by Obed Silva
It’s common in my family (on both sides) for the grown-ups to allow their children to have a sip from their beers. At times it’s even cute, a perfect moment for a picture. The child can barely walk and the entire family’s gathered around him, or her, to watch him be propped up in front of a camera with a beer between his stubby little hands. “Look! Look how he holds the bottle! Isn’t he cute?” Sure he is. Just the cutest little thing the world has ever seen. Now just wait until he’s all grown up and having trouble putting that bottle down. Let’s see how cute he is then.
In my family, almost all of my cousins have had their picture taken while posing with a beer bottle or can. My cousin Claudia (on my mother’s side), for instance, who’s now a grown woman with a child of her own, in one picture, is holding a Budweiser beer to her mouth with her head tilted back while sitting on her father’s lap on their living room couch. In another, I’m standing next to my grandpa Charlie with a can of Budweiser in my left hand. I’m raising it to the camera. Surely the adult behind the camera was instructing me on how to hold the can. And while I look happy, my grandpa Charlie has his head on his lap, looking like he’s had enough. All you can see of his head is his silver hair. I, like Claudia in her picture, am no older than four. Take a picture, kid, your future begins here.
* * *
I ended up drunk and with a fucked-up quarter-size tattoo of the Old English letter O on my right thigh where no one could see it. “Drink a beer,” my cousins and their friends told me, “and you won’t feel a thing.” I did and it tasted like shit. But at thirteen I was too cool to say no and the sharpened guitar string on the homemade tattoo gun digging into my skin hurt something crazy. I had to drink. But every time after I took a sip from the twelve-ounce Carta Blanca bottle, I popped a chili-sprinkled pork rind with lemon into my mouth to kill the taste. And before I knew it, I had gone through at least four bags of pork rinds and a six-pack of beer. I was buzzed and felt the needle a lot less. At some point it stopped hurting altogether. When Javi, the tattooist, was done I didn’t realize that instead of having tattooed me, he’d simply scarred me for life. He’d been digging the needle too deep all along and my Old English O that I thought was going to look fresh ended up looking like a burn from a cigarette lighter from an old car. But fuck the tattoo. When all was said and done I no longer cared about what it looked like. I’d tasted beer and now knew how good being drunk felt. Because after that sixth beer, I didn’t need any more rinds, hell, I don’t think I needed them after the third. The beers went down easily after that, like water, as they say.
It began to rain later that day, and I ended up sleeping off my drunkenness under a commuter bus that was parked on the street next to the basketball courts down the street from my cousins’ house. And if my tía Lupe hadn’t come to get me, I probably would’ve slept there through the entire night like some homeless vagabond.
19
When I was shot, on October 25, 1996, I spent almost a week in intensive care, about a month healing in the hospital, and about another month in rehab, and my father never showed. At the time, I guess I would’ve liked for him to come see me. I mean, I had almost died. But he never did.
* * *
“Does my dad know?” This was one of the first questions I asked my mother after I woke up from my surgery.
“Sí, hijo,” my mother said, sitting at my bedside caressing my face and head. “I called him as soon as I could.”
“Is he coming?”
“Yes. He said he was going to leave right away. He said he was going to call you within the next couple of days to tell you himself.”
The next day my father did call, and said he would be coming soon. “No matter what,” he said, “I will be there.”
The thought of seeing my father was comforting. I hadn’t seen him in almost two years, with me constantly getting into trouble and spending more time on the streets with my friends and in juvenile detention centers. The thought of having my father at my side consumed me. I expected him to show up at any moment. When I’d hear footsteps coming to the door I’d turn to it and anticipate my father’s body walking into the room. I could see him smiling at me, and then crying while telling me how much he loved me. But as the days passed and there was no father of mine walking in, I began to lose hope. Eventually I stopped turning to the door every time I heard someone approaching; most times when I was alone I just kept my eyes fixated on the TV or my dead legs, at my dead feet that seemed so distanced from me. Not that I wasn’t grateful when other members of my family would come visit me, but I hadn’t seen my father in so long, and if there was a time when I needed him most it was now. I found solace in the idea of having him there at my side and helping me to get well. But he never came. A few days after he’d called to tell me he was coming, he called again, this time to tell me that he was still in Chihuahua and wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to make it after all.
“How are you, son?”
“Good. Still here. When are you coming?”
“Well, that’s the thing. You see, I tried, but I couldn’t make it. I was caught at the border trying to enter illegally, and I was turned back to Mexico. They said that if I was caught again I would be arrested and taken to jail.”
I was saddened and disappointed. When we’d first spoken, he’d told me that he’d be here “no matter what,” and now it was obvious that he’d given up; “no matter what” actually didn’t mean what I’d thought it meant. “It’s okay, Pa’, you don’t have to come. I understand,” I told him.
“I love you, hijo.”
“I know.”
I hung up, and for the next couple of months that I was in the hospital and rehab I pushed him out of my head. I needed to get better, and thinking about him wasn’t going to help the process. About every two weeks he’d call to see how I was doing, and I’d tell him that I was doing just fine. I’d keep the conversations short, not wanting to break down and cry because he’d given up on seeing me at this critical time in my life.
* * *
Four months after I got out of rehabilitation, my mom bought me a 1991 Acura Integra so that I could drive myself to Palomar College, where she had enrolled me in a reading course. Around this time my father called me and asked me to meet him in Tijuana, Mexico; said he’d be there with my little brother Danny.
At the time, we were living in Fallbrook, a small rural town in north San Diego, best known for its most famous resident: Ku Klux Klan leader David Duke. My mom had moved all of us out there a couple of months before I was shot to keep me away from my friends and out of trouble. That plan didn’t pan out too well, and soon things would get worse before they’d get better. Later that year I’d be charged with attempted murder for the shooting of a rival gang member at an Anaheim house party, another crucial moment in my life that my father would not be a part of; but for now things were as they were and I was doing my best to learn how to live in a wheelchair.
I wasn’t eager to go to Tijuana, though I did want to see my father. I was afraid that Tijuana wouldn’t be wheelchair friendly. But my father pleaded with me, telling me that it was the best way to see each other. I was close to the border, he couldn’t cross it, and my little brother Danny really wanted to see me. My father said Danny had been saddened by the news of my disability. It was to this last tidbit that I couldn’t say no. Danny was ten years old at the time, just a boy, and I didn’t want him to think that I didn’t want to see him.
A few days later I was on my way to Tijuana. I met my father and Danny at a small shopping center near the border. The two had been standing in front of an ice cream store sucking on paletas de fruta when I arrived. They didn’t notice me in the car when I parked in front of them. It wasn’t until I honked that they turned toward me. I could tell that my father was happy. As soon as he saw me, he smiled, tossed his paleta into a trash bin, and pulled Danny toward me. The two walked up to my window and greeted me. My father leaned in first to hug me and kiss me on the head, and then he lif
ted Danny so that he could hug me, too. It felt good to see my father, exciting. The moment reminded me of the times I’d visit him in Chihuahua as a child. Seeing Danny, whom I hadn’t seen since he was seven, also brought me joy.
They hadn’t brought much with them, just a plastic bag with a change of socks and underwear. Because I was driving on my own, I had my wheelchair frame on the passenger seat and the wheels in the back seat. I told my dad to put both the frame and wheels in the trunk. He grabbed the frame, lifted it, and said, “It’s light. That’s good.” Then he ducked and brought his head into the car and looked right at my face and then at my legs. “You look good, son,” he said, “and I’m glad you’re here.” For a moment, as he said this, it appeared a tear was going to drop from his eyes, but before it could he stepped back, took a deep breath, and walked to the trunk. Through the window I could see him wipe away the tear. “Los hombres no lloran,” I recalled him saying to me many times when I was a child. I popped open the trunk and he placed the frame inside and then the wheels. Danny, in the meantime, stood by the passenger-side door staring at me. He was in awe of me. I was his older brother from el otro lado, from the United States, that big country of magic where Disneyland exists. He probably saw me as a giant, who brought magic with him, but the only magic I had was the capability of driving without using my feet.
* * *
We drove to Ensenada, and the whole way there we talked of the past and of the future, but never about the present, never about my legs or how I was dealing with my disability. Not that it wasn’t on his mind or that he didn’t care. I know he cared and I know it was consuming his thoughts. I could tell by the way his eyes would give way to my legs and my left hand, which I was using to work the hand controls attached to the gas and brake pedals. There was a sense of mystery there, of loss, of confusion, of helplessness. Nothing he could do or say could change what now was. It was a matter too difficult for my father to address. Maybe, even, he felt guilty, like somehow, had he been a better father, a better husband, a better man, he could have prevented it. Whatever the reason, I was glad he didn’t bring it up. Like my father, I’ve never been good at talking about the things that most affect me emotionally. I wouldn’t have been able to handle crying. Danny certainly wouldn’t have wanted to see that. He wanted to see his amazing big brother from Washeenton!
* * *
We found a hotel made up of small bungalows close to the beach. By the time we arrived, however, it was dark and cold out, so we opted to stay in our hotel room for the rest of the night; but my dad couldn’t just stay in without having his beer, so he went out to the store and came back with a six-pack of canned Tecates in one hand and a bag full of snacks and a couple of sodas for me and Danny in the other. “Do you want a beer?” he asked me as he opened one. “No,” I said. “I’ll just take one of those Cokes.” “But you can drink, can’t you?” he added, as if I might not be able to because of my disability, which to him, perhaps, would have been the greatest tragedy. Relationships change when one person drinks and the other doesn’t. There’s a big disconnect. The drinker feels as if he’s constantly being judged by the nondrinker and the nondrinker is constantly judging the drinker. On the other hand, when the two parties drink, life is good—seemingly. I wanted life with my father to be “good,” so I changed my mind. “Of course I can drink,” I told him, “and you know what, give me a beer instead. I’ll drink a couple with you.”
My father smiled, tossed me a beer, and said, “¡Ese es mijo!”— That’s my boy! We were on an equal playing field now, could let our guard down and just be, without having to check ourselves or our emotions.
* * *
I drank only two beers, and my father the rest. Danny drank his Coke and ate his chips, and eventually we all fell asleep. The next morning we woke up to a beautiful sunrise.
My father and Danny went to the beach while I stayed behind and got dressed. Danny had never been to the beach before, so he’d been overwhelmed with excitement since he’d opened his eyes that morning. For me, the beach was like just another Southern California freeway, so when they asked me to come with them, I respectfully said no. “You guys go ahead. I’m going to stay behind and get dressed.” “¿Seguro?” my dad said. “Seguro,” I told him. So they left. I watched them as the two set out: father and son walking side by side toward the sunrise. It was then that I also noticed that with his cutoff-jeans shorts, my father was also wearing big ugly brown work boots, probably steel-toed. I couldn’t believe the man, or actually I could. My ridiculous father didn’t care. Life was not about things or looks to him. It was about simple pleasures, the small things: it was about moments like these, where he wasn’t burdened by work or a wife telling him what to do; it was about the freedom to do as he pleased; it was about existing to be happy. And today, he was happy. Throughout the entire day he was happy. Sure, he’d come to see me after I’d come out of such a tragic event, but this was also like a mini-vacation for him, where I drove him and Danny up and down the coast of Baja and took care of the bill. I was fine with it, too.
* * *
“What’s with the boots and the shorts?” I asked when he and Danny returned from the beach. “What’s up with them?” he remarked. “Well,” I told him, “you look like a fool. I mean, you got work boots on with cutoff jeans. You look ridiculous.” When I said this he looked down at his shorts and boots and laughed. Then he said, “Well, you got something better for me to wear?” I did. I’d brought an extra pair of tennis shoes and shorts. “Here,” I told him, tossing him my backpack. “There’s a pair of shorts and some tennis shoes in there. Put them on.” He grabbed the bag, opened it, and pulled out the shorts and shoes. “Órale,” he said, holding up the shoes. “These are nice, and so are the shorts.” The shoes were a semi-new pair of white FILAs and the shorts were brown Dickies. My father changed into them right then and there in front of me and Danny, and when he was done he looked at us with a smile and said, “So, how do I look?” Danny nodded in approval and I told him that he looked much better. Then my father said, “I look like you, hijo, bien cholo!” We both laughed and then he thanked me a couple of times. And once he put his boots and cutoff jeans into his plastic bag, we headed out to the port.
At the port we had mariscos in a cup and watched white tourists disembark from cruise ships and swarm the food and crafts vendors who set up shop all along the port. My father spent a lot of time criticizing them, saying that they were the most entitled and greedy people on the planet. “They never want to pay the actual value of things, and they look down on you even in your own country,” he said. “Just watch how they demand a lower price for everything and then attack the seller with angry expressions when they refuse.” I listened to my father and so did Danny, and the three of us looked out in disgust at the sea of whiteness as it swallowed up the entire port. We dug into our plastic cups with our forks for mariscos and shoved them into our mouths, all the while tracing white bodies decked out in Hawaiian shirts and Dockers shorts and short floral sundresses and sandals and colorful visors and straw hats. When our cups were empty, my father said, “Let’s get out of Washeenton,” and led us to the boat docks.
I ate shit there. Like at most ports, there were long ramps leading to the docks, and because the tide was low on this particular day, the ramps were steep. I would never have been able to go down any of them on my own. Since I was still new to the wheelchair life, I was well aware of my limitations, so when my father asked me if I could make it down on my own, I firmly said no. “Then I will help you,” he said. “Just tell me what to do.” I thought about it for a minute. I kept looking at the ramp and calculated the best way to go down it. It looked too steep, so I told my father that it was probably best I didn’t even make an attempt, even with his help.
But he persisted. Said I needed to experience it with them, that I’d enjoy it; and though I told him I didn’t much care to go down to the docks because I’d already been to many docks on many other occasions, he still in
sisted that I go. Fine. I gave in. “Okay,” I told him. “Then just grab my chair by this bar right here that runs across the backrest, and hold it tightly as you push me down on an incline.” “I got it,” he said. Down we went. Danny followed close behind. As we moved down the ramp, I glided my hands over the side rails. We were doing fine, moving slowly, for about the first few feet, then all of a sudden I felt a slight push downward from behind, and although I tried to grab on to the rails, down I went. Bam! I fell straight back and my father came crashing over me. My wheelchair, because of the incline, rolled away from under me and then tumbled down to the bottom of the steel ramp, eventually crashing into a wooden post. People were looking at us and I was embarrassed, even angry, because this was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Here I was, crippled and on the floor of a ramp, clinging to its side rails wishing I hadn’t come all this fucking way to be made a fool of by my father, who quickly jumped up, frightened, and saying, “¡Hijo! ¡Hijo! ¿Estás bien? Here, let me get you up!” His face appeared between my eyes and the sky, and it looked confused, devastated. It was the face of a man who didn’t know what to do. And as he wedged his hands within my armpits he cried out to Danny to get the chair. I tried to calm him down, telling him that I was fine, not to panic. “Estoy bien. Estoy bien,” I kept repeating, but he kept yelling for Danny to get the chair. So Danny ran down to the bottom of the ramp, but once down there he was unable to flip it over onto its wheels. It was too heavy for his little body. Luckily, a number of people who’d seen the entire incident quickly came to assist us. Wrapped in my father’s arms, dangling like a rag doll, I could see a couple helping Danny with my chair, and two boys who’d been selling chicharrones and candies on the port came to help my father. “Las piernas,” my father said to the boys. “Grab his legs.” The boys pulled my legs up from behind, bending my back upward. I was in the most awkward position I had ever been in since my injury, and the worst part was that all of this was happening in front of dozens of people. It felt like the entire world was watching this moment unfurl and I wanted to bury myself inside of my father’s chest. But at the same time I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. If only he’d listened to me when I first told him I didn’t want to come down to the docks. If only he hadn’t persisted.
