by Jaime Cortez
“Rodney,” said Raymundo, “I think I know why you had so much trouble satisfying Rosie. This is a human hair wig. They’re usually made with Chinese people’s hair. Beautiful product, very thick and dark. But that’s the problem. It’s too thick to look like Shy Boy’s hair. Most people wouldn’t notice the difference, but of course Rosie isn’t ‘most people.’ She’s his wife.”
“What should we do?” asked Rodney.
“I have a wig in the trunk of my car,” offered Raymundo. “And I think I can cut it down to get a good match.” Rodney exhaled and smiled.
“That sounds perfect. If you have a more appropriate wig, that would be tremendous. We’ll cover that cost, of course.”
At his car trunk, Raymundo dug out his purple overnight bag. The Wonder Woman costume inside had been a hit at the Halloween street party in San Francisco’s gay quarter. Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman was big that year, so he saw lots of knobby-kneed brethren ranging about on spike-heeled red boots. Nevertheless, he felt that with his elegant legs and superior wig, he was one of the more wondrous of the Wonder Women. Every few steps, a stranger would grab his mighty Amazonian breasts. Drunken frat boys pretended to nurse from him on either side as he threw his head back in mock ecstasy. More modest folk begged to be lassoed for a snapshot. He pulled back the bobby pins to detach the golden headband from the wig and then shook it out.
“Not too bad, my pretty,” he said to the wig. “Come with me. We have a mission.” Raymundo headed back down the stairs into the chapel basement. Rodney was on the phone, so Raymundo let him know everything was under control by shaking the wig at him. Rodney gave a thumbs-up and smiled. Raymundo went right to work, shampooing the wig and brushing out the snarls. Rodney finished his phone call and came over for a closer look.
“Wow. You had the right wig in your car trunk. I’m impressed. No wonder Rosie insisted on you, Ray. You don’t mind if I call you Ray?”
“No Rod, I don’t mind at all,” responded Raymundo. They both smiled and Raymundo went back to work on the wig. He pinned it to a Styrofoam wig stand and trimmed it down to pageboy length and parted it clean down the center. Sculpting down the sides, he created a soft taper that he estimated would conform to the shape of Shy Boy’s head. He studied the birthday snapshot again. With a brush and a hot iron set to low, he replicated the graceful sweep of his feathers. Putting down everything, he stepped back and appraised his progress, moving his eyes between wig and photo. He fussed with the length of the sideburn and squared the corners of the neckline. He rose and stalked the wig from all sides and at various angles.
“It’s looking good, Ray,” said Rodney from his desk. “Is it done?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to see it on him. Rod, can I go ahead and try it on him?”
“Yes, Ray, no problem.”
Raymundo entered the cooler, carefully slipped the wig onto Shy Boy’s head, and pushed the stray locks under the edge of the wig.
“We’re so close now,” Raymundo said to Shy Boy. “Just a few adjustments, and we’re good.”
He pinned the wig back on the wig stand and trimmed back the crown by a quarter of an inch. Then he sprayed it with Aqua Net once, twice, and a third time, letting it dry between coats. As he studied the extravagant feathering and ambitious upward poof of it all, it began to look ridiculous on the long-necked wig stand. Doubt blossomed in Ray’s chest. Back in the cooler, he placed the wig back on Shy Boy. Sweet Jesus. It was perfect. He grazed it with the back of his hand and thought of a geisha he once saw in National Geographic. Her wig was a lacquered, sculptural form of improbable, sweeps and volumes, yet it seemed inevitably perfect on her head. Was it just a happy accident of fashion that this wig, cut in the popular style of the day also happened to be inevitably perfect for Shy Boy? All of this was beyond knowing, but as he assessed his handiwork with swelling pride, the haircut looked to Raymundo like the raven glory that God himself would want to see crowning the head of Mauricio “Shy Boy” Pardo.
Ofelia’s Last Ride
Last September, our radiator exploded while we drove past Palm Desert on our way to Mexico. When Pa opened up the hood of our poor Impala station wagon, a cloud of smoke and steam flew up like a pissed-off ghost. Pa burned his hand trying to fix the broken hoses and shouted at the radiator. It only took about twenty minutes, but while we were waiting, the inside of the car got so hot we had to step outside into the desert sun to cool off. This year, we’re going back, but we’re driving to my Nana Leti’s at night, so we won’t be in the desert when the sun is out. It takes about eleven hours to drive there, so my ma and pa take turns driving. Ma made fresh tortillas and rolled up a bunch of burritos in ’luminum foil for the trip, because we only stop to get gas or pee.
I don’t like fifth grade, and I’m glad this trip will get me out of school for a week. When I told my new teacher, Miss MacDoogal, that I was going away for a week, she gave me a funny look. I don’t think she liked the idea. I told her a big, fat lie and said my grandpa had died and we had to go to Mexico. She was cool after that. I don’t always like being in Ma and Pa’s barrio in Mexicali, but I like getting there. Pa never drinks when we make this drive. He and Ma are usually in a good mood, because they’re going to see family and friends, and they can be the adults, doing whatever they need to do in Spanish instead of asking us to translate into English for them. It’s dark, so I can’t read while we ride. Instead, we listen to the radio or count Volkswagen Beetles. When I feel sleepy, I lie down in the back of the station wagon under my blanket and watch the stars pass by the window. Around Mecca, it gets exciting because we start to hear Radio Variedades, the big radio station in Mexicali. The station plays everything: cumbias, rancheras, boleros. They talk about the weather and tell jokes. The DJ makes his words into a big deal. He doesn’t say “rodeo” like everyone else. He says “rrrrrrrrrroooooodeooooo.” When he gives the news, he talks about stuff in Mexico I don’t understand. When he mentions President Carter, he pronounces the name “Yeemy Cahrter.”
When we get to El Centro, Ma makes sure everyone is awake. We’re very close to la linea, the border. There is a ghost that people see hitchhiking on the side of the highway at night. If you give her a ride, she’ll get in and disappear. If you don’t, she’ll sit on the hood of your car and try to make you crash.
“Should we pick her up if we see her?” asks Pa.
“No, that’s a bad idea,” I say. “We should drive away fast.”
“Yes, we should pick her up,” says Sylvie. “I want to see her up close. Besides, we have lots of room in this big boat.”
“Maybe she wants a burrito,” says Ma.
“Maybe she wants our souls,” says Pa. We start laughing, but I’m kind of nervous as we drive through El Centro. The sun is coming out as we get near Calexico. It’s funny, those two cities on the border have crisscrossed names. Calexico in the California side. Mexicali in the Mexico side. The two cities kiss each other through the big border fence. Before we cross la linea, Ma stops driving and Pa takes the wheel because the driving in Mexicali is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. At the border, the guard waves us right in, and we wave back at him as we pass. As soon as we cross, everything changes. It is early in the morning, but there are hundreds of people and hundreds of cars lined up to cross into Calexico. I see men, women, and even little kids walking around selling things on the road. Hot coffee, bottles of water, sombreros, and sodas. Gum and candies. Tacos. Newspapers. Everything is busy and moving. Pa drives us past the border streets, and we head to the Colonia Baja California neighborhood. Sometimes the road is cement, sometimes it’s dirt. Driving to Nana Leti’s house, I recognize a few places. Las Rosas tortilla factory and bakery, the Nuestra Señora del Perpetuo Socorro church, the little dirt soccer field. When we arrive, Ma says a prayer and thanks the Virgin of Guadalupe that we are safe. We get out of the station wagon and Pa shouts from outside of my nana’s iron gate.
“Madre mia, please let us in!” he says. My Nana Leti comes out. Her
hands are wet from washing dishes, and she dries them off on her apron. Her hair is pulled back in a braid, and she is wearing a blue dress and blue plastic sandals. I wave at her through the gate, and even before she unlocks it, she is crying. Pa hugs her hard, and he cries too.
“Doña Leti, you look so good,” says my ma when they hug.
“Hola, Esperanza,” says Abuela to my ma. “Just look how pretty you are with those green cat eyes.”
“Hola, mijo,” she says to me. I hug her and she looks at me from my sneakers to my hair. “Dios mio, but you’re getting so big and chubby like me. You’re part of the family for sure!”
Normally, I don’t like it when people tell me I’m fat, but she’s my abuela, and she’s not being mean about it, and I better get used to it, because here in the barrio everybody and their dog are going to remind me I’m fat. People who don’t even know me call me Gordo. Three of my tios and tias step out, hug everyone, and help us unload our blankets and boxes, and we put everything in the little adobe bedroom the four of us are going to share. Ma and Pa will sleep on the big bed under the supermarket calendar with the picture of Jesus Christ with a burning heart. Sylvie will sleep in the tiny bed under the sad clown painting, and I’ll sleep on the floor on a stack of blankets. I don’t care if I sleep on the floor, because I’m tired. When Ma asks if I want to take a siesta, I say yes. The three of them leave me alone in the room, and I fall asleep right away.
* * *
When I wake up, I’m a little confused because nothing looks familiar. Then I remember we’re in Mexicali. I can hear Grandma’s doves in the backyard. She keeps them in a little wooden cage that hangs from the twisty pepper tree. I like putting my hand in the cage and feeding them. I can smell smoke everywhere, because some people in the barrio don’t have stoves, so they use firewood to cook. I step outside, and Ma is sitting in the shade in front of the iron fence. I sit down in the chair next to her.
“Where’s Pa?” I ask.
“You know where he is,” says Ma. Dang. Pa is already out drinking with his friends. “And where’s Sylvie?” I ask.
“She is out with your Tia Laura, getting groceries,” says Ma. We sit together in the shade. Old friends and neighbors keep passing by and saying hi to Ma. She looks happy to be here, even if Pa is out drinking.
* * *
Coming down the block, we see Flaco. His bony grasshopper knees move up and down as he bikes to us. Flaco waves at Doña Sara, who is hosing down the street in front of her house to keep the dust down. Flaco nods to Don Fosforo, who has a big mob of kids waiting for a raspado. He is shaving ice so hard you can see the little chunks of it jumping up and sticking to his arm. From here, I can see the bottles of raspado flavors: yellow is mango, red is strawberry, and green is lime. Brown is tamarindo, the best of all the flavors. It makes my mouth all watery just thinking about it.
Near the corner, Flaco shouts, “Ese mi, Negro!” Negro looks up at him and smiles. I can see his perfect white teeth. I think Negro is about thirteen years old, but he’s been shining shoes on that hot corner since forever and he’s burned to the color of his shoe polish, even the part of his arms under the sleeve. That’s why he’s called Negro, and after a while in the barrio, your nickname takes over, and most people can’t even remember your real name anymore.
Flaco stops and walks his bike to us at the fence, and he keeps saying: “Big news, big news, big news.” If he wasn’t so skinny, they’d probably call him El Periodico because he always has the news. Of course we want to know, so Ma asks him: “What’s the big news today, mijo?”
“Big news from Palma Street,” he says, and his eyes get big. “It’s about Doña Ofelia.”
“Is she sick?” asks Ma.
“No. Not anymore. The news is that Doña Ofelia is dead.” Ma is quiet, then Flaco says, “Pati the Mouth says they found Doña Ofelia dead in bed, with beer bottles everywhere. Yesterday she served dinner right at six like always, then she went to lie down. She doesn’t do that usually, so later Roberto the Sasquatch went to check on her and found her dead. The wake is tomorrow from four p.m. on their porch and the burial will happen the day after at noon. They asked me to tell the news to Doña Leti, and you’re invited too, Doña Esperanza. You can come too, Gordo.”
I never saw a dead person in person, so I ask, “Ma, can I go with you to see her?”
“Mijo, why do you want to go? You’ll just get scared and have nightmares.” She’s probably right, but I want to go see a dead body. Besides, I hate it when Ma goes away. There is some mean people on this street. They call me all the fat names they can think of and then invent brand-new ones to show how mean they are. The boys here are pretty rough too. One kid from around the corner once threw a big rock at my forehead just because. My forehead got cut, but thank God my brains stayed in. I was littler then, so my pa grabbed that kid by the hair and dragged him to his house, where his own dad smacked him till his nose bled. My pa is a bad mama jamma. Most of the boys are afraid to hit me now, but they still make fun of my Spanish and ask how come I’m always with my ma, and do I do the dishes because I want to be a girl. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal to help. Even my Nana Leti asked why I like to work in the kitchen. I was glad when Ma said she loves it because I’m her best helper. Yeah, it’d be way better going to see a dead lady than staying here.
“Can I go, Ma?” I ask again. Finally, Ma says I can go, but if I get scared, it’s not her fault.
The next morning, I wash my face and fix my hair with Tres Flores oil the way Pa taught me. My hair gets shiny like Superboy’s. I feel like maybe I’m going to look super sharp in my button shirt, and I’m ready to see my first-ever dead body. Ma tried to wake up Pa and get him to get ready for the funeral, but he said his hangover was going to kill him and his head hurt and he would just go to the burial tomorrow instead. Sylvie said she doesn’t want to see a dead body, so she is staying home. In the kitchen, Ma is cutting limes and cilantro to go with the big pot of pozole she made for Ofelia’s wake. We say goodbye to Sylvie and begin walking to Ofelia’s. We don’t even get past two houses when Flora calls to Ma.
“ESPERAAAAANZA!” Oof. Flora’s voice reminds me of those big ol’ parrots they tell you not to pet in the pet shops.
“Esperanza, did you hear the news about Doña Ofelia?”
“Yes, I heard she left in her sleep two nights ago.”
“Pobrecita. Oh well, at least she’s not suffering anymore, may she rest in peace.” Flora is pretty full of shit because Doña Ofelia never suffered. Every time I saw her, she was mostly pretty drunk and always laughing, with her big old mouth open and full of gold like when you see the inside of the Vatican for Christmas Mass on TV. She really doesn’t have to rest in peace now, because that’s all she did when she was alive. All day long she’d sit on the porch under the mesquite with an ice bucket of Tecates. The big ones. She had a console stereo on the porch. One of the legs was missing, so she used two bricks and a Bible, I swear to God, A BIBLE, to hold it up. She’d sit and jam to the oldest Mexican songs in the world and talk to anyone on the street: her neighbors, little kids, and even men she didn’t know.
I’d be kind of embarrassed if she was my mom, but those ugly Sasquatch sons of hers must’ve liked Doña Ofelia all right, because everyone knows that at the end of each week, they gave her their entire melon-picker paychecks, and she’d put them together and give them back some allowance. They’re like big kids, except they use their allowances on beer, girls, and cars instead of candy. When they bought the blue Firebird with the T-roof and the custom van with the little round windows on the sides at the same time, everyone started saying the brothers were sneaking marijuana across the border into Calexico. Sylvie said that people were saying that Doña Ofelia was sleeping on a mattress full of drug money and betting thousands of dollars at the wrestling matches. She was even buying gold rings and watches for El Puma. I know for a fact that El Puma, a champion wrestler, would never let her or nobody look at his face under the
mask, so if she never saw his face, she must have fallen in love with the way he looks in those little black underwears and boots, which I don’t blame her for, cuz he gots all kinds of muscles on his arms and chest and even his caboose looks hard, like two turtles taking a nap. Personally, it is my opinion that I think he looks good. Even my pa, who loves to make fun of everybody and their dog, shoes, and haircuts, says El Puma looks good.
Ma and I keep walking, and when we get near the corner, Negro waves and talks to us.
“Hola, Señora Esperanza. You want me to give Gordo a shine?” Ma looks down at my shoes. I feel embarrassed that he saw they are all scratchy and dusty, but she’s not sure about getting a shine.
“Seño,” he says. “If you’re going to Doña Ofelia’s, his shoes should look nice. Gotta look nice if you’re going to pay respects, don’t you think, seño?” She touches the side of her neck with her handkerchief.
“All right, mijo, but quickly okay? It’s hot out here.” Negro tells me to put my foot up on his shoeshine box while he kneels in the dirt. He begins the shine and his hands just go. Voosh! Voosh! Voosh! He takes the dust off with his brush. He opens the wax and smears it on. He tells me how good it’s gonna look and smiles. He rubs it in and pulls out the cleaning rag, and he snaps it so pretty and fast. Pah! Pah! Pah! And it’s this dance with dirty hands and the dirty rag. Pah! Pah! Pah! And his shoulders and muscles move under his shirt with a wet spot on the back and I can’t stop looking at how beautiful he makes a stupid shoeshine. Ptoo! He spits on my shoe and it gets even shinier and he tells me I look good and the girls are gonna love me in those shoes and I smile, cuz I’m excited that he said that, even though I don’t like girls yet. One more time with the brush and then BOOM, the shoes look like they’re fresh from the store window. He’s done and he smiles.
