Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  “Hurt. Conflicted.”

  “But you never said anything to her?”

  “I suppose I should have. But you know me. I always opt for peace and harmony.”

  “And where has that got you? Years of Dreary. Years of long hours at minimum pay. Wake up, Jenny. The world’s out there waiting for you. All you have to do is take what you want.”

  “If only I knew what I want. Besides, I believe in giving as well as taking.”

  “I can’t believe you want what you currently have.”

  “I don’t. But I don’t have a clear idea of what I want to do with my life, the way you do. I want more than just heaps of dollars.”

  “So do I. But you can only get what you want if you have the money to buy it.”

  As I’m about to disagree with her, my phone rings. It’s Felicia on the line.

  “Jenny,” Felicia says. “Is terrible.”

  “What’s the matter, Felicia?”

  “Miguel just called me. From jail.”

  “Why is he in jail?”

  “La Migra got him. They are deporting him.”

  “They can’t just do that. There has to be a hearing before a judge.”

  “No hearing. He signed papers.”

  “What papers?”

  “Papers that say he don’t want a hearing.”

  “He waived his rights? Why would he do that?”

  “They threaten him. Tell him he had to stay in detention center for months, years. He say he don’t want to do that. So he sign the papers. They deport him fast. I don’t know what to do. His mother cry all the time on the phone. She says they cannot help him because the migra comes after them. What do I do? Is terrible.”

  “I have an idea,” I say. “I could speak to my new friend, Eduardo. He’s the director of the Coalition for Immigrants’ Rights.” My heart leaps at the thought of seeing Eduardo again. I’m ashamed at feeling this when Felicia is so distraught. “Susan used to work as a volunteer for him, remember?”

  “Sí. I remember she talked about him. Said he was simpatico.”

  “I went to see him today about Susan. So I can ask him whether there is something we can do.”

  “Please, Jenny. I feel so bad for his family.”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll call you after I’ve talked to Eduardo.”

  “Muchísimas gracias.”

  I turn back to Tricia. “Hell! Felicia’s nephew has been arrested as an illegal and has signed his rights away.”

  “Don’t expect me to sympathize. You know how I feel about illegal aliens.”

  “Miguel isn’t a being from outer space. He’s lived here almost all his life.”

  She shrugs. “But he wasn’t born here. Right?”

  “What are you saying? That he doesn’t have a right to be here?”

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “I have to do something to help.”

  “Always the enabler, even if you get nothing for it.”

  “How about friendship? How about human sympathy?”

  “You’ve always been good at justifying doing something for nothing.”

  “I’ve got to make a call,” I say. Suspending our never-ending argument, I make for my bedroom.

  ✽✽✽

  Slumped on my bed with Lulu purring next to me, I dial Eduardo’s cell phone.

  “Bueno? Diga.”

  “Eduardo?”

  “Sí. Quién habla?”

  “It’s me. Jenny.”

  “Oh, Jenny. How nice to hear your voice.”

  “Nice to hear yours,” I say. “Do you remember I mentioned that Todd’s housekeeper, Felicia, has a nephew she worries about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Miguel wasn’t born here, which is why she worries about him. And today he got picked up by ICE agents and taken downtown.”

  “We can certainly assign a lawyer to his case.”

  “The problem is Miguel signed away his rights and agreed to a fast-track deportation.”

  “Oh, no! This is ICE’s favorite move recently. It’s called stipulated removal. At the rate they’re going the government will have deported over 35,000 illegal aliens this year using that loophole. And the problem is that anyone deported with a stipulated removal order is barred from reentering the country for ten years.”

  “It doesn’t sound good for him.”

  “It isn’t.” Eduardo says. “We can try to locate Miguel before they send him across the border, but he could be in any of a number of detention facilities. Or he could be in the process of being moved from one to another.”

  “Isn’t he allowed to make a call, to let someone know where he is?”

  “In theory he is. But there’s always a shortage of detainee phones. And often they only allow a detainee his phone call hours before deporting him.”

  “It makes me feel ashamed of the government I voted in two years ago.”

  “Don’t get me started on the Obama administration’s immigration policies.”

  “McCain would almost certainly have been worse.”

  “True.”

  “Is there anything we can do for Miguel?” I ask.

  “First, we have to locate him. Then we can see whether we can appeal his case on the grounds that ICE didn’t inform him fully of his rights. I tell you what. Can you come to my office tomorrow at 9, when the detention facilities open? Then we can call the locations where he is likely being held.”

  “Sure.” I realize that I don’t really have to be there in person. Maybe he wants what I want: an excuse to be together.

  “Great,” he says. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

  I roll onto my back and conjure up a picture of us in his office, surreptitiously checking each other out as we make our calls.

  ✽✽✽

  Right after Eduardo on my to-do list is my dad, and his plan to hijack my mother to Oklahoma. I call him and make a date to meet him for coffee at a hip spot on Ventura. I park easily for a change, probably because it’s early Sunday evening.

  I find Dad sitting at an outdoor table under an orange awning, looking uncomfortable, surrounded by groups of kids less than a third his age peering at their phones and tablets. I greet him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and ask him what he’d like to drink.

  “A macchiato,” he says.

  “How do you know what a macchiato is?” I say before I can stop myself.

  “I may be old, Jenny. I’m not dead,” he answers.

  “And a pastry?”

  “No, thanks,” he replies, rubbing his hand over his protruding stomach by way of explanation.

  I enter the café’s dark interior where customers’ shouted conversations and heavy metal music on the speakers ricochet between the bare bricked walls and exposed ceiling conduits, while the wall-mounted TV silently flickers light on several blackboards on which the large menu is handwritten in colored chalk. I order Dad’s coffee, a hot chai tea latte for myself, and one of their famous crepes filled with strawberries, Nutella, and cream. Dad, I know, will steal some of it.

  I return to Dad, bearing napkins, tableware, and a table number in a tall chrome holder.

  “See that motorbike cop?” Dad greets me. “He’s been writing tickets nonstop ever since I sat down here. The last one was for not wearing a seat belt.”

  I take in the cop, the car, and its occupants.

  “It only shows how desperate the city is for revenue,” I remark.

  “I know. I know. But I wish he didn’t seem to enjoy his job so much.”

  “You don’t know that, Dad.”

  “I don’t understand where you and Tricia got your ideas from. Your mother and I always taught you to distrust authority of any kind. It’s just an instrument of state terror.”

  “You’re right, Dad,” I humor him. “But demonstrations and political protests seem so pointless today.”

  This only gets him fired up again. “That’s the trouble with your generation,” he sputters. “You leave it to cor
porations and politicians to decide things for you. The nearest you get to protesting anything is signing online petitions.” He pauses. “And your sister probably doesn’t even do that.”

  “That’s not fair, Dad. Young people got Obama elected in 2008.”

  “If McCain had won I think I would have emigrated to another country.”

  “That reminds me. Mom tells me that you’re thinking of taking a job in Oklahoma, of all places.”

  “True,” he concedes.

  “Why on earth do you want to live in the Bible Belt? You know Oklahoma has voted Republican since 1964. McCain got two-thirds of the Oklahoma vote in 2008.”

  “More reason to move there and start changing that.”

  “And what about Mom? How’s she going to adapt to a strange new place? All her friends live here in the Valley.”

  “You haven’t spent much time with your mother lately, have you?”

  I’m about to get defensive, but Dad interrupts me: “I’m not complaining about that. You and Tricia have your own lives to live. But over the last year Mom’s been acting very strangely.” So Dad’s noticing what I’ve been noticing recently about Mom.

  “How?” I ask.

  “She won’t leave the house except for work and shopping.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  “Our doctor told me she’s suffering from acute depression.”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Did the doc put her on meds?”

  “He prescribed antidepressants. Big surprise.”

  “You sound depressed yourself, Dad.”

  “That’s because the drugs seem to make her symptoms worse. She’s blaming me for the way she feels.”

  “Do you think you’re to blame in any way?”

  My crepe and Dad’s coffee arrive. Dad eyes my plate, as I knew he would; so I cut him a sizable slice and fetch him a plastic knife and fork to eat it with.

  I am about to repeat my question when he blurts out, “I wish I could say that I’m to blame.”

  “What does she blame you for?”

  “You name it. Her hard life. Her repetitive routine. The drudgery of running our home. Even her shrinking circle of friends.”

  “Why is she losing friends?’

  “Because she’s constantly complaining about her life and making them feel guilty and miserable for anything good about their lives.”

  “Have you thought of taking her in for a second opinion?”

  “You bet I have. But she refuses to accept that there’s anything wrong with her. She says it’s all my fault.”

  This is the first I’ve heard of my mother venting anger at my father. “Does she give a reason?”

  “She says it’s because I’ve dedicated my working life to a low-paying social service job that won’t support us when we retire.”

  “Will it?”

  “I qualify for a decent pension, which at least partly compensates for my crappy salary. But now they’re talking about cutting back our pensions. It makes me start to wonder whether she isn’t right. I’ve spent my life trying to make America a little fairer, and now they’re telling me they can’t afford to pay for my retirement.”

  Dad sighs. “Just to make myself feel a little better, I’m stealing another mouthful of your crepe.”

  “Go ahead. You’ve just killed my appetite.”

  “It’s our problem, dear. You’ve got your own, I’m sure. Your mother tells me you and Gary broke up”

  I ignore this. “How does Mom’s state of mind relate to your plan to move to Oklahoma?”

  “I thought the adventure of moving might distract her. But it’s only made her more angry at me. She’s accusing me of trying to take her away from the only friends she has.”

  “Isn’t that true?”

  “She hasn’t got any friends left. They all avoid her these days.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Which is why I’m turning down the offer.”

  “You’re turning it down?”

  “That’s right. We’re not moving.”

  “What? Then why did Mom just tell me you were?”

  “I only decided just now as we were talking.”

  At this moment Dad’s attention is caught by the Anglo cop who’s just pulled over a young African American woman driver of a beat-up old Chevy. After pointing out a missing taillight and asking for her license and insurance, which she produces, he tells all three young occupants of the car to step out and put their hands on the roof.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Dad asks in a booming voice. “So her taillight’s out. Write her a ticket. What’s the big deal?”

  The cop overhears Dad, as he intended him to. He struts over to our table. “I should warn you, sir,” he says, “that obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty is a criminal offense. If you have anything you want to say to me I suggest you wait until I have dealt with this matter.”

  Dad isn’t that easily cowed. “I noticed, Officer, that you let all those earlier traffic offenders stay in their cars while you wrote them tickets. But the first time you pull over an African-American driver you have to treat her and her passengers like dangerous criminals.”

  “Sir. Last warning. I suggest you butt out of my business.”

  “As a citizen who pays your salary, I have a right to question how you conduct yourself.”

  “Not if you are interfering with me doing my duty.” The cop’s voice is now threatening. “Are we done?”

  “Yes, we’re done,” I interject, turning to Dad. “I have to go,” I lie to him. “I’ll walk with you to your car.”

  Dad looks baffled. I shake my head and lead him to his car. We part as we greeted one another, with a kiss and a hug.

  On the walk back to my car I realize I’m shaking from the confrontation with the cop. Dad, however, had remained unfazed. He may be a liberal, but he has the same fire that Tricia shows.

  ✽✽✽

  Back at the apartment, I find Tricia lounging in her hand-shaped chair, holding a glass of whiskey up to the light.

  “This is the closest you can get to drinking liquid gold,” she announces without looking up, slurring her words. She must have had a lot to drink; Tricia can hold her liquor better than anyone else I know.

  “What’ve you been up to?” I ask.

  “I went to hear Narcoleptic Youth play at a pop-up in North Hollywood.”

  “And how were they?”

  “They’re a good Californian punk band. But they got into a confrontation with their fans for taking videos of them on their phones. When the fans started booing and catcalling, the band stopped in mid-song and walked off stage. So—not a memorable evening.”

  That reminds me of one evening when Tricia insisted I come with her and her boyfriend of the time to a performance of a band I’d never heard of. I must have been sixteen. It was all very secretive. The three of us drove to a gas station where we were greeted by three ugly-looking guys with shaved heads and gross tattoos. They asked Mike, Tricia’s boyfriend, a number of questions, all of which seemed racially charged, like, “D’you see yourself as an Aryan?” and “Own any Resistance Records albums?” and “What power bands have you heard previously?” Mike readily responded in their jargon. Satisfied, they told him where to drive for the event.

  All this rigmarole scared me. The site for the performance turned out to be an unused warehouse in the Valley, with a wooden platform supported by bare scaffolding for stage. The band was already playing and the fans careening around when we arrived. “EXTREME HATE,” the name of the band, was hand painted in red on a black banner hung carelessly over the makeshift stage. The players, all heavyset skinheads, wore swastika armbands and ghoulish facial makeup. The music was incredibly loud, repetitive, and badly played. Mike called it “hatecore rock.” The crowd had formed a large circle close to the stage. Those inside it were flailing their arms and legs in aggressive fashion, often hitting one another.

  I began to hear snatches of the lyrics
being bawled out by the band: “stand up and fight,” “had it up to here,” “raise the white man’s flag,” “just killed a kike,” “overrun by queers”!

  If I’d had my own transport I would have been out of there in five minutes. Instead I had to watch Mike leap into the mosh pit, as he called it, whirling round in small circles while flailing his arms inches from the surrounding watchers. Suddenly, one of the watchers was pushed out into his path and was hit hard in the eye by his hand. To my amazement Mike put his hand on the guy’s shoulder; his victim grinned and rejoined the melee as he held one hand over what was likely to turn into a black eye. Clearly to them this was good clean fun. By the time Mike left the circle he had a trickle of blood dribbling from the side of his mouth and was limping from a bruised knee. By then I was half deaf from the cacophonous music. I was also frightened by the violence that seemed to energize everyone else and threatened to suck us into its orbit any moment.

  Tricia seemed totally unmoved by the mixture of rage, hate, and fear driving everyone. It turned her on, if anything. She cleaned Mike’s face off with a tissue and gave him a long open-mouthed kiss.

  When I asked her later whether she realized what all the hate songs were about, she shrugged me off with, “It takes all kinds . . .” Without a pause she then asked me, “Don’t you think Mike’s really sexy?”

  “I think he’s pathetic,” I replied, “with his hang-ups about nonwhites and his fantasies about fighting.”

  “You should see him naked, and you’d find it hard to think that,” was all she said.

  Was my older sister a racist? I asked myself. Rather, I told myself, in reacting against our parents Tricia seemed to have given up on ethics of all kinds. Within weeks she had stopped seeing Mike. But not because of his rabid opinions.

  I wish her goodnight and fall into bed, exhausted.

  MIGUEL

  After being driven to ICE’s Los Angeles Field Office downtown, Miguel is “processed,” which means he is strip-searched, his wallet with his money and documentation confiscated, and then fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a holding cell by himself. He remains there with no food or drink—just a bucket for a toilet with no toilet paper. Why couldn’t he have kept his big mouth shut? he asks himself. But another voice asks, how else could he keep his self-respect? Unprovoked, the agent was abusing that poor, frightened girl in front of them all. He simply said what everyone was thinking.