After they had waited fifteen minutes for Bronson to return from the bathroom, Malouf hung up the phone and pointed at his door for Maya to leave too. “Go,” he said. “And please, Wharton, don’t ever bring a bum into my office again. I’m gonna have to get it cleaned. Smells like Aqua Velva and piss in here.”
“Yessir.” She stood up quickly and walked out.
29.
“THE PARKING LOT is considered on the grounds of the BurgerTown business, you can’t play soccer here, and you sure as hell can’t advocate for unions here!” Frank Dellavalle called out as he strode toward Deuce an hour before opening time on a Friday in spring. Deuce had managed to assemble each and every member of the twenty-five BurgerTown employees to vote on the union before official work hours. They all showed, Jaime on crutches, even the sleepy part-time student workers who were now caught up in Deuce’s time-capsule, ’60s fervor and religious zeal for the people. Everybody wanted to be part of the “movement” and say they “were there when.”
Deuce had become a minor local celebrity. He’d had newspaper articles written about him in the Inland Valley Daily Bulletin; one from the San Bernardino Sun even got picked up in the Los Angeles Times, and he had appeared on Southern California TV news (KTLA) three times. In this cowardly brave new world of social media, however, there was no such thing as purely local anymore. Deuce had a budding national profile, small, yes, but some people around the country, and even the world, were aware of the “young socialist firebrand,” the “Baby Bernie,” the “Cucamonga Crusader.” He was no Emma González or Greta Thunberg, but he was definitely a kind of minor thing. His cause, local unionization, wasn’t as sexy or global as gun control or climate change, but he had a niche. #Deuceforjustice had even trended on twitter briefly a few weeks back. Absolutely none of that mattered at all to Deuce. “Mr. Dellavalle,” Deuce called back warmly, “we’re about to hold the vote. I’m glad you could make it.”
So Dellavalle knew this was an uphill battle, but he stood to get fired if the union passed. He was the overseer who had lost control of the plantation, and even if the bosses of bosses didn’t give two cents about this one location, they cared about the contagion spreading to other franchises eventually infecting their bottom line. The precedent. The drawing of a line. McDonald’s, Burger King, et al. had been fighting the unionization of their workers for decades. Dellavalle would have to go down swinging. He’d been doing work behind the scenes. He’d paid off some Mexican workers, bought their no votes with promises of raises and favors, illegally, of course. Adding them to his own no vote, he could only get to ten against. He needed to scare the shit out of them now, turn a few more.
“This is the communal parking lot for five businesses, Mr. Dellavalle, I checked. It’s not considered on BurgerTown business grounds. We can have union talks here.” Dellavalle walked up to Deuce, got in his face. He wished he was taller and could physically intimidate him; the kid was gangly, but he was six-two easy.
“You realize you’re gonna get me fired, right?” he stage whispered. “I got three kids. They’re gonna go hungry.”
He took out his phone and showed pictures of his family to the crowd. “My parents were immigrants from Italy and they worked hard and I worked hard to earn what I have. That’s the American Dream and you guys can get that, too! If you work hard. The union is against hard work. It’s communism! It’s socialism! It’s Bernie Sanders and it’s anti-American and now you’re taking food out of my kids’ mouths!”
Someone shouted from the crowd, “You’re white, man, shut the fuck up, you’ll get another job.” The crowd agreed angrily.
Deuce held up his hand. “This isn’t about Black, white, or brown, this is about the people, all of us, the ninety-nine percent versus the one percent. No color.” He turned back to Dellavalle and told him, “You’re one of us, Mr. Dellavalle. The union will address any recriminative action your bosses take against you, you’ll be protected.”
“Oh, so the union’s gonna make everyone’s problems go away? That’s horseshit, and you know it!”
“No, it’s not a panacea. But it’s a part of the solution.”
Dellavalle didn’t know what a “panacea” was, so he forged on. “You’re not even gonna be around much longer, and all these folks are gonna get fired as soon as the spotlight goes away. They’ll shut us down rather than keep a union.”
“That would be illegal.”
“They own the law! They write the law, and if they don’t like a law, they’ll just write a new one!” Dellavalle raised his voice, addressing the entire crowd now, as well as Deuce. He spoke in terms that convinced Deuce the corporate headquarters had coached him.
“So what are you, the white savior? That’s so racist. All these poor Mexicans need some privileged white kid to come in and ‘educate’ them? Lift them up ’cause they’re too stupid to lift themselves up? Why are you listening to this rich white kid? He doesn’t care about you!” Deuce looked out at the crowd and considered Dellavalle’s point; and he considered it bullshit. Power to the people did not denote color.
Dellavalle paused like he was trying to remember a script; his eyes looked heavenward into his struggling short-term memory. “You’re gonna have to pay union dues, more taxes. ICE is gonna become aware of us, of you. Maybe you guys have the right documents, but do all the people you live with? Huh? Your cousins? Their cousins? You people have big families! You know who the fucking president is?”
Deuce could see the legit fear this struck in some of his people, but he wouldn’t stop Dellavalle—this was the give-and-take of democracy. He would silence no one. The people had a right to hear all arguments, no matter how mendacious or demagogic. Righteousness did not have to raise its voice or use muscle to prevail.
Jaime wouldn’t hold his tongue, though. Smiling, more Zen than Zinn, partly crippled Jaime, with more than $100K in medical bills sitting by his bedside back home, addressed Dellavalle with a resigned lilt: “You are such a dick, esse. Fuck Trump and fuck you.”
The crowd erupted in a release of laughter. “You need to vote!” Jaime said. “Vamanos!” The crowd took up the chant, “Va-ma-nos! Sal-va-dor! Va-ma-nos!”
Deuce knew the time was at hand. He rose to his full height and filled his lungs with the clean morning air. “All those in favor of union,” he shouted, “raise hands and say ‘aye’!”
“Aye!” came back the resounding reply, all hands raised but one, Dellavalle’s. Frank looked to the nine he had bribed, and they looked back at him like they’d never seen his face before. Every single one of them was caught up in a moment. “I count twenty-four ayes,” Deuce said, and his voice had a new power behind it; he seemed to grow taller every second; he wasn’t leading the crowd so much as being carried high on their shoulders by collective force. “All against,” Deuce was thundering now, “raise your hand and say ‘nay’!”
Even Dellavalle had to mentally stop his arm from shooting up in assent moments earlier, such was the proselytizing power of this young kid. “Nay,” he said quietly.
Deuce rang out the tally: “Twenty-four in favor, one against.” He paused dramatically. “The union passes!”
All his buddies started chanting, “Salvador! Salvador! Salvador!” Somebody grabbed Deuce’s ankles and drew him forward into the crowd. He felt himself falling; he impulsively tried to catch himself, guard his head, but he didn’t hit the ground. He found himself cradled, looking straight up into the cloudy morning sky. He felt lifted, free of gravity, free. He didn’t know what it was called, but he was crowd-surfing. Being passed from hand to hand and anointed. Like a socialist rock star. This was just the beginning.
30.
AT THE VERY MOMENT Deuce was crowd-surfing, Pearl was rising before her alarm with a feeling that was new to her. She was nervous, and she liked it. She felt alive. The first of three performances of West Side Story would be tonight. She made herself some eggs, at least that’s what they called them here; but compared with the eggs they had bac
k in Agadda da Vida, these tasted like yellowish Styrofoam, but that was an okay trade-off for now. She went in to say goodbye to Mary, but she was still asleep. She’d been sleeping later lately. “Mom,” she said, “wake up, you gotta get Hyrum to school.” Mary didn’t budge. Pearl shook her gently. Still nothing. “Mom?” Pearl grabbed both Mary’s shoulders and shook; Mary inhaled violently like she’d come up for air from deep water.
“Shit, Pearl, you scared me.”
“You gotta get up. I gotta get to school early to help out with costumes, and you gotta get Hyrum to school, okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Mary said, coming to. “Costumes for what?”
“The show tonight.”
“Oh yeah, is that tonight? Of course, that’s tonight. Tonight, tonight, there’ll be a show tonight…” she sang off-key.
“Please stop,” Pearl said, going back out the door.
“You nervous?” Mary asked her daughter.
“Yeah,” Pearl said with a touch of insecurity.
“Good,” Mary said, “that means you’re gonna be great.” Pearl smiled and left. Mary kept singing sleepily after her, “Tonight tonight, my daughter sings tonight and all the da da dee will shine so bright…”
The school day passed fitfully for Pearl. She’d see Josue in the hallway in between classes and they’d kinda check in and give each other the thumbs-up. She daydreamed through her subjects, even her beloved psychology, going over lines in her head, closing her eyes and imagining the blocking of each scene, each song, until memory merged with instinct, and by the end of the day, she was already Maria.
She saw Deuce in her AP History class; he was getting an A+, of course, and she was getting a C–. Today, he looked a little strange to her, flushed, almost high. She was slightly concerned. She sat next to him, something she never did.
“Hey, brother.”
“Hey, sister.”
“You okay? You look funny.” She felt his forehead.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You still growing or something?”
“Nah, I think I’m done.”
“Are you shaving, dude? Growin’ a ’stache?”
“With this skin? Nah, not too often. Should I? You look different, too.”
“Yeah? You gonna come to the show tonight?”
“Of course, man! I mean, I got these Kanye tickets at Staples Center in LA for tonight, but Kanye Schmanye.”
“You’re so full of shit. That’s the first time in your life you ever said the word Kanye. Me, too, come to think of it.”
“Or Schmanye.”
“Right.”
“Break a leg, sister.”
“Thanks, bruh.” They smiled at each other, reveling in the companionship and easy closeness that only twins can know. “Miss you, bro. We gotta talk more.”
Deuce nodded. “You think Dad’s gonna come?” he asked.
She hadn’t thought of that. And for a moment, she was back in the desert, she was wholly Pearl once more. She’d have to find Maria again. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “Deuce, there’s something I gotta tell you.”
“Ahem.” The history teacher interrupted them from the head of the classroom. “Am I gonna have to separate you two?”
“Later?” Deuce whispered to his sister.
“Later,” Pearl replied.
After school, the Sharks and the Jets met up backstage, ordered pizza, and hung out till curtain. Bartholomew hung back; he could see them gelling, motivating on their own. He was proud of them, and of himself, but he kept an eye out for fissures in the flow; he would be there if needed. He knew he was no genius, he wasn’t blind; he knew he was more Guffman than Fosse, but for tonight, he would be in the sweet spot for one time in his life where the great ones lived. And as good as Pearl had been in rehearsal thus far, he felt like her talent was still untapped, and that he could push her even more.
He glanced at her now, and the look of certainty he’d seen earlier was gone. She was pacing suddenly, appearing nervous for the first time since her audition. She dropped to her knees with her hands in prayer.
He walked over, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “What are you doing?”
“Praying.”
“If you rehearse enough, you don’t have to pray.”
“I’ve always prayed. Always.”
He reached down his hand for her to take and lifted her up, and said, “Walk with me.”
When they’d gotten to a quiet, secluded part of the backstage area, Bartholomew asked, “Why are you doing this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why do you want to act?”
“I don’t know, it’s fun?”
“Fun, huh? Fun will only get you so far. Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“’Cause I wanna do well?” Pearl sounded like she was guessing.
“Okay, for whom?”
“My family. Myself.”
“Fine.”
“Fine? Is that a bad answer?”
“It’s not a bad answer, it’s your answer.”
“Do you have another idea?” Pearl asked.
“Well, Salinger—you know Salinger?”
“My dad used to read me Catcher in the Rye.”
“Well, Salinger said, ‘Do it for the fat lady,’ and I like that.”
“What fat lady?”
“What he means is—do it for someone else, not yourself.” Bartholomew couldn’t suppress a smile; he had Pearl right where he wanted her. “You see, Pearl, you’re gifted, but you’re selfish. I think you love playing Maria because you relate to her, loving the wrong boy, and all that.” He arched his eyebrows and intimated he was talking about Josue, of course, but that’s not who Pearl thought of when she performed her version of Juliet/Maria. “You love being up there because you think you’re telling your story, and you’re good at that, but the great ones, the real great ones: they do it to speak for those who can’t speak—for them it’s not selfish, for them it’s a prayer for the powerless. Is there someone you want to reach with this performance, someone you want to speak for?”
Pearl totally got what he was saying. She realized she’d been selfish and that this kind man had just taught her how to go from being good to great. She realized acting could be more than fun; it could be her mission. “Well, my mom who died, my real mom, I think she’s like Maria. My mom can’t pray for herself anymore. So I will pray for her.” Pearl hugged him so hard he inadvertently grunted. Fuck Guffman, he thought, I’m on fire. He walked away and left Pearl to her mystical preparation.
Pearl felt her mother close now. Closer than she’d been in years. And Pearl began to listen to her mother. Jackie was with her, in her. And Jackie began to speak to her, through her. Pearl felt like a conduit for her mother, for the powerless, the silent, and the long gone. She would not be selfish, she would be of service. This is how she would act from now on.
Hyrum didn’t want to go to West Side Story, but Mary wasn’t going to let him stay at home. “Come on,” Mary said, “you gotta support your sister. That’s what families do.”
Hyrum looked at her like he could barely be bothered to respond. “Halt with that lame shit, Mom—I’ll go if you stop saying shit like that.” The show started at 7:30, and by 7:05 Mary and Hyrum had taken their seats; they were almost the first to arrive. Hyrum fidgeted in his suit and tie like it was a hair shirt.
Bartholomew walked out into the gathering crowd and introduced himself to Mary and Hyrum. Deuce had joined them. “I want you to know,” he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of contacting Juilliard about Pearl.”
“Who’s Julie Yard?” Hyrum asked.
“Not who, what. Juilliard is the finest acting school in all of Oz. I sent them some tape I did of rehearsal; oh, they don’t call it ‘tape’ anymore, do they? From my phone—bad picture, bad sound—and they fa-lipped out. Talking full scholarship. They want her yesterday. I also sent it to Yale Dr
ama, and they even said somebody from the school might come to the show tomorrow night! I said, she’s a junior, in high school, and I haven’t even talked to her parents … so cool your jets, no pun intended.”
Mary nodded at the torrent of words and foreign information coming her way; she could use a Percocet, she thought, or some Adderall, a glass of chardonnay, anything. She checked her watch: she still had time to get to the bathroom to take something before curtain. “Pearl has a lot to think about right now,” Mary said, “as do I. We’re not even sure where we’re going to be next year.”
“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re moving; I already have my heart set on crossing gender lines next year for Pearl to play the leads in both Hamilton and Next to Normal—scandaloso, I know!”
“I don’t know those,” Mary said.
“Haha.” He laughed, as if there existed a person who hadn’t heard of Lin-Manuel Miranda. “I see where Pearl gets her comic timing from.” He winked. “Her deadpan and her high dudgeon. I gotta run. You just sit back and watch. And be blown away. You’ll see what I mean. We have plenty of time to talk after.”
He turned to go, but Mary stopped him. “Excuse me,” she said, “but what is it that makes her so good? I mean, I know she has a good voice and she’s pretty, but isn’t that like thousands of other kids?”
Bartholomew turned his girth back to her and smiled as if he really liked that question. “It’s charisma,” he said. “Glamour—was originally a Celtic word to describe the magical haze around a favored person. Some got it, some ain’t. It’s ‘it.’ She’s got it.”
“Yeah, but what’s ‘it’?”
Truly Like Lightning Page 29
