Help Wanted

by Gary Soto

  "Don't worry, mi'jo," Ramiro said as he helped suit up Adan for the first game. "You have your helmet." Logic had him once again arguing that most of the opponents were Christians and, therefore, not as vicious as teams in nonreligious leagues.

  Secretly, before their league's first game, Ramiro had tried on his son's helmet. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and bared his teeth. He growled, "I'm like a Chicago Bear," and chuckled to himself.

  He drove Adan to the game and sat in the bleachers, where he watched his son, a third-string wide receiver, sit and sit until the coach finally put him in for two plays. Adan ran his routes, but the ball wasn't tossed to him. Then he was taken out, but put back in during the fourth quarter. Ramiro cheered when Adan made a catch and ran twelve yards before he was tackled. He was proud that his son's knees were stained green with grass and that his left elbow was dark with mud.

  That night Adan's family feasted on Mexican food—enchiladas, frijoles, and arroz piled tall as the pyramids of Mexico. A fiery salsa brought sheens of sweat to their brows.

  "You should have seen our boy," Ramiro bragged to his wife. He described the catch over and over, until his wife, blushing with pride, cried, "Oh, I should have been there!" Tears filled her eyes as she set her fork down and brought her hands together, as if in prayer. She said she was sorry she had missed it. She had stayed home because she didn't want to see her son get hurt.

  Adan patted her arm. "There will be other times." He scooped up frijoles in his tortilla and chewed carefully. He admitted to his father that his jaw had been rattled in the game, but it had been his fault. He had forgotten to properly bite down on his mouthpiece.

  The next day, a Saturday, Ramiro scanned the newspaper. In the corner of the sports section he saw the Oakland Raiders schedule.

  "They're playing the Eagles," he muttered. He wondered who the Eagles were. He scanned all the articles about professional football. They took up almost the entire page. He was amazed.

  "Adan," he called. "What does NFL mean?"

  Adan looked up from his homework. "It means 'National Football League.'"

  Ramiro reflected.

  "Where do the Eagles play?" he asked.

  "Philadelphia," Adan answered.

  Philadelphia. Ramiro began to think about professional football teams. He closed his eyes, with the newspaper on his lap, as if he were sleeping, and then got up a few minutes later without his usual groan of tiredness. He sneaked away and got onto the Internet, an elaborate computer maze that his wife had taught him recently. He searched for NFL, and was amazed at the sites that were available to investigate. He had to wonder where he had been in recent years. Excited, he looked up the Oakland Raiders, which he decided was his favorite team. He nearly cried when he read about the history of the team—its division championships and its numerous Super Bowls. He then located an Oakland Raiders store, where you could purchase items.

  "These are the real things," he whispered.

  Ramiro looked over his shoulder. He took out his credit card and nervously typed in the number. He bought an authentic jersey, a small Raiders helmet, and a set of drinking glasses. He reassured himself that he never bought himself anything, and besides, didn't he work hard? Still, he was surprised by his impulse buys—and by the Internet!

  When his purchases arrived with a toot from a UPS truck, Ramiro's wife was upset.

  "They cost so much!" she cried softly.

  "Yes, but they're the real things," he protested. He showed her the inside of the helmet that said: Authentic Merchandise of the Oakland Raiders.

  Then Ramiro had an accident that he believed was possibly divine providence. While he was pruning a rosebush in the yard, a branch slapped him in the face when he let go. The branch scratched his left eye, causing him to stumble into the house, a cupped hand over his injury. From that day on, his eye teared. His doctor prescribed some drops, but they had no effect. Finally, the doctor gave him an eye patch and ordered him not to drive at night.

  His wife cried. Adan dug up the rosebush in anger and tossed it in the compost heap in the corner of the yard. But Ramiro felt completely different about the matter. "I'm a Raider," he announced to the bathroom mirror. He was thinking of the Raiders symbol: a football player with an eye patch. He found himself repeating the Raiders motto: Commitment to Excellence.

  At work Ramiro sensed that his coworkers were in awe of his eye patch and the Raiders cap that he sometimes wore backward, like a teenager might. He became an expert on the folklore of the Raiders and knowledgeable about past and present players. During his break and lunchtime, Ramiro would sometimes toss a football with other workers. He surprised himself. He could toss the football with accuracy and with sting.

  There was not a week when Ramiro didn't make a Raiders purchase. He was able to keep up his habit because he sold the family's second car, a Toyota with bald tires and a leaky radiator. The car was a piece of junk, he had argued, plus dangerous on the road.

  His wife cried one Monday when he came home from work, "Why are you buying so many of these things?"

  "Why?" he asked as he put his lunch box down on the kitchen counter. "Because of our son. We need to keep him in football." He asked her if Adan hadn't become a better person since he had joined football.

  His wife became quiet as she bowed her head.

  Ramiro hugged his wife and said, "He's our only son."

  He washed up and sat in his recliner. He fiddled for his pocketknife among the keys and coins in his pocket. He pushed the blade into the flap of a box that had come in the mail and sawed slowly. He brought out a silver and black Raiders lampshade that immediately replaced the fluffy one on the corner lamp.

  His wife ran from the living room, crying.

  "Gloria, it cost hardly anything!" he yelled. But he had sensed that his purchase—and the other ones—had nothing to do with money. It had to do with change. He shrugged, snuggled into his recliner, and closed his eyes as he waited for six o'clock. The Raiders were playing the Ravens on Monday Night Football.

  The house became a temple of Raiders mementos—the throw rug, the extra blanket, the mirror, the ashtray they filled with candies wrapped in silver and black cellophane. There was more—jackets and T-shirts, water bottles, and jewelry for his wife. Ramiro hoisted a Raiders Nation flag in front of his house. When lowriders passed by in their tricked-out cars with hydraulics, he would clench his fist and yell, " Órale, vato!"

  "You shouldn't shout like that!" his wife protested. "What will the neighbors think?"

  "But it's for us, baby!" Ramiro answered. He clapped a hand over his mouth. He had never called his wife baby. Where had he learned that? Then he became aware that it was from the personal motto of the owner of the Raiders: Just win, baby. He turned that phrase over in his mind: Just win, baby. He liked it. He pulled his wife to his chest and hugged her. In her ear, he whispered, "It's for Adan, for our son."

  "What is?" his wife asked as she pushed him away.

  "We need to keep him busy," he answered. "To keep him in sports." He didn't have to remind her about their son's behavior.

  But Adan became less interested in football when he became a resolution counselor at school. When there was a fight, he tried to make the enemies friends, and he even befriended the boy who had beaten him up. In the school newspaper, he had a weekly column called "La Paz." He answered questions about gangs and teenage issues.

  Adan still played football the next season, and joined his dad on Sunday mornings to watch the Raiders games on TV.

  "The Raiders are going all the way this year," his father boasted from his recliner. The Raiders blanket draped over his lap and legs hid his Raiders slippers.

  "Dad," Adan said one Sunday morning after a large breakfast that had sent his father to the couch to nap before the start of the game. "Dad, you need to stop it."

  "Stop what, mi'jo?"

  "This Raiders thing," Adan answered.

  Ramiro sat up and put on his eyeglasses, whic
h were black with a streak of silver.

  "Dad, you've changed, and Mom doesn't like it."

  Ramiro smiled. "But you and me, we got something."

  Adan blinked at his father, confused.

  "We got a mission, a purpose." He peered at the Raiders clock on the television. "Ay, the game's already started." He reached for the remote control and snapped on the television, then hit the RECORD button. He had stockpiled the last nineteen games of the Raiders.

  Adan rose and left his father to his game.

  Indeed, Ramiro, who had been born on a quiet Sunday in a quiet town, had changed. He would clench his fists when he saw another car or truck on the road with a Raiders flag attached to the antenna. He would yell, " Órale, ese!" And for those who had San Francisco 49er flags? He would shake his head and mutter, "Estúpido."

  The merchandise continued to arrive—the Raiders car plates, the videos, the books, the calendar, and the cigarette lighter. Ramiro trembled and became speechless when he received a signed photograph of Crystal, a cheerleader. It was signed: To Ramiro, all my best, XXX, Crystal.

  In the garage, away from his wife, who happened to be peeling potatoes at that moment, he shared the signed photograph with his son.

  His son frowned.

  "What's wrong? Don't you like her?"

  "No," he answered.

  Ramiro didn't understand. "Why?"

  "Because she's not Mom." He walked away, tall as a soldier.

  Because he was in the garage and it was an hour until kickoff time, Ramiro brought out his mower. He completed his weekly task, then took one more longing look at the picture of Crystal before he rolled it up like a treasure map and hid it in the rafters. He hurried into the house. He got himself a soda and fit it into a Raiders cup holder.

  Ramiro was happy following the Raiders on television. But not long after he had received the signed photograph, he learned that one of the younger security guards had gone to see the Raiders play the San Diego Chargers. The security guard described the tailgate parties, and the wild outfits of the fans. Ramiro became dreamy. He saw himself there, and not at the fifty-yard line but in the Black Hole, where the rowdiest of fans bellowed, shouted, and showed off their frightful costumes. He saw himself with a small skull on his shoulder, something not too big, because he figured that he was really a newcomer to the Black Hole. He didn't want to show up the veterans. They had earned the right to wear human-sized skulls on their shoulders—plus the chains, breastplates, the helmets—and to have their faces painted silver and black.

  "How did you get your ticket?" Ramiro asked the security guard.

  "I got mine from a dude I know, but you can also get them on the Internet."

  "But I want to sit in the Black Hole." Ramiro knew that such tickets were impossible to get.

  The security guard smiled. "I'll fix it up for you."

  To Ramiro the young man resembled a smiling skull. He hadn't really liked him before (the man had the habit of cleaning his teeth with a toothpick), but suddenly Ramiro realized how wrong he had been about him. If the tickets came through, he was going to allow the young man to take a peek at the signed photograph of Crystal.

  Three days later Ramiro got the tickets, a pricey expenditure but worth it. The Raiders were playing the Denver Broncos, their mortal enemies because of some disputed play from the 1970s. That evening he called Adan into the garage.

  "I've already seen her," Adan said angrily.

  Ramiro became confused. "¿Como? What?" Then he realized that his son was talking about the signed photograph of Crystal. "Oh no, Adan. It's even better." He took out his wallet and presented to his son the two tickets.

  Adan looked at them, baffled. "Tickets?"

  "No, not just tickets. Black Hole tickets." He explained to his son where they would be sitting and among whom. He told him about the fans who wore skulls on their shoulders and painted their faces silver and black.

  "I don't want to go!" Adan protested.

  "But you have to. You're my son." Ramiro kicked among the boxes in the garage and took out the small skull he intended to mount on his shoulders. "See," he said, and placed it on his left shoulder. The skull was little bigger than a Softball, and in its eye sockets glowed luminous green eyes. "Looks nice, huh?"

  "Dad, that looks ridiculous! You're too old—" Adan stopped himself.

  "Too old, huh? Should I be un viejo playing checkers under a tree?" He nearly bit his tongue when he remembered his late father and how the two of them often played checkers under a tree.

  "Dad, it just don't seem right."

  His father took the skull down from his shoulder. He had never used the word before, or understood its full meaning. But he employed it then: "You're conservative," he told his son. To him the word meant those who didn't like to have fun. It also meant—though perhaps no dictionary would back up his definition—people who despised the Raiders. Conservatives, he argued, were those people who wore ties. Raiders fans, he figured, were liberals because they wore T-shirts and jerseys.

  "Where do you get these ideas?" his son said before he walked away.

  But Adan, the boy who had been born on rowdy Friday, finally agreed to accompany his father, who danced with his son and made his son get in a three-point stance and ram shoulders with him. Ramiro was happy, and he expressed his happiness by ordering a pizza with the works. Instead of eating at the table, he set up his three Raiders TV trays and had his wife and son watch NFL highlights with him.

  Game day arrived with the valley layered in fog. Ramiro could hardly sleep the night before, and he woke up early to cook eggs and bacon for his son. They left a little before seven for the four-hour drive to Oakland, after they had an argument about how many skulls Ramiro would be allowed to mount on his shoulders. Ramiro decided one skull was too skimpy, but Adan, suddenly furious, said he wouldn't let his father become a spectacle among people they didn't know.

  The rest of the drive was uneventful as they traveled through fog that slowly thinned as the sun came out. Near Oakland, however, they became excited as they linked up to a caravan of other cars on the way to the game.

  "See how nice people are," Ramiro remarked to his son.

  Adan had to agree. "Yeah, they look like crooks, but maybe I'm wrong, Dad."

  "Of course you are, Adan." He clenched his fist and yelled out the window, "¡Vivan Los Raiders!"

  "¡Órale! ¡Los Raiders!" Adan shouted timidly.

  Ramiro smiled at his son. He adjusted his eye patch, a habit of his. He glanced in the rearview mirror and admired the skull on the backseat. It was vibrating from the car's motion.

  They parked at the Coliseum and walked among fans who were dressed in costumes that made his single skull seem childish. These boisterous fans had skulls that were twice as large, and some of them wore gladiator-like helmets. They had breastplates and shin guards, and faces painted silver and black. Bike chains hung from their thick chests like necklaces.

  Ramiro was also amazed by the barbecues. He had expected hamburgers and weenies and bowls of potato chips, but the fans had cooked up feasts. He eyed tritip steaks, came asada, and chicken on grills, and pots of soup and soupy beans boiling away. There were lakes of guacamole, colorful salsas, salads, cakes, pan dulce, and sodas and beers in chests and plastic tubs like glaciers piled high with ice. Music—rap, soul, and rancheras—played from boom boxes.

  Ramiro walked among the tailgaters until he heard a voice call, "Hey, come over here with us!" A burly man with a Raiders jersey beckoned him. The man was holding a spatula.

  "You mean us?" Ramiro asked.

  "Yeah, you two!" the man hollered kindly. "Eat with us."

  Ramiro approached the man and they shook hands. The man introduced himself as Chuy. Ramiro then introduced his son, Adan, and Chuy introduced his wife, Gloria.

  "Hey, my wife's name is Gloria también!" Ramiro said.

  Chuy's Gloria was a little heavy, but her heaviness was mostly hidden by her jersey. The jersey nearly reac
hed her knees.

  "Where you from?" Chuy asked as he handed Ramiro a soda.

  "From Del Rey."

  "¿De veras?" His eyes got big with exaggerated excitement. "We're from Reedley."

  "No way," Ramiro said. He calculated that Reedley was only thirteen miles from Del Rey, and it took an event such as the Raiders versus the Broncos to bring together people who lived within shouting distance. And they would get to know each other over taquitos and beans because both parties had seats in the Black Hole.

  "This is a trip," Ramiro crowed. He had never used the word trip that way before, but, then again, he had never been to a game, either. He brought a chicken taquito to his mouth.

  "What grade are you in, mi'jo?" Gloria asked Adan.

  "Seventh," he answered shyly. He was filling a flimsy paper plate with food.

  Gloria smiled. "My kids are grown, and so are Chuy's."

  Ramiro understood that they had had children with other people, but that was okay by him. These are modern times, he thought. Plus, I don't want to be a conservative. He took another bite of taquito. Lettuce hung from his mouth like hay.

  They ate and talked about work, but then blasted themselves.

  "Pues, what are we doing talkin' about work, hombre!" Chuy scolded.

  Ramiro agreed. He turned his attention to his son, "My son plays ball."

  "Is that right?" Chuy said. He slipped a tortilla chip into his mouth and clamped down on it.

  "I play wide receiver," Adan remarked. "I'm not that good."

  "Don't say that, mi'jo," Gloria corrected sweetly. She was sitting on the tailgate of their Ford Explorer. She was swinging her small, pudgy legs.

  "But it's true."

  Gloria argued that it wasn't true. She jumped from the tailgate, a motion that rocked their vehicle, and told Adan to go out for a pass.