Rolando starts to pull his sweatshirt back over his head. “Doesn’t count.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
He hands me the hoodie. “Here put this on.” Then he flashes me a wink. “For a little extra camouflage.”
I take it and slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s tattered but smells like fabric softener. It feels incredibly smooth against my skin. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. For some reason it reminds me of my mother. Or the little that I remember of her.
I guess this is what happens to clothes when you keep them longer than one season.
“C’mon, girl,” Rolando says with a tug at my borrowed sleeve. “I’ll show you my chauffeured transportation.”
I laugh and place my wig back on my head and the hood of the sweatshirt over it. Rolando yanks down on the cords on either side, drawing the material tight against my head.
“Perfect,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’ll blend right in.”
HOW THE OTHER HALF LAUGHS
The bus is packed. And like us, everyone appears to have recently come off an eight-hour shift. Which doesn’t exactly help in the odor department but I do my best to mask my displeasure. I don’t want to offend Rolando, who clearly does this every day—based on the fluidity of his movements as he deposits bus fare for both of us and smoothly makes his way to the back, transferring his grip from handrail to handrail like a little kid on the monkey bars of a playground.
I attempt to emulate his technique but am decidedly less adept and end up knocking into about a dozen people as the bus lurches its way through the evening traffic.
Rolando finds two seats together in the back and we sit down. He chatters animatedly as the bus makes its way down the wide boulevard. There’s something so innocently intriguing about Rolando. Like watching somebody jump on a bed. You can’t help but want to laugh, toss off your shoes, and join in.
He has this infectious optimism about everything. Nothing seems to bother him. He tells me stories about growing up in the “armpit of Los Angeles,” as he calls it, and starting community college but having to quit after only one semester to get the job at Don Juan’s to help support his family because his dad had a heart attack and had to take time off from work. But when Rolando tells the story, instead of getting dark and whiny about his family’s misfortune, he remains cheerful and carefree, as though he’s simply recapping a dramatic episode of his favorite TV show.
It’s amazing how he’s able to do that.
Rolando is so easy to talk to. His energy relaxes me and somehow manages to quell the near constant flame that is always threatening to ignite in my chest. I find it effortless to open up to him. So when the conversation finally makes its way back to my weeklong cameo at Don Juan’s, I have no reservations about telling him everything. It all kind of spills out.
Rolando is a great listener. And the best part about it is, he’s not being paid to do it. He doesn’t work for my father. He’s not on the official Larrabee family payroll. He simply wants to hear what I have to say. And when I talk, it actually seems like he genuinely cares.
“So these jobs,” he says pensively, once I’ve finished talking, “do they have any meaning or are they just random?”
His question takes me by surprise. After all the griping and complaining I’ve done over the past few months, after all the ways I’ve tried to get out of them, I never even thought to ask that.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “I guess they’re random. I mean, no one’s told me any different.”
“Hmm,” Rolando murmurs, clearly unconvinced. “Does your dad usually do random things?”
Before the question is even out of his mouth, my head is shaking. “No way. Never.”
“Then there’s probably some kind of meaning to them. I doubt he just picked them out of a hat.”
I shrug. “Not that it really matters to me. I’m still screwed for another thirty-seven weeks.”
“You have to look on the bright side,” he says playfully.
“And what would that be exactly?”
He flashes that adorable boyish grin of his that makes him look like he’s five years old. “You got to meet me. Obviously!”
I laugh. “Oh right. How could I forget?”
* * *
Rolando lives with his parents in an apartment complex in Inglewood, which is about thirty minutes from the restaurant. We get off the bus a few blocks from his house and walk. The neighborhood is unsettling and the building he lives in is very old and run-down. Some of the windows have cracks in them that have been temporarily repaired with duct tape and the entire front wall is covered in graffiti. For a moment, I seriously think that this is some kind of joke. That he’s messing with me because he knows I live in Bel Air and he wants to see my reaction to something like this. Because honestly, I can’t imagine anyone living here. Except maybe the crackheads and murder suspects you see on those television crime shows.
Rolando, as if reading my mind, turns to me and says, “We used to share a two-bedroom house with four other families, so this is a huge improvement.”
This is an improvement!?
I stare at him in utter disbelief but he just laughs and unlocks the front door of the building.
As he leads me through a neglected courtyard with landscaping that hasn’t been attended to in decades and an empty pool caked with dried mud, I study his face carefully. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for but whatever it is, it’s not there. I guess I’m searching for some small traces of humiliation … or maybe even shame. You can’t bring someone home to this and not feel the slightest tinge of embarrassment. Or at least scramble to make up some kind of excuse. Something like, We’re remodeling our mansion uptown and this is only temporary.
The world I inhabit is full of cover-ups like that. Elaborate lies that shroud the ugly truth in fabricated beauty. Ornate disguises designed to elicit approval and acceptance.
But not here. Not Rolando. He looks like he could care less what I think of his family’s humble dwelling.
“¡Mama! Papa!” he calls as he pushes open the door of his apartment with a shove of his shoulder and beckons me in behind him. “¡Estoy a la casa!”
I push back the hood of Rolando’s sweatshirt and glance around the cramped apartment, taking note of the grungy brown shag carpeting, the peeling paint on the walls, and what looks like third- or maybe even fourth-hand furniture. But despite the evident lack of extravagance, there’s something here that doesn’t exist in my family’s house. In any of our houses. Something dense and warm in the air—almost palpable. And it only takes me a few seconds to realize exactly what it is.
This place feels lived-in. And not only in the sense that people sleep in the beds and keep things in the dressers.
A tall and skinny middle-aged man rises from the couch and walks over to us. He looks exactly how I imagine Rolando will look in twenty-five years. The same round face and bulging cheeks, the same but slightly larger nose, and dark almond-shaped eyes. They even have the same short haircut.
“¡Hola!” the man says in a husky but welcoming voice. “¡Bienvenido a nuestra casa!”
“Papa,” Rolando scolds, giving me an apologetic glance. “She doesn’t speak Spanish.”
But I step past Rolando and offer my hand to his father. “Gracias, Señor Castaño. Estoy muy contento de estar aquí.”
Rolando gives me a where-on-earth-did-that-come-from look while his father beams ecstatically in my direction and pulls me into a giant bear hug.
“Hola, mi cariño,” comes another voice as a short, heavyset woman scurries out of the kitchen with a spatula in her hand. Rolando kisses her forehead and introduces her as his mother.
“¡Vengan!” She beckons toward the dining table behind us. “Dinner is ready.”
“I thought you spoke French,” Rolando whispers as he holds a chair out for me.
“I was raised by a Mexican maid and an Argentinean butler,” I explain, taking a
seat.
He pushes in my chair. “Oh, right.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Roland’s mom says as she buries the spatula deep into a giant platter of cheesy enchiladas. She carves out a humongous piece, sets it down on a plate, and hands it to me with a smile.
I laugh nervously and take the large helping, wondering how I’m ever supposed to finish it. Good thing I’m still wearing my uniform with the elastic waistband.
After everyone has been served, I pick up my fork and take a cautious bite. I’m immediately bombarded by the most amazing burst of flavor—tangy spices mixed with rich, creamy cheese. It’s by far one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I chew slowly, savoring the taste, almost reluctant to swallow.
When I look up, I realize that no one else has started eating yet. They’re all staring at me, waiting to see my reaction.
I blush and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Rolando was right, Mrs. Castaño. These are the best enchiladas ever!”
The three of them break into matching grins and I can’t help but notice how adorable they look with their wide eyes and contagious smiles. Everyone starts in on their own plates and I take another delectable bite.
The conversation flows easily as the Castaños share stories about their day and the people they encountered. Rolando raves about my top-notch score in Drive-Thru Guess Who and everyone cracks up at his animated retelling of my passionate encounter with the guillotine, complete with dramatic reenactment.
As I observe the interactions between Rolando and his family—the easy dialogue, the affectionate banter, the knowing glances that are exchanged between decade-long inside jokes—I realize how strange and unfamiliar it all is to me. Like I’m a zoologist observing some rare animal species in its natural habitat.
So this is what real families do.
They talk. Make each other laugh. Dole out warm smiles and tender looks as freely as the sun doles out light.
They sit together in one place. At one table. Sharing one meal. Without a photographer there to document it for the next issue of Time magazine.
And then, like a cold arctic wind, the reality of the situation hits me with an icy sting.
They’re not the strange and unfamiliar ones. I am. I’m the one who doesn’t fit in. I’m the one who no one can quite figure out.
My family is the rare animal species that everyone wants to observe in its natural habitat. That everyone wants to study and photograph and speculate about—its origins and the way its members interact with one another.
Well, almost everyone.
If Rolando forewarned his parents about who I am or who my father is, you wouldn’t know it. They don’t treat me like everyone else treats me. They don’t ask about what kind of cars I drive or what it’s like to be the daughter of one of the richest men in the world. Most new people I meet don’t want to know about me. They want to know what I can do for them. Can I get their demo CD to the president of Capitol Records? Can I introduce them to the hottest new movie director in town? Or my personal favorite: Can I pass their résumé on to my father?
I find that one especially hilarious because it’s not like my father would ever hire someone based on a referral that came from me.
Rolando’s parents, on the other hand, behave as though I’m just another friend of the family. A welcome guest at their dinner table. And I’ve never felt more grateful to blend in.
I’ve never felt more normal.
“So”—Mr. Castaño turns the spotlight on me as his wife walks around the table pouring coffee into four mismatched cups—“How do you like working at Don Juan’s?”
I sigh. “Well, let’s just say I probably would have died if it weren’t for your son, here. He has a knack for making prison feel like Disneyland.”
Mrs. Castaño places the pot down on the table and rubs her son’s head affectionately before returning to her seat and sipping her coffee. “Rolando was always a happy child,” she boasts. “No matter what he was doing or where he was, he could keep himself entertained. When he was six—”
“Nuh-uh,” Rolando interjects, extending his arm out in front of his mother as though he’s attempting to halt her from flying through the windshield of a suddenly braking car. “I draw the line at childhood stories.”
The table erupts with laughter and Mrs. Castaño presses her lips together tightly with a wry smile, obliging his request.
“How do you do it, though?” I inquire eagerly. “How do you show up there day after day and act like it’s your dream job?”
“Ha!” he exclaims. “That is so not my dream job. Do you really think I like hawking ninety-nine-cent tacos every day? I hate it there! The only thing I want to do is coach NBA basketball.”
“Really?” I ask, somewhat surprised. “That’s what you want to do?”
Rolando nods earnestly. “Absolutely. It’s been my dream since I was a kid. I’ve been coaching basketball from in front of my TV since I was five. And for the past three years I’ve been volunteer coaching in an intercity kids’ league.”
“He’s very passionate about it,” Mr. Castaño puts in proudly. “One year for Christmas we got him one of those dry-erase boards and he sat and watched basketball nonstop for a week, drawing those Xs and Os and dotted lines all over the board. It was the best gift we ever got him.”
I shake my head, baffled. “But you’re always so upbeat when you’re at Don Juan’s,” I say. “How can you be that way when you clearly want to be doing something else? How can you be so happy doing something you hate?”
“Happiness doesn’t come from a job,” Mrs. Castaño answers patiently, her thick Spanish accent turning the words into a poem. “Otherwise most of the world would be unhappy.”
I want to counter with the argument that most of the world is unhappy. At least from what I’ve seen. But something compels me to keep quiet. To refrain from crashing the party with my cynicism.
“In Spanish we have an expression,” Mr. Castaño elaborates. “No hay mal que por bien no venga.”
“There is no bad,” I translate slowly, “that doesn’t come with good?”
“Sí,” he replies, flashing me a strange look that I can’t interpret. It takes a moment for me to realize what it is. And I only recognize it because I saw it a few minutes ago. When he looked at Rolando the same way.
It’s pride.
Fatherly pride.
“It means,” he continues, “there are always two sides to everything. Where there is bad, there is also good. I think in English they call it the gold lining.”
“Silver,” Rolando corrects.
“Sí, silver,” he repeats. “Sometimes you have to look very hard to find this silver lining.”
I have to smile at Mr. Castaño’s little anecdote. The kindhearted tone of his voice. The way he describes it with such certainty. Such faith. It’s endearing. In the same way Rolando’s blind optimism about everything is endearing. But deep down, I find it hard to believe. Impossible, even. At least for me.
But a sudden disheartening realization brings me back to my cold, harsh reality.
Because the truth is, I can try to hide out in this simple, normal world where silver linings are a dime a dozen and happiness grows on trees. I can don a wig and a hand-me-down hoodie and pretend to fit in here. I can laugh with the other half and eat the local food and drink the supermarket coffee. But in the back of my mind, I know I’m only a visitor on this planet. I can’t stay.
Eventually my kind will come looking for me. My world will catch up with me. Someone will knock on that front door and drag me back to where I came from.
To where I belong.
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
The summoning comes in the form of a phone call. Evidently when I didn’t answer my cell, Luke found out from an eyewitness that I was last seen leaving the parking lot of Don Juan’s with Rolando, tracked down his number from Javier, and called him instead.
After I’ve endured five minutes of Luke’s angry rants and tried, fo
r the sake of Rolando’s family, not to let any of it show on my face, Luke finally hangs up. But not before warning me that he’s coming to get me.
Not wanting him to barge in here and destroy this safe place that I’ve managed to create for myself, I say a fond farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Castaño, thank them profusely for the dinner and conversation, and opt to wait outside for my ride.
Rolando accompanies me, claiming that it’s not safe for me to stand outside alone in this neighborhood. And as soon as I reach the curb and realize how much scarier this place is at night, I’m glad that he insisted.
“So, where do you go after the end of this week?” Rolando asks me, leaning casually against a streetlamp.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check the list when I get home. But you can be sure it will suck. That seems to be the prerequisite.”
“Well,” he says with a half smile, “I guess you’ll have to figure out a way to make it unsuck.”
I shake my head. “That’s your strength. Not mine. The rest of us just have to endure it.”
“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “I think you’re gonna be okay. I have a lot of faith in you, girl.”
I scoff at this. “You’re probably the only one in the world who does.”
He raises his eyebrows inquisitively.
“It’s like this morning in the restaurant,” I explain, tucking my hands into the pocket of my borrowed hoodie. “You were the only one who bet that I would make it longer than a day.”
“And I won,” he’s quick to mention.
“That’s not the point,” I counter. “The point is my entire life has been like that. People betting against me. No one has ever expected anything of me. Except failure. Sometimes it feels as though the whole world is waiting on the edge of their seat for my next screw-up. And my father is the worst of them all. I honestly think he set up this whole arrangement—this whole fifty-two-jobs thing—just to watch me fall on my face.”
“Maybe,” he admits, pushing himself from the streetlamp and walking over to me, “or maybe you’ve never succeeded because you think no one expects you to.”
52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 15
