Above the beach, the city of San Diego rose, fronted by small shops and open-air fast-food diners, and then, like a series of giant stairs, buildings laddered up into the sky, tall glassy towers that reflected the blazing sun. Driving into the city, I hadn’t paid attention to them; I’d gotten so worried about traffic and which exit to take, and was so exhilarated and anxious about the newness of it all, that I’d hardly noticed what I’d passed. I’d never seen anything like it. The towns in New Mexico were small by comparison. They nestled up against mountain foothills, shades of reddish-brown shapes hugging the earth, blending into mesquite and piñon trees. Made of adobe and flagstone, they seemed to grow up out of the earth and had a kind of quiet mystery that resonated somehow with my Spanish and Indian past. This was utterly foreign.
The seawater was cool on my feet. I’d taken off my sneakers and waded into the surf up to my ankles. I had intended to walk down to the bay but had stopped after a few paces, tantalized by the tickling sensation of the shifting sand being pulled from beneath my feet as the surf rushed back to meet the next wave. I stood looking out at the shimmering horizon as the sun lowered itself. I thought about how my life had these blank spaces, as if I were blindfolded and spun around in the dark, led on by a need to discover something to anchor me. Each time the blindfold was drawn away I found myself in new circumstances, a new place, drawn there not so much by any plan or disciplined effort as by an unconscious faith that fate would place me where I belonged, where things would go right.
By the time I started to look around, the sun was staring me straight in the eyes and I was surprised by how many people were on the beach. Had they gathered to watch the sunset, or had they been there all along, and I had simply missed them as I went straight to the water? The Chicanos looked as they did back home, dressed in clean work shirts and jeans. But they moved more easily here, and they didn’t have that humble, quiet way of men fresh off the farm or ranch. I’d never seen so many hippies, the funky clothes, the girls who danced with each other, their breasts swaying like sacked kittens beneath their peasant shirts. I watched it all from a distance, imagining myself stepping into their midst, getting the walk down, the jive going. Couples strolled or nestled in the sand, kids yelped and ran, a Frisbee floated between two surfers, someone strummed a guitar, dogs chased each other, and the faint trace of pot smoke mixed with charcoal from barbecue grills. Children tunneled castles in the sand and squealed at the surf, while their mothers spread out blankets and picnic baskets. Perhaps, if I could slip into this new world, my past might flow away as the wet sand flowed back into the water.
I was hungry, so I slipped my shoes back on and walked up the boardwalk to get a burger. I could sleep in the car and tomorrow start asking around for work. It wasn’t much of a plan, so I was lucky that within a few hours I met the guy who would become my friend and partner for the next couple of years.
A few cars away from my T-Bird, two cops were sipping coffee as they leaned against a railing overlooking the beach. It wasn’t like they were jotting down my license plate, but I had stolen the T-Bird from a parking lot in Santa Fe and I didn’t need any trouble. I had a duffel bag with a change of clothes in the trunk, a carton of cigarettes and two six-packs of Bud, and a few other things, but fuck it. If I was going to have any chance of getting off on the right foot, I’d have to leave the car where it was and play it cool. And that meant playing it straight, at least for a while. I didn’t want to go back to the old games that might get me into a fight with cops or land me in jail or put me on the run, looking over my shoulder. Just ahead were a set of stairs that led down to the beach, and I headed down them, thinking, This is your best shot, dude, make it count, and don’t blow it. I never broke stride and I never went back to the car.
I’d just taken off my shoes and settled down in the sand when this lanky dude came up. He had on red high-top sneakers, bomber glasses, a faded T-shirt, torn jeans, and a white hanky around his head to keep his long brown hair from falling in his face. He was puffing a joint as he sat down, took off one of his sneakers, and emptied sand from it. He wasn’t wearing socks. He was about my age, eighteen, and after dragging on the joint, holding his breath back, he said, ‘There’s killer waves at dawn. Water comes up all crazy. I sleep under the stars sometimes, listening to them. Want a blast?” I toked and passed it back. He gestured to a bonfire and the hippies gathered around it. ‘They probably wouldn’t mind us paying a neighborly visit. We’re in flower-power country. Bet they got munchies, and maybe I won’t have to sleep alone tonight. C’mon, let’s truck, chicks like to have someone to keep ‘em warm on summer evenings like this.”
The fire, the waves, and the moon made me wish Theresa were with me. We drank wine, smoked weed, and ate hot dogs, and the whole time I quietly listened to my friend’s history as he tried to pick up on this chick. Marcos was an Italian from Michigan, and he’d been in town just a little over a month. His pride and joy was his new black Duster. I stared at the flames, poking a stick in the fire, shifting embers to keep the fire going. The chick and Marcos went to his car, but she returned by herself, brushing her hair, straightening out her blouse, and Marcos followed, looking sheepish, flushed on weed and wine. He tossed me a blanket. Enjoying himself immensely, he said, “Lose some, win some, but never give up!” He was trying for another chick as I lay back and fell asleep.
The next morning Marcos treated me to breakfast at a local hangout and helped me look through the want ads for plumbing work. I’d done enough back in Albuquerque and Santa Fe that I could get through most situations. By noon I’d gotten myself an interview and Marcos had dropped me off at a small green-and-orange bungalow office in Ocean Beach. One of their regular guys had hurt his shoulder yanking his pipe wrench to loosen a rusty fitting and was laid up at home with his arm in a sling. They threw me the keys to my own rig, a rusty panel van with PACIFIC PLUMBING stenciled on the side, and sent me out on my first job. It wasn’t much more difficult than a clogged drain, and after I’d finished it I was sent out on another. I did four other similar jobs that day, shit that anyone with a set of tools could have figured out if they took the time, but it must have impressed the boss because he asked me to show up the next day at eight. Marcos and I got a place, a circular one-room bachelor pad; Marcos slept on one side and I on the other. Our sleeping quarters were each by bead curtains hanging from floss tied to a roof pole. The living space in between was soon the partying area, littered with dirty clothes, beer cans, ashtrays, wine bottles, and other junk. We sat, drank beer, smoked weed, listened to music, and talked.
After work at night, in what would become a routine, I’d pick up a six-pack and find Marcos on the beach. We’d polish off the beer as the sun went down, brush the sand off our butts, and get something to eat at a beachside diner. Afterward there were the bars and the green felt pool tables. Under the lights that hung over the pool tables, Chicanos bantered freely with the longhairs they were taking to the cleaners. Marcos was good. The winters were long in Michigan, and there hadn’t been much else to do. He shot with a smooth strong stroke, and soon enough we were going against other guys in five-dollar games and winning most of the time. During the day he’d polish his car, and when I met him back at the beach we’d go out and cruise. It was the cleanest, meanest machine on the beach. Slumped low in the seat, elbows crooked out the window, wearing shades, moving our heads to the beat of Marvin Gaye or a Grateful Dead song, we’d look for a party at the parks. Maybe we’d go to Chicano Park, where muralists on scaffolds worked beneath the freeway underpass, painting Chicano history on the concrete beams. There’d always be some people there; if not, we’d find a grove of palm trees close to the beach and kick back, music up loud, car doors open, and maybe join a group of Frisbee players on the beach.
Marcos was living off money he’d earned back home as a mechanic. He kept it stashed at the bottom of his ratty old toilet kit. After brushing my teeth and before heading out the door, I’d count the dwindling pile of twenty-
dollar bills. It wouldn’t last much longer, but he wasn’t in any hurry to get a job. Partying was his thing, and his day revolved around picking up chicks. His problem was that his easygoing nature made chicks like him as a brother. His mellow manner piqued a girl’s interest and he was endearing to them but he had no passion to his rap. Chicks would read poetry to him, share their hurt feelings about what another guy did to them, and Marcos, like a sullen therapist listening to a patient’s contrition, would make a play to get into her jeans and be told she wasn’t ready yet. He hated that, because after we rented our thatched-roof bungalow, a lot of chicks were coming over to have counseling sessions with him. It annoyed him even more because I seemed to have an outlaw edge and severe mood swings that attracted them. He’d have girls over, and when one of them came over to talk, I’d keep my head down, my thoughts to myself, and quietly sit. I’d let Marcos do all the work, a faint smile on my lips, not saying much, but sure enough, eyes would swivel in my direction, and then a chick would start asking if I had a girlfriend. I’d tell her I didn’t, but in truth every girl reminded me of Theresa’s black hair and brown eyes, and I couldn’t help wanting my hands to feel her hips, my palms to caress the inside of her thighs.
I wasn’t ready for a relationship or commitment, and maybe my indifference was part of the attraction. Sometimes I’d be kissing a girl on the beach or on the futon in my room and suddenly stop because it didn’t feel right. I felt I was being untrue to Theresa. It’d been only a few months since I said good-bye to her. After getting out of jail, I went to see her and it turned out bad, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Memories of us together ruined romantic moments now. Aching with longing, I’d walk alone on the breezy beach. The rainy days made me miss her so much. My mind would play tricks on me, and I’d plan to return, thinking she would take me back. But I knew deep down she didn’t want me. I was still alive and healthy; I could bounce back. I just needed time.
Being Chicano in California was cool. Everybody was dancing and partying to bands like Santana and Los Lobos, singing about our Indio-Mexican culture, and I dug it despite not understanding much about my own roots. The air was charged with Chicano political activism, and I still had a smoldering edge that chicks seemed to attribute to my nonexistent counterculture activity. Whatever it was, they wanted to find out what I was all about, what wound lay beneath my pensive silence and shy smile. They were mostly white girls who were on their way to college or had already dropped out. They thought it was cool that I was working and doing okay on my own. I’d go to college if I could, I told them, and then I’d serve up some line about how life was harder if you happened to be born brown. Usually, Marcos eavesdropped on my rap, smoking a joint and reading a Popular Mechanics magazine, picking up on my street-activist speeches, which got the chicks rolling with me on the grass outside the front step of our beach apartment, our bodies wrapped around each other, kissing and hugging.
For the next month and a half I replaced faucets, washer rings, rusty pipes, and sink traps. I was feeling good about making money and I didn’t mind working late, taking on the hard jobs, coming home covered in cement dust from breaking concrete with a jackhammer, in some office being renovated, or caked in mud from crawling around in alley trenches. I hustled extra hard on Fridays to finish around noon so I could start the weekend early. I’d shower and put on a pair of old but clean jeans and a T-shirt and go look for Marcos. Most tenants left their doors open and I’d go door to door until I’d find him, sitting on the floor, reading album covers, sipping a beer with a chick, and listening to the stereo. We’d split, buy some cold beer, smoke a doobie, and head out to a park concert announced on handouts we found under our windshield wipers.
I was living day-to-day, meeting chicks and guys who left as easily as they appeared. Trying not to think so much of the past and inspired by Marcos to enjoy life, I exerted myself in the moment, not planning for tomorrow or saving up for the future. I’d meet a chick and go her way or she’d go mine, never knowing where we might end up or what we might do. Marcos and I followed the music and chicks, dope, and booze, and when these were finished, we’d move on to find more. Still, there were times when Marcos and I would be on our way to a movie or the pool hall, and I’d see a woman through a window having dinner with her kids. I’d think of my mother, how we were complete strangers, tied only by birth, and that we’d both come out to California—she to escape from my father and us kids, and I to leave a rotten past and a girlfriend who didn’t want me anymore. But the pain of my regret would be quickly blurred by Marcos’s offering me a joint, turning up the music, slapping the dashboard, and yelling as he moved his head to the beat, his long hair all over, or saying something funny about not getting chicks, like, “The sun even shines on a dog’s ass some days.”
I worked hard at my job. Everything was going fine. I prided myself on doing well. I’d be up at the crack of dawn to arrange my tools and organize the fittings. Then it was off to Aunt Lou’s Diner for coffee before hitting the shop, a cinder-block building with two back bays lined with floor-to-ceiling pipe racks. I even liked the people I worked for. Martinez was about sixty, religious, in good health. He ran the back shop and the front office, keeping it stocked with packaged plumbing supplies for walk-in customers. The owner, a wiry guy named Clark, and his statuesque wife, Brenda, spent most of their time scouting for fixer-uppers and cheap lots to buy. Clark wasn’t happy about this arrangement. He didn’t like being behind a desk in a white shirt and spectacles where his wife had him. He longed for the days when he rode out with his employees on plumbing jobs. Every morning when he handed me my job slips, I could see the longing in his eyes.
Then one Monday morning I had a bit of bad luck. My first call was to fix a leaky copper pipe on a garage slop sink. I traced my finger along the map route and made my way to a white stucco house with pink trim and green tin window awnings. The job would be no big deal. I pushed the buzzer, and an attractive woman with long red hair answered the door in a cotton housecoat. Loosely cinched, it fell open as her bare leg stepped carelessly against it, revealing her bra and black panties. She clutched her robe closed and told me she’d just woken up, but she seemed pretty awake as she continued to gaze at me. I got nervous and didn’t know what to say so I asked her to show me the slop sink. I’d have it fixed right away, I said, and added that I had another call to go to. I worked faster than usual. I cut the sheet rock, turned off the water, cut the pipe, slipped on couplings and a length of new copper pipe, and soldered it back. Then I went inside to hand her the bill.
She studied it carelessly and offered me a cup of coffee. She crossed her legs and swung the cotton hem so it slipped, up to her thigh. She reached across the table and took my palm, saying she wanted to see the calluses. She began to rub my palm in a way that we both knew meant more. I asked her if she’d left something burning on the stove, and then I saw smoke coming from the garage door. I bolted outside. A two-by-four stud had caught fire when I was soldering the fittings with the acetylene torch. I doused the flames with buckets of water and mopped up the charred swampy mess as best I could. After I left, finished my calls, and got back in the shop, Clark’s wife berated me for making romantic advances to the woman, who had called screaming into the phone that she was going to sue me. Brenda said I was a hazard to her customers and I was fired. Clark was in the bay, and I told him I’d do anything to stay on, but he nodded toward the office and said once her mind was made up, there was no changing it.
After applying for half a dozen plumbing jobs, I gave up. I was better than most plumbers but I didn’t have a California license. I was offered jackhammer labor and minimum wage bullshit. We’d gotten low on money, and what little we had left we decided to invest. We bought marijuana to sell to Marcos’s friends in Michigan. We were going to ship the weed on the bus. It was only a pound but it would double our investment and get us by until something else came our way.
Marcos and I stood in the bus ticket line behind backpacking
hippies smelling of incense and the wild. Outside, under the I-beam canopy, buses pulled in, groaning steam and squealing brakes, and weary travelers straggled into the lobby. The ticket agent, a thin old man wearing a Greyhound cap with a green plastic bill, his face mottled with age spots, wire-rim spectacles low on his hawk nose, puckered his chapped lips and whispered hoarsely, “Next.” The line moved slowly because he was having a hard time understanding the Mexicans. I asked Marcos again how this was going to work. Marcos explained how his buddies in Michigan would love this weed. “I got the whole thing set up,” he said. “Soon as it’s shipped, I’ll call and they’ll Western Union the money. By tomorrow morning, we’ll have enough for rent, food, pool, beer, and partying.”
We’d left a party earlier and were eager to return. We’d been tape-wrapping the box like a Christmas present when our neighbor Jo-Jo came by with a six-pack. After tasting the weed he said he’d take a hundred dollars’ worth. Maggie and her boyfriend Squirrel brought some pizza and more beer, smoked, and said they’d buy some weed too; Exclusive, a black dude with a huge Afro and a dog named Bullet, put in two orders. If Michigan worked out, we could even have enough money to buy enough to sell locally too. Bernice and two girls came over and sat on the floor listening to music and talking and smoking weed. I’d left the dope and papers in a bake pan and told them to have a good time, we’d be back.
A Place to Stand Page 6
