by Obed Silva
“Yep,” agreed white agent number one, picking up his cup of coffee and holding it out in front of him, “and all for some beer.”
The interrogation quickly became a sideshow. In their government-issued royal-blue uniforms, the two agents began to take great liberty with their questions and made no apologies for the delight they took in asking them. But contrary to how I felt when the interrogation first began or when white agent number two was called in, by this point, I’d begun to not mind it one bit; because if I remembered anything about cops and the like, it was that it’s always best to keep them happy, to be the pony they want you to be. So no matter what questions these two paddies asked me from this point on, I was quick to answer them without restraints. I loosened up and began to breathe again. I’d come to the conclusion that if amusing was what they wanted, then amusing was what I’d give them, anything to relieve the tension and anxiety I’d been feeling since the moment I was pulled out of the line to freedom by Shirley and her enormous culo. Play it cool and play it charming, I said to myself in my big head, and you’ll be out of here in no time, shit’s nothing. And plus, I reminded myself, you’re as American as they are, only darker.
“But that’s not all,” continued agent number one to agent number two after taking a sip of his coffee. “It gets better. Apparently this guy’s quite the shooter, too. Get this, a year after having been shot himself, he went out one night and shot another gangster. Shot him right in the leg.” He was retelling all of this with a smile. Motherfucker could’ve been reading the shit from a book he told it so well. You could see the glee in his yellow, coffee-stained teeth every time he opened his mouth. Agent number two, on the other hand, seemed stupefied by what he was hearing. Who was I and how could all this violence come out of this oddly dressed cripple were, I imagined, the questions formulating in his head.
“Wait a minute,” agent number two said to me, “you mean to tell me that a year after you got shot by a store clerk for having robbed him, you then went out and shot somebody yourself?”
“Yes,” I said matter-of-factly, while pushing up the brim of my hat with my left pointing finger like a cowboy in a western.
“But weren’t you in a wheelchair then, too?” he continued, revealing his keenness for observation.
“Yes.”
“So you had a gun on you and you shot someone from your wheelchair?”
“Yes. But not because I wanted to.” I felt the need to explain to him the circumstances of the situation lest he and his partner began to view me as a danger to society and decided to throw me back into Mexico right then and there. “I didn’t mean to shoot him. I just wanted to scare him.”
“Scare him? Why? Did he have a gun, too?” said white agent number two.
“No—I mean, at the time I didn’t know if he did or if he didn’t, but I suppose he could’ve. Plus, he had about fifteen of his friends with him, and some of them had other weapons that were visible. They had chains and bottles and knives. And they were going to attack us.”
“Who’s us?” said white agent number one.
“Me and my cousin and two other friends. Oh, and my girlfriend. Shit, ain’t no telling what they’d’ve done to us all if I hadn’t pulled out the gun and shot. We were outnumbered.”
“So you just pulled the gun out and shot the guy closest to you?” asked white agent number one, inquisitively.
“No. I pulled it out and shot blindly to the right of me as soon as they charged at us. I had no choice. I had to do something to keep them from attacking us, especially my girlfriend. She’s beautiful, you know, a real doll. Unfortunately, it just so happened that one of them got hit in the leg as he was chasing after my cousin, who, incidentally, still got his ass kicked by them after me, my girl, and my other friends took off. So they really could’ve done worse to us.”
“You say you took off,” said white agent number one, revealing his own talent for keen observation. “You weren’t apprehended that night?”
“I was,” I continued, “at a friend’s apartment. Somebody told the police where we were hiding. They came in, arrested me, and took me in. I was charged with attempted murder that night and bailed out by my mom the next. I went to court for about two years and in ’99 the judged sentenced me to five years’ gang-terms probation with twelve years of prison time hanging over my head. Said that if I violated any of the terms of my probation for any reason he’d have me sent straight to prison, no questions asked, to serve out those twelve years. He wasn’t fucking around.”
“No kidding,” said white agent number one. “But you got off pretty easy, wouldn’t you say? Hell, I’ve never heard of someone getting only probation for shooting another person. Sounds unlikely. Plus you’re a gang member.”
“Was.”
“Of course—was,” said agent number one, cracking a smile.
This was what the interrogation would be like for the rest of my time with them: one of the two agents would ask me a question and I’d answer it the best I could. Eventually I’d also describe to them in detail the night of the protest in Garden Grove, during which I was observed by two white undercover officers in civilian clothes chucking marble-size rocks from my wheelchair at a line of deputy sheriffs on horseback. (I was really chucking them at the hicks behind the deputy sheriffs who were screaming out anti-immigration racist epithets at the protesters. But ¡que será, será! I had to stick to what I’d pleaded guilty to.) But it wouldn’t be until I presented the two agents with a written permission letter to travel to Chihuahua signed by my probation officer and after I repeatedly expressed to them that I was a changed man on my way to academic and literary greatness that I’d finally be sent on my way to baggage claim and to catch the next flight to Los Angeles.
“I swear to you,” I said pressingly to the two agents, “I’m not a criminal. I’m a scholar, can’t you see? Look inside my backpack, all I have is books, books and catheters I use to take a piss.” I was hoping they wouldn’t look though. I was reading Che at the time and thought that if they saw the book they might take me for a communist, if they hadn’t already by the way I was dressed all Cuban-like. Then I’d really be fucked. To government agents like these the only thing worse than an ex–gang member is an active communist. But they didn’t. White agent number one, convinced of my aspirations, just handed me a form to sign that said I promised to appear before an immigration judge in Los Angeles on a specific date. I did, and was free to go. My time with these two paddies had finally come to an end. And although I was elated that they’d allowed me to remain in the country, I was now facing deportation. I’d been stripped of my green card and sent home with a piece of paper that said I was in “proceedings for removal.” ¡Que mierda! I felt unbearable sorrow. After all the years of pledging allegiance to the flag! I was hurting inside. The only consolation I got came from the customs agent who searched my suitcase after I retrieved it from the luggage claim. After he, with stern demeanor, rummaged through it with his gloved hands and had his Lassie sniff around it and my person, and was done questioning me about how I was able to afford a TAG Heuer watch, he calmly removed one of his black leather gloves and paternally placed his white hand on my shoulder and said: “Welcome home, son.” That was more like it! Oh, America, if only you knew how much I love you!
9
I’d been itching for a beer since I first got off the plane and felt the scathing heat of the Chihuahua sun blanket my skin. My first thought was that I’d come to a funeral in hell, and that the only way I’d be able to survive it would be by drinking my way through it. Immediately, therefore, I resigned myself to the deceivingly refreshing pull of a cold beer. At the bar in the airport lobby, however, there wasn’t any beer. All they served to my not-so-displeased surprise was liquor. And so, from a plethora of rich names and without any misgivings, within a half hour’s time—the time it took for my uncle Chuy and his wife and kid to get there to pick me up—I had five unflinching shots of Buchanan’s whiskey—straight to the gut
. And just like that, feeling the chill on my cheeks from the airport’s high-powered air-conditioning system and the revolting warmth of the Scotch whiskey in my throat and stomach, I was ready to roll out past the military guards into the Chihuahua sun once again and head to my father’s closing act.
And now, almost three hours after those initial drinks, I’m ready for more. I send Danny for beer and a fifth of whatever tequila he can find. “What kind of beer do you want?” he asks me as I hand him a wad of dollar bills. I tell him to get a couple of Carta Blanca caguamas in memoriam of our dead father. He cracks a smile that says he likes the idea, and without further ado walks away to retrieve my order.
When he comes back, I drink one of the caguamas within minutes. I can’t wait. I need to not give a fuck in a hurry. I need to turn this death scene into a party, even if only in my mind. The other caguama I give to Danny and Aarón to share with their friends and some of our cousins who are there looking miserable, like children forced to go to church. They all thank me for the gesture and toast with me every time I take a drink from the fifth of Hornitos tequila, which is quickly passed around and empty sooner than it can make its way back to me. So it goes. But I can’t stop. Not now. I’m on a roll and feeling chingón, al cien, as they say. I have to stay like this. There’s nothing good otherwise. So I send Danny to get another fifth and more caguamas. This time five. We’re taking flight.
I drink in front of everyone. Shamelessly, without a care. I give not one flying fuck about who sees me give in to the drink. Am I not a Silva? At one point, gripping a caguama in my hand, I turn to Cokis and, pointing my finger in the direction of the parlor’s doors, say to her: “That man in there, mi padre, he’d be doing the same shit—¡la misma mierda! In fact, he’s probably wishing he could have a drink now, even being as dead as he is.” Cokis agrees with me, laughs, leans in, grips me tightly, tells me how right I am, takes the caguama from my hand, and takes a long drink from it herself. “That’s the spirit,” I tell her. She joins in the celebration, and soon my sister Axcel and even Cecilia join, too.
For the rest of the night the tequila and beers keep coming and the music keeps playing. From a stereo in a small white ’90s Chevy pickup that belongs to one of Aarón’s friends and is parked beside the parlor, we listen to old Vicente Fernández songs my father had loved to listen to when he drank. Our toasts and cheers join the ensemble of chance sounds that fill the barrio’s night sky. Our laughter and meaningless talk are accompanied by the laughter and talk of young women and men clinging to the night on the beds of old trucks that roar by. Our yelps and cries swirl with the yelps and cries of the men drinking in front of the houses across the street and of those drinking in the distance and somewhere around every corner. The voice of Vicente Fernández fights against the wild screams of warring children. Sound is everywhere, finding refuge in the darkness. Life is taking place: footsteps here; a bottle breaking there; sizzling grease and whistles everywhere. Chihuahua is alive, and we are celebrating death.
* * *
I get my buzz back in no time. The caguamas are going down smoothly and I’m becoming energized. “Para mi papá,” I scream out every time after I take a drink. The tequila has murdered all my inhibitions and I have murdered it. “Turn up the music!” I yell boisterously while puffing my chest. “¡Que se oiga por todo Chihuahua! Let everybody know that Juan Silva has died! That the eagle has finally chewed up his liver for the last time! Let them know that Prometheus is no more! That the firewater has finally killed him!”
Surrounded by Cokis and my brothers and sisters, I feel like the patriarch of the family. I’m at the center of each of their worlds and they look upon me as their only hope—ME: this drunk cripple at their feet who’s rambunctiously screaming at the night sky. For every one of them, with the exception of Cecilia, who looks more bewildered by the event unfolding before her than anything else, stares at me with the look of lost children: sad and pitiful. “What are you going to do now?” is what every one of the weary eyes is saying to me. “Please, tell us something comforting. Have you heard that our father is dead?” But I have nothing for them, no plan, no vision for the future. All I know is that things are certain to get better. And aside from putting on this drunken spectacle, all I can say to them is not to be so sad—to cheer up. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” I promise them with a smile. As soon as I say this, Cokis, who has not left my side, places her arm around my neck and in her soft and childlike voice, optimistically whispers into my ear: “Really? Is it true?”
My certainty comes from having seen Cokis suffer, even more than my brothers and sister Axcel, at the hands of my father. On more than one occasion I’d told her to leave him, to get as far as she could from his reach. And although she always assured me that one day she would, she never did. I take it the blows and tears had hardened and their weight had burrowed her at his side. But he was dead now and there was no way he could ever hurt her again.
“Yes, Cokis, I promise,” I say to her, looking into her devastated eyes. “I promise, I promise, I promise.” I take the caguama from her hands, take a drink from it, and pass it to her again: “Tome,” I tell her. “Drink for the hell inside, and don’t worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow we bury this man.”
* * *
Sad woman. Sad widow. Sad mother. Sad sight. Drink for your dead beloved. Let him know that your sorrows are still connected to his life. Show him that your misery still lives. But kill him! Kill him with another drink! That a girl! He must not live again! He must not rise at dawn with the rest of the spirits! Turn him into a memory and leave him in the past! And laugh! Laugh with me! Laugh with all of us! Let us hear you laugh hard with the bottle in hand! Raise it like the Olympic torch and wave it around for everyone to see! Be proud and show the world! Tell it that your beloved is dead and that you drink for the hell inside! Be free, sad bird. Be free!
10
In one episode of HBO’s The Sopranos, Tony Soprano remarks that “remember when…” is the lowest form of conversation. To the wise monk and to the sagacious scholar, and even to the boss of an Italian crime family, perhaps, this is true, but not to the drunk; to him there is no form of conversation with greater value than “remember when.” Hell, to him, “remember when” is the only form of conversation. The past is the only subject he is capable of discussing at length, and there is no future there—not one glimmer of hope. But he doesn’t mind this. Because what cares he for the future? Any vision of the future is an obstacle: too much work, too much thought, too much time away from the drink. Now there’s an unbearable reality and the drunk desires to have no part of it. So he looks firmly to his past, to his memories, to where he feels safe. There are no surprises in the past for him, and no need for him to plan for the unexpected; in the past he is free of responsibility. In his memories he can move freely, picking and choosing moments he wishes to relive: moments in which he’s the superhero, the great lover, the best friend, the brave comrade in the face of danger, and of course—the exceptional drinker. A great many tales, “bēore druncen”—as Bēowulf says to Unferð after Unferð reminds him of the contest he had with Breca—the drunk is able to tell. He can spend hours at a time reveling in his memories, retelling them over and over without respite. And always he’s the skilled orator, the master storyteller; and always he begins every tale that slips through his sloppy lips with: “remember when.”
But the drunk is not alone in his fanatical appreciation for talk about the past. The mourner, too, takes great solace in reliving memories. But where the drunk retells the past to exalt himself, the mourner retells it to exalt the dead. It is his way of easing the pain that comes with losing someone, his way of keeping a part of the deceased alive. He cannot mourn without reliving certain moments of the dead person’s life, moments that, like the drunk, he chooses carefully. Because when the mourner lets out the phrase “remember when,” what follows is a story that paints the deceased in glorious light. The deceased, in these stories, is
a great friend, son, daughter, mother, father—a great everything. Alive the dead person did no wrong, and it is now left to the mourner to let it be known, to tell the world about it. And so “remember when” springs forth from the mourner’s tongue as often as it does from the tongue of the drunk. The two are equal in their pity.
And what of the mourner who is also a drunk? Well, let all intelligent and productive talk keep vigil at the door, as there is no place for it here; for when the mourner drinks and becomes the drunk who mourns, every “remember when” tale is accompanied with a sobbing spectacle of uncontrollable emotion—he becomes an explosion of pathos. In mourning the drunk is a passionate animal who builds monuments to his feelings; he’s both sensitive and delicate, and the bearer of all of the world’s pain, and he weeps to no end to show it. “Remember when?” he cries out, and before he can begin to articulate his memory the tears are already streaming from his eyes. He’s a disturbing mess, a fountain of misery.
* * *
And let us be a fountain of misery. Why not? The patriarch is dead. Let us sing on his behalf; and sob. Let us make fools of ourselves for this fragment of time. Soon the pain will pass. And soon the stories will be forgotten. Soon this man will be dead again. But not tonight! Because tonight we tell a tale. And we cry. And we drink. And we cry and drink and drink and cry. And yet again we tell another tale! Hurrah! Hurrah!
* * *
I don’t remember how it happened. I never do. No drunk or mourner ever does. Somebody just begins, and somebody else follows. But it always begins with the words:
Remember when …
Telling words. Full of wonder. Can do no harm. Because indeed my father had been a great man while he stumbled carelessly upon this earth. It’s true. I tell no lies. He really had been something beautiful. And the stories we share about him on this night, on this broken sidewalk, in our drunken state, say it all—that the man was a flower, our flower. Of the circle, everyone, with the exception of Cecilia and some of Aarón’s friends, recalls something good about my father, something that had been lost in the chaotic world of the drunken character he’d created. With every weeping word that flies forth from our mouths we paint a man, a good man, and we give life to a god!
