by Dianne Emley
Art’s speech quickly lapsed into the same cadence. “For reals?”
“For reals.”
Art high-fived Victor over the counter. “Way to go, man!”
“Course, all the coach talks about is how your team made it to the city semifinals and how the quarterback was ‘poetry in motion,’” Victor teased.
“Yeah, poetry in motion until those big black guys from South Central whipped our little Mexican asses.” Art laughed. “Hey, this is my friend Barbie and”—he looked around for Iris and saw her staring into the free-standing ice cream freezer—“that’s Iris.”
“Hi. Everyone’s in back.”
“Let’s go. Hey, Iris!”
Iris was leaning over the freezer bin, holding open its clear plastic lid, studying the open boxes of ice cream bars and Popsicles that were displayed ends up with their lids torn off, the cool rush of frozen air on her face.
Barbie walked over and put her hand on Iris’s arm.
Iris looked up with a start.
Barbie asked her, “You want to stay here or you want to meet Art’s family?”
“I was just flashing back to when I was a kid and I used to walk down to our corner store with my older sister and our dog. I’d have a bunch of sweaty change in my fist and I’d walk back and forth from the toy rack to the freezer. I’d finally decide on ice cream and then we’d walk back up the hill, the ice cream melting and running down my arm, pieces of it falling on the sidewalk, where the dog would lap it up. We’d walk through these vacant fields, and dust would stick to the melted ice cream on my hands and arms. At home, I’d rinse off with the garden hose and take a drink from it. It was like drinking from a waterfall.”
Iris straightened up and let the freezer door slide closed. “It seems like a million years ago. What parents would let their kids walk to the store by themselves in this town today? How did life get so complicated? Ex-wives, other people’s kids…”
“I don’t know, darlin’. I don’t know. But at least you have happy childhood memories. I’d settle for that.” Barbie put her hand around Iris’s waist. “C’mon, sugar.”
Art’s father and uncle were in the back storeroom, peering into the guts of a refrigerator unit. A side panel had been removed and detached parts were arranged on square shop cloths on the floor next to an open red toolbox. Tools and refrigerator parts were comingled. The storeroom walls were lined with cases of canned goods and paper products.
The two men were clearly brothers. They were shorter than Art but had his broad white smile, square jaw, and wide forehead. His father’s hair was wavy, like Art’s, but his uncle’s was kinky and clipped close to his head. Art’s father wore khaki work pants, a sleeveless T-shirt, and black-laced work shoes. His uncle wore a promotional T-shirt printed with a Latin band’s logo, old designer jeans, and worn athletic shoes.
“Barbie and Iris,” Art said, “this is my father, Eduardo, and my uncle, George. Iris and I work together, and Barbie is the woman I wanted you to meet.”
Iris shook hands with both of them. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Silva and Mr. Silva.”
“Please,” George said. “First names.”
Barbie extended her hand to them and held onto George’s hand. “Arturo showed Iris and me the best time at your club. It was so lively.”
“Thank you,” George said. “Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“Art, I’ll call your mother.” Eduardo pushed the screen door over the storeroom’s back entrance open with his shoulder, leaned out, and yelled, “Sylvia, Artie’s here!” He came back inside. “She’s hanging out the laundry. She’ll be right here. Please sit down.”
For seating, there were a couple of beat-up wooden chairs, plastic milk crates, and corrugated boxes of products stacked against the wall. Eduardo turned a crate on end and sat on it. George resumed his position on the floor. Barbie took one of the chairs. Iris perched on a stack of boxes, crossing her legs and holding one knee with both hands.
Art continued standing. “Tió, Barbie owned a restaurant in Atlanta,” he said brightly.
“That’s what you told me.”
“And she’s thinking about going into the nightclub business with me.”
Barbie was more cautious. “Well, I’m exploring the possibilities.”
A woman entered the storeroom. She was small-framed and round, with thick, dark hair cut short and fashionably styled away from her face. She had large eyes with bright whites that contrasted with her sable-colored irises and long, dark eyelashes. They were Art’s eyes. She was wearing an A-line, knee-length cotton skirt and a cardigan sweater that she took off when she came in the storeroom, revealing a short-sleeved blouse and strong arms that were very brown from yard work and from hanging out laundry in the sun.
“Mom.” Art walked to her and kissed her on the cheek.
She put her arms around him, stretching to reach his shoulders. “Mijo, good to see you.”
Art introduced Barbie and Iris.
“Artie’s been telling us how he wants to open his own nightclub,” Eduardo said.
Sylvia put her hand on Art’s arm. “That’s what your uncle told me. But, Arturo, all those years at college. For what? No offense, George, but to open a club?”
Eduardo raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“And your job at McKinney Alitzer. You were so happy when you got that job. I thought you were doing well there.” Sylvia looked at Iris. “Isn’t he?”
“He’s one of the rising stars,” Iris offered.
“See? Why do you get a college degree to own a nightclub? The hours are terrible, the money’s not good. You can see your uncle’s not rich. You’ll have a better life doing what you’re doing. Why a nightclub, Arturo?”
“I know Tió’s not rich, but he’s done as well as he wanted to do, right, Tió?”
George nodded. “Art’s right. How much you’re willing to put into it has a lot to do with it.”
“To make it big, you need to think big.” Art held both hands apart. “That’s what I’m doing. Tió’s talked about opening another club for a long time. He and Barbie have the know-how and cash and I have the energy. I can do it, Mom.”
“I don’t doubt you, mijo. I just don’t know why you want to change careers so soon. You haven’t tried the other thing that long.”
Art shook his head. “Mom, I’ve already hit the ceiling there.”
“The ceiling?” Eduardo said. “What ceiling?”
“The glass ceiling. The thing that’s keeping me from making it to the top. They’re only going to let a Chicano from East L.A. get so far.”
“How do you know? You haven’t done it for very long.” Sylvia looked at Iris. “Is this possible?”
Iris raised her shoulders. “It’s a tough business. It takes time to get established. Art has what it takes to be successful.”
Sylvia pointed at Iris. “See? I’m not so sure if you hit your…ceiling or if you’re just impatient. I know you, Arturo.”
“C’mon, Mom. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’m serious about this. You’re embarrassing me in front of my business associates.”
“I’m sorry, mijo. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. My apologies to you, Barbie and Iris.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Barbie said. “I’m pleased as punch to see that Arturo has so many people who care about him. I understand your concerns about Arturo going into the nightclub business. I owned a restaurant for many years down in Atlanta, and it is a lot of work. But don’t think for a minute that I’m absolutely convinced that Arturo’s club is the place for my money. I’m just hearing Arturo out, like y’all are.”
Art’s father turned to George who had been sitting quietly on the floor with his legs crossed. “What do you think, Jorge?”
George stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his hands. “I think that if this is what Art really wants to do, we ought to at least think about it.”
Art clapped his hands together.
> Sylvia glowered at her brother-in-law.
George continued, “Next week, I’m going to Mexico. I’ll be gone for about a week. Art, maybe you, Barbie, and I can talk when I get back. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” Art said. “Barbie?”
“Be happy to get together with y’all after you get back.”
“Great!” Art said. “All I want is for you to take a serious look at this. Doesn’t mean we’re going to do anything.” He leaned over to shake his uncle’s hand, then shook his father’s hand. He hugged his mother.
“Have you eaten?” Sylvia asked. “Would you and your friends like to stay for dinner?”
“Thanks, Mom, but I’m taking them for burritos at Manuel’s, then I’m going to show them around the neighborhood.”
Barbie and Iris stood. Art put his arm around Barbie’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. Barbie quickly freed herself from his grasp and walked to the storeroom door.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you, George, when you return from your trip. ‘Bye, y’all.” She slipped back inside the store.
Iris and Art bid their good-byes and followed Barbie.
Art’s father made sure the storeroom door was closed, then he returned to his seat on the crate.
His wife looked down at him solemnly with her arms crossed over her chest.
“If it’s what he really wants to do, we should support him, Sylvia.”
“I agree,” George said.
“He’s dating the one in the purple?” Sylvia asked. “This Barbie person?”
Eduardo shrugged. “He gave her a kiss on the cheek. So what?”
“And did you see how she moved away from him? She didn’t want us to know that he’s with her. Why?”
“Maybe she’s shy.”
“That woman is not shy. Arturo can get anyone he wants. Why is he with her? She’s too old for him. I know why she’d want to be with him, but why is he with her?”
“He’s a young man. He sees things you don’t, if you know what I mean, Sylvia,” George said.
“She has money. Is that why? I don’t like how he’s acting. Why does he think he has to be rich tomorrow? We didn’t raise him like that.”
“He’s young,” Eduardo said. “When you’re young, you want everything now. Sylvia, you can’t always protect him. He’s got to learn things himself, the hard way.”
“But I don’t think he should pay for it with the family’s money.”
George rolled forward onto his haunches and began sorting through the refrigerator parts on the floor. “Don’t worry, Sylvia. I’m not going to give him money unless I think it’s a good deal.”
“When you find a good deal, let me know.” Sylvia opened the storeroom’s back screen door and walked out.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“C’mon!” Art yelled. “Play ball! Fourth and goal! It’s a gut check.”
Barbie ran backward a few steps, her breasts bouncing in the purple jumpsuit, her right arm holding the football aloft. She heaved the football through the air with a grunt. It twisted end over end. Art sighed dramatically.
Iris ran forward, caught it, and ran toward the goal post behind Art. He lunged for her, catching her around the waist. She fell backward and Art fell on top of her with his hands around her hips and his face in her crotch. The ball came out of her hands and he lunged for it.
“Fumble!” he yelled. “My ball.”
“My ass.” Iris got up and brushed herself off. “This is supposed to be touch football, Tarzan.”
Art smiled broadly, his white teeth and the whites of his eyes shining in the moonlight. “Sorry. I got carried away.”
Iris rubbed her hip. “I’m gonna have a hell of a bruise tomorrow.”
“It was just a little tackle. Stop being such a baby.”
“Screw you. You’re drunk.”
Art lunged for her, catching her around the calves, knocking her backward again. “I’m drunk? Look who’s talking.” He tickled her ribs.
Iris writhed on the ground. “Stop it. Art, stop it!” she shrieked. “Barbie, help!”
Barbie leaped onto Art’s shoulders from behind and tried to pull him off, then started tickling his ribs. The three of them rolled over and under each other on the grass of the dark athletic field. They didn’t see the security guard until he was standing over them.
“Hey!” He danced around them, not knowing who to grab. “Knock it off. School’s closed. You’re trespassing.”
Art rolled over and sat back on his hands. “Hey, Mike! What up? It’s Artie.”
Mike shone his flashlight on Art, who put his hand up to shield the beam.
“Art Silva.” Mike clicked off the flashlight and extended his hand to help Art up. “What’re you doing back on the home turf?”
Art shook Mike’s hand. “Just fooling around, showing my friends the old neighborhood. This is Iris and this is Barbie.”
Mike held his hand out toward Barbie to help her up. She took it. Art did the same for Iris. She ignored him and unsteadily got to her feet by herself.
“We played a lot of games here, you and me.” Mike looked around the dark field. “A lot of memories.”
“We’ll take off,” Art said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Go ahead and stay. No problem. Just take your empties with you.” He again shook Art’s hand. “Nice to meet you, ladies.” He walked across the field, then gave a look back over his shoulder. Art threw him a pass, long and straight. Mike caught the ball and threw it back, then left the field.
Art walked to the visiting team’s bleachers where a bottle of tequila, a round container of salt, and a stack of plastic cups stood. One of the cups held lime wedges. He gathered everything in his arms and ran up the benches, the wooden planks bending under his weight, until he was at the top. He put the things down and stood facing the chain-link fence that surrounded the school’s perimeter, his fingers laced in the fence’s basket weave.
Iris climbed up beside him. She poured tequila into a cup, put salt on the back of her hand, licked the salt, downed the tequila in one gulp, then bit into a lime wedge.
Art watched. “For someone who doesn’t do, shooters, you sure been friendly with Jose Cuervo tonight.”
“So what?” She slurred the s. She leaned her belly against the fence.
Art shrugged. “So nothing.”
Barbie finally reached them, huffing and puffing and patting the perspiration from her face with the back of her hand. “Whatcha’ll lookin’ at?”
“The city.” Iris said.
The school was built on top of a hill at the city’s eastern edge. It was not the classic L.A.-at-night view like that from the Griffith Observatory. From here there was no luxury, no hint of an ocean. There were simply the lights of an overgrown and unrestrained city, cast carelessly across the hills and valleys as far as millions of dreams could throw them.
Barbie leaned against the fence next to Iris. She carefully stuck her fingers through the wires, trying not to scratch her manicure.
“I’m psyched!” Art shouted. “We’re gonna open a club.” He rattled the fence with both hands.
“Deal’s not done yet, Arturo,” Barbie said.
“But the meeting went well, didn’t you think? My uncle was impressed with you.” Art reached his hands above his head, grabbed the fence, and put his face close to it. “This city is mine.”
“You can have it.” Iris turned around, sat on the bleachers, and leaned against the fence. She poured tequila into three cups, handed one to Art and began to hand one to Barbie. It slipped from her hand and tumbled between the bleachers to the ground. “Oops.”
“That’s okay, darlin’. I’ve had enough.”
“Iris hasn’t had enough,” Art said. “She’s getting flat-lined.”
“How about some wine?” Iris asked. “There’s wine left.”
“We drank it,” Art said.
“You two go ahead and enjoy yourselves,” Barbie said. “I
’ll drive y’all home.”
“Can you drive a stick?” Art asked.
“Can I drive a stick?” Barbie repeated. “Of course I can.”
Art reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, unfolded it, and dug his finger around inside, looking for something. He pulled out a marijuana joint and held it up, displaying it in front of them. “Since we’re celebrating, how about a special treat?”
“I’m not celebrating.” Iris leaned forward and almost lost her balance. Barbie grabbed her, steadying her. “But I’ll have a taste. I haven’t smoked pot since I was in college. I think I first did it with John. Figures. Future cop.”
Art lit the joint, took a hit, and passed it to Iris. She took a hit and immediately started choking. Art took it from her fingers. She grabbed her chest with both hands. “Burns.”
Art offered it to Barbie. She shook her head. He took a hit and passed it back to Iris. She took another hit and didn’t cough as much.
They traded the joint back and forth in silence.
Art spoke. “What should I call it?”
“Call what?” Iris asked.
“My club.”
“Stop talking about that damn club.”
“What else is there interesting to talk about?” Art again leaned against the fence.
Iris looked at Barbie, and something on Barbie’s face caught her attention. Iris slowly reached her hand up and touched a small mole. “Barbie’s family.”
“Why do you want to hear about that?” Barbie asked.
Iris circled her finger around the mole. “Because you told me, ‘At least you have happy family memories.’ Don’t you have any? Not one?”
“You don’t want to hear about that. Honey, stop playin’ with my face. You’re gonna rub it raw.”
“I want to hear about it. Don’t you, Art?” Iris heavily dropped her hand onto her lap.
“Sure. Let’s hear it.”
Barbie crossed her arms over her chest and held herself. “Like I told you before, my three older brothers and I grew up half naked and half starved down in Mississippi. Daddy worked all day on the railroad which was fine with me, ‘cause when he got home, he’d get drunk and beat on us. Momma ran off when I was twelve. That was Daddy’s story, anyway. I always suspected he got carried away one day and killed her. Wasn’t like Momma to leave us like that. My youngest brother and I thought he planted her out in the yard. There was this spot out back where the wildflowers always grew real nice. After she was gone, I had to drop out of school. I lived in the dirt. Thought I’d die there.”
