”

  Juan nodded, having thought that no one could see his scar with his five-day old beard. “Gracias,” he said, “but I haven’t gotten this far in life without being as wary as the chick with the coyote.”

  The tall man laughed, offering Juan his hand. “Rodolfo Rochín.”

  Juan took the schoolteacher’s hand. “Juan Villaseñor,” he said.

  “He’s right,” said Julio, coming up. “They’re going to try and kill you. Hell, if they don’t, soon we’ll have all their jobs.”

  Juan nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said.

  “Good,” said the thick man. “Julio Sanchez.”

  “Juan Villaseñor,” said Juan once again.

  Then Juan turned and started across the open yard, and all the Mexicans watched after him. Not one of their people had ever worked up on the cliff before.

  Picking up his tools, Juan walked by the powder men and climbed up the cliff. Jack came up and took his place alongside Juan, grinning at him. But Juan paid him no attention and went to work, iron singing at a good, steady pace.

  Jack picked up his sledge and tore at the rock. He was still half a hole ahead of Juan and wanted to keep it like that. The big man pounded at the rock, arms pumping, iron pounding, and he tried to pull further ahead of Juan. But Juan only smiled, glancing up at the hot sun, his ally.

  The sun was going down, and it was the last hour of the day when Juan came up even with Jack. The other powder men stopped their work and watched. Jack grinned, still feeling confident, and began his new hole. He was huge and rippling with muscle, but Juan could see that he was all used up because he just didn’t have the rhythm of the hammer down to a steady song.

  Juan grinned back at Jack, spat into his hands and began his new hole, too, but at a much slower pace. The big man pulled ahead of him and the other powder men laughed, truly enjoying it. But Rodolfo and Julio and the other Mexicans down below knew what was coming. So they stopped their work and looked up at the two men pounding the iron up on the tall cliff.

  The muscles were standing on the big man’s back, and his forearms were corded up into huge ropes. Still, Juan kept going at a slow, steady, easy pace, fully realizing that the boiling white sun was on his side and the gringo wouldn’t be able to keep up his reckless pace for long.

  Kenny saw what was going on, and he started for the cliff to bring the senseless competition to a stop when Doug came up behind him.

  “Don’t, Shorty,” he said to Kenny. “Let that little bastard kill himself, trying to keep up with Big Jack.”

  Kenny never even smiled. Juan was his own size, so he just spat out a stream of tobacco, already knowing who was going to win. “Whatever you say, Doug,” he said.

  Kenny and Doug took up watch, too.

  Jack was pounding on, tearing into his bar with his big sledge, but he could see that Juan was keeping up with him at a much slower rhythm. It seemed like magic. Juan was going so easy and, yet, his iron was still drilling into the stone at a good pace.

  Jack began to tire, but he was tough. He just forced his body to go harder. His lungs screamed for air, his huge muscles began to cramp, but he’d die before he gave up and let a Mexican beat him.

  But then here came Juan, coming in for the kill, and he now picked up the pace, too. Juan was catching up to Jack, closing fast, and then going past him with good, steady power when, suddenly, a bunch of bars came sliding down the face of the cliff from above them.

  “Watch out!” yelled Kenny.

  Juan just managed to leap out of the way before the bars struck him.

  Kenny turned to Doug and saw that he was grinning ear-to-ear. “All right!” barked Kenny. “No more of this horseshit! Now all of you, get back to work! You got thirty minutes to quitting time, damn it!”

  Turning in their tools that afternoon, Kenny took Juan aside. “Amigo,” he said, “you and me, we’re short, so we don’t got to always go around being the big man. Jack, he’s not so bad, believe me. I know him. It’s just that a lot is expected of him.” He cut a new chew with his pocket knife, offering Juan some, but Juan refused. “I like your work,” he added, putting the new cut in his mouth, “you ease off mañana and I promise you that you got a job here as long as I’m powder foreman.”

  Juan looked into the old man’s bright, blue eyes, blue like his own father’s. “You got a deal,” he said.

  “Good,” said Kenny, and he put his knife away and stuck out his hand and Juan took it.

  This was the first time that Juan had ever met a man who had even bigger, thicker hands than his own. Why, Kenny’s hands were monstrous, just like his own father’s.

  That day, Juan Salvador was paid two dollars, twice as much as the regular laborers. Walking back to town that afternoon with his people, Juan was a hero. He was the Mexican who screwed the cabrón gringo!

  Getting home that night, Juan announced to his family that he was rich. He took his mother to the grocery store. José, his nephew, went with them, having already heard all over the barrio of his uncle’s great feat.

  In the store, Doña Margarita took hold of Juan by the arm. “Listen to me,” she said, going up the aisle, “when we go up to the counter to pay, you let me do the talking. These gringos are tricky, always trying to cheat us and charge us too much. But I’ve learned how to deal with them. All I do is smile like this,” she said, opening her mouth and showing her one good, brown-stained tooth, “and nod and say, ‘yes, yes,’ acting very agreeable. Because gringos are polite people above all else, smiling and saying, ‘yes, yes,’ all the time. I know, believe me. And, also, I guess because we don’t speak English, they think we can’t add. So you just keep quiet when we go
to the counter to pay.”

  Juan winked at his nephew. “Whatever you say, Mama.”

  “Look at this,” said Doña Margarita, picking up a can of concentrated milk with a carnation on the label. “These gringos are so treacherous. Why, look at this can. Here, they try to make us believe that these cans with the flower are cans of milk but they’re not, mi hijito. I’ve tasted this milk and it’s so sweet that, of course, the truth is that it comes from these flowers.”

  Juan had to laugh. His mother’s mind just had no end to it. Seeing Juan laugh, the old woman laughed, too. They continued shopping, buying a mountain of food, and José put everything into the basket that he carried.

  “All right,” said the old woman, coming up the last aisle, “now all we need is a little coffee and a pack of Luckys for me—if you got enough money—then we can go home.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Juan, “I got plenty of money, and I’m going to be doing good every day from now on. The powder foreman, he told me as long as he’s foreman, I got a job.”

  “Then let’s pray that he continues being the boss,” said his mother, and she gripped his arm, drawing him close. She was very excited. “I’m so happy to see you settling down, mi hijito. Remember that angel that I told you of who milked our goat? It frightened her when she saw that gun in your pocket.”

  Juan took a big breath. They’d already gone over this story a dozen times. He was just sure that anyone who his mother thought was an angel would be far from his idea of beauty.

  “All right, Mama,” he said. “I’m not carrying it now, but please don’t expect too much. I’ll be carrying it again when I see fit.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, “but at least you’re settling down.” And she patted his hand as they got in line for the cash register. “Oh, I love my Luckys, mi hijito,” she said. “They are the best cigarritos in all this country. The others are terrible. Especially those with the picture of the camel. They say they’re a blend of Turkish tobacco, but smoking them, I knew they were made from the caca of that ugly animal. Oh, these gringos, you have to watch them constantly.”

  On this one, Juan drew his mother close, laughing wildly, and he kissed her. Then he got hold of his nephew and drew him close to him, too.

  “José,” he said, “no matter how old you get or how far you go in life, remember this, if it hadn’t been for this old woman’s power, none of us would be here today. She is our life, our strength, our proof of God here on earth.” And saying this, tears came to his eyes, but he didn’t care who might see, he was so proud to be with his mother, his greatest love in all the world.

  “And don’t think he’s exaggerating,” said Doña Margarita, “I’m every bit what Juan says, and don’t you forget it.

  “And now, you, Juan,” she said, laughing happily, “give me your money and remember, I’ll do the talking and say, ‘yes, yes,’ or ‘excuse me,’ every few minutes, and the gringos will think I speak perfect English!”

  The following morning at the rock quarry, Juan was just starting to cross the yard over to the other powder men when Doug called out.

  “Hey, you, Vil-as-enor-eeee!” he said, twisting Juan’s name worse than ever, “we ain’t got no work for you today . . . unless you all want to work with the other Mex-eee-cans,” he added.

  Juan glanced across the yard to where Kenny was talking to the other powder men. “I need to work,” he said.

  “Good,” said Doug, “I figured as much.” And he smiled, truly enjoying it.

  “You showed them up!” said Julio, as Juan went into the yard with the other Mexicans. “That’s why you don’t got that job today! You out drilled ’em bad, mano!”

  “I shouldn’t have pushed so much,” said Juan, thinking that this was also why he’d gotten his throat slashed. If only he hadn’t won both big pots, he might not have been cut.

  “No,” said Rodolfo. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. They would’ve fired you, no matter what.”

  Juan figured the teacher was probably right. But still, he had to learn to hold back in life. He got a pick and shovel and went to work with his own people as the sun climbed up into the fiat, smooth sky.

  Then it was noon, but the horn didn’t blow. They had to be told by one of the foremen that it was time to quit for lunch. This day, Juan had plenty of food to eat, so he shared his good fortune with Julio and the others.

  It was late afternoon when the charge went off and the whole cliff blew out in one sudden explosion. Juan dove for cover. So did Julio and Rodolfo. Rock came down all around them, a million flying pieces. Then, when the noise of the deafening explosion subsided, Juan could hear men screaming in pain. He stood up. As the dust cleared, he could see that some men had been caught in the rock by the base of the cliff.

  Juan raced across the yard to help the injured men. Julio and the teacher were right behind him.

  Legs and arms were sticking out of the debris every which way. One man’s whole face was twisted around with his eyes bulging out. Before they were through digging, they’d uncovered three dead Mexicans and five others were critically injured.

  That night in town, Juan and the other workmen got drunk. It was that same, rot-gut whiskey that Juan had been drinking since he’d come to California, but this time he didn’t care. He was outraged. It had been such a stupid accident. If the horn was broken, then they should have called off the dynamite job or sent a man around to warn everyone.

  “But this isn’t the first accident we’ve had,” said Julio. “And it’s always only the mejicanos who get injured.”

  “And you stand for that?” asked Juan.

  “What do you suggest?” asked Rodolfo. “That we quit?”

  “We’re not dogs!” said Juan angrily. “In Montana, I saw the Greeks sit down when one workman got hurt.”

  “But this isn’t Montana,” said Julio.

  “It’s the same country!” yelled Juan.

  “Keep talking,” smiled the schoolteacher. “This is what I’ve been saying all along. But these cabrones don’t want to strike. They’re willing to accept whatever bones are thrown to them!

  “Oh, my General Villa, he could stir men’s hearts! He’d get men up in arms and ready to fight with nothing but their bare hands. So you’re right, my young friend,” he said to Juan, “it’s time we stopped just getting drunk and unite like one fist and demand our rights!”

  They were pretty well drunk by now.

  “So do it, mi coronel,” said Julio. “Unite us!”

  “All right,” said the tall pock-faced man, and he stood up. “¡Compañeros!” he yelled. There were over twenty men from the rock quarry in the alley behind the pool hall. “Are we men or dogs? Are we mejicanos or oxen to let men treat us like this?”

  And Juan saw half of the men get to their feet and yell, “¡Vivan los mejicanos!”

  They were drunk and ready to take on the bosses at the quarry. The teacher-colonel from Monterrey drew up a paper listing all their complaints, plus a demand of money for the families of the dead and injured men. The meeting lasted long into the night.

  Juan went home singing, feeling proud of his fellow countrymen. They were good people, men of the Revolution, and they knew how to stand up and be accounted for. In the morning, Juan had such a terrible hangover, he could barely move. But still, he was there with Julio and the teacher-colonel at the quarry before sunup. They were surrounded by eighty-some men, and any man who hadn’t been at the meeting the night before had been told about it, so they all stood united.

  When Doug came out of the office with his clipboard, Juan could see it in Doug’s eyes. He sensed something. Juan smiled. This son-of-a-bitch, dried-out gringo was going to get what he deserved.

  “Go ahead,” whispered Julio to the teacher-colonel, “now’s the time, mi coronel.”

  The man with the pocked face stepped forward. “Doug,” he said, “we had a meeting last night.” He was nervous, but still his voice sounded strong. “And concerning that acci
dent of yesterday, we came up with a list of complaints that we wish to voice!”

  “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” laughed Doug, chewing his jaw, “so you monkeys all had a meeting. Don’t that beat all? Well, then, Rodolf-eee, you all hold on here. I think I best get ahold of Jim and the others before you go on with your list, eh?” He laughed, truly enjoying himself, and it made Juan’s skin crawl. So this was a regular thing that this tall, lanky man did with their names. He mispronounced their names on purpose, telling them in no uncertain terms that they were nothing to him but dog shit and, if they didn’t like it, it was just too bad.

  Juan took a deep breath, heart pounding, as he watched Doug go up on the porch and go inside the office, closing the door.

  Juan, Rodolfo, Julio and all the men waited. They waited ten minutes, then twenty minutes more. The workmen began to talk among themselves, saying that maybe the bosses weren’t going to come out and, if they didn’t get back to work, they might be fired.

  “Calm down,” said the teacher, “they’re just trying to scare us. Believe me, everything is going to be fine. These complaints we have here are more than fair. Isn’t that right, eh, Chino?” he said to Juan.

  Juan looked at the teacher and wondered why he’d asked him. He was just a kid, after all, and this man was in his late thirties and had been a colonel with Villa. He didn’t need to ask anyone on earth for their approval. But still, Juan found himself saying, “Why, yes, of course, they’re more than fair, mi coronel.”

  The sun climbed higher and the day grew hotter. Juan’s head was still exploding with pain from the whiskey that he’d drunk the night before.

  Juan took off his jacket and pulled his shirt out of his pants. He looked across the yard to Jack and the other powder men who were over in the shade of a tree, drinking water and taking it easy. Once, Juan’s and Jack’s eyes met, and the big man lifted his tin cup of water to Juan. Juan nodded back to him. Jack just grinned.