CHAPTER 30:
DawnThe Other Side
Sun-kissed:
radioactive whispers through
licking tongues blue on fire,
grinning white ash and glowing gums,
molten lips pressed, consumed.
Orange of its desire:
C pearls succulent,
health encased in sheer tissues and
lacey webs, leathery skin and fragrant oils.
The myth of Columbus:
eyeing the interrupted flight
of a moth, crossing that orange globe,
its wings—miniature sails unfurled—
skirting the edge of its curved horizon,
making his case
for a round world.
The myth of discovery:
when we—a sun-kissed people—
were watching,
from the halls of Moctezuma,
from the seat of Atahualpa,
from the fires of Patagonia,
from the song of Guaraní,
awaiting the moth’s return,
searching for the great golden eyes painted
across its wings, singed irreparably, but
holding in those pupils the memory,
the sin of paradise lost,
transferred, absorbed, become
the language,
the Church,
the round world.
Mi casa es su casa.
Mi tierra es su tierra.
Mi mundo es su mundo.
Sun-kissed.
Orange of its desire.
Arcangel penned his poem on the back of an Ultimate Wrestling Championship flyer and gave it to Rafaela.
“But it’s written in English,” she queried, “except for—”
“Some things can’t be translated,” he answered.
“Is there a title?”
“Perhaps,” he answered. “It is for the boy who sleeps in your lap. His name?”
“Sol.”
For Sol, he wrote.
Perhaps hearing his name in his sleep, the child shifted uncomfortably, turned from his stomach but still reached to cling to a piece of Rafaela’s hair. Sweat glistened from his cheeks, red and mottled with the folds and buttons of his mother’s blouse. Rafaela fingered his small palm. He would have a long life. He would survive. But could she be sure?
Hot air billowed through the bus—a pumping furnace on wheels, with no respite from the sun that seemed to follow the vehicle interminably. Occasionally the pungent reek of urine flung itself from the bus toilet as did the stale odor of someone’s yawn. And the aisle was crammed with standing and crouching bodies, standing and crouching all the way to the border.
“Thank you.” Rafaela shifted the boy to one side, folded the paper, and tucked it into her pocket. “What is this championship?” she asked.
“A symbolic travesty at best,” the old man said seriously.
“Will you see it?”
“Yes. I am traveling for that very reason.” He had an elegant manner of speaking, contrary to his dress, his guaraches, the deepening tones of his skin.
“Then you are a poet?” she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.
“No not at all,” he waved his hand. “I am merely a character in a poem.”
Rafaela wondered about that, but said, “How long do you suppose we have been on this road?”
“It is hard to say.”
Rafaela wanted to know if the old man knew. She asked, “Have you noticed that the scenery has not changed after all these hours of travel? That wall for example,” she pointed at Rodriguez’s unfinished work, “is the same wall, the very wall that encloses the house where we live. But we should have passed it hours ago.”
“It would seem so, looking out these windows to either side of the road as you do. But you must look forward as does the driver. Otherwise, it is indeed tedious to see the same terrain hour after hour.”
“Perhaps you are right.” She looked back. The same eyes behind the same dark glasses behind the same smoked windows in a black Jaguar followed at the same distance. But beyond that, the road seemed to have accumulated more than simple traffic. A growing crowd of people walked along the shoulder. Some bore signs. Rafaela strained to read them: El Gran Mojado! Hero of the People! And behind them, an even stranger sight: A great church on wheels. Was it not the Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe? And there, the pyramids! Indeed it was the great Zócalo of México City, Tenochtitlán swelling with its multitudes, slipping like a single beast across the landscape. And behind that, what more?
Rafaela turned around in excitement wanting to confirm this vision, but the old man had fallen asleep, oblivious.
Without warning of course, the bus came to a sudden stop. Only the bus driver, who as Arcangel suggested looked forward toward their destination, had recognized the restaurant/Pemex station marked by an enormous satellite dish at the top of the plateau. Rafaela looked back anxiously. The black Jaguar stopped too. Wilted passengers tumbled out the bus wearily wandering to the toilets or to the smell of barbecued chicken. Rafaela clutched Sol to her waist and followed Arcangel closely out of the bus. She had decided deliberately to follow Arcangel when she noticed that the old man would be descending the bus with his suitcase that enclosed the orange and its tangled line. Whether proximity to the orange would provide a measure of safety or the answer to some mystery, she did not know.
Looking back at the bus, Rafaela noticed the driver executing the transfer of mail bags from the luggage compartment. The bags were thrown unceremoniously through the doors of a postal truck. Beyond the truck, she could see in the distance the driver of the Jaguar stepping from his vehicle and walking toward the toilets. Indeed, he faced some difficulty getting to the door at all. For some reason his steps veered away, and he found himself ridiculously walking in circles. Rafaela, despite her fear, watched with amusement as the villain finally rushed off in frustration to a gnarled growth of cactus and unceremoniously unzipped himself.
With some relief, Rafaela followed Arcangel to a line for asada. She said hesitantly, “I know this is an odd request, but I wonder if you would take care of my son, I mean, in case anything should happen to me on this trip.”
“What are you worried about?” Arcangel queried the mother as he piled his plate of asada with radishes and green onions.
“I am not sure, but will you promise?”
“Yes, of course. Of course. If it will make you feel better. To be honest with you, I am very good with children,” he reassured her as if mothers made such requests every day.
They walked together with their plates of chicken and asada, salsa and tortillas. Arcangel put his large suitcase on the ground, and the three of them shared a seat on it. “You see, it’s very useful as furniture.”
Rafaela folded a soft tortilla around a tender piece of chicken for Sol and nodded. She saw the frustration in the face of the hungry villain who could not push his body past an invisible barrier. His confusion turned to anger. He ripped away his dark goggles as if they were the failed magic through which he had lost control of his world.
When they had finished their meal, Arcangel opened his suitcase and removed a small bundle slightly larger than his palm and wrapped in cloth. “Perhaps you will have use for this?” He handed it to Rafaela.
Rafaela pulled the cloth away, the long cotton wrapping uncovering a small pocketknife. Its silver handle was inlaid with turquoise and mother-of-pearl. “It’s very beautiful. I really couldn’t accept.”
But Arcangel wasn’t listening. He had also removed a stack of Ultimate Wrestling flyers from his suitcase which he passed out to the passengers and clients at the rest stop. Rafaela watched the tired nods of those who received the flyer change to excitement. Pretty soon people were toasting their Cokes and Tecate over the possibility of seeing the greatest fight the world would ever witness. Rafaela wondered about this; she had been away too long. How strange that a mere border could close the doors
on the current events of one’s home. Everyone seemed to know this El Gran Mojado.
Rafaela, watching the villain imprisoned for whatever reason several hundred yards away, wrapped the pocketknife in its cloth, and stuffed it in her pocket. She looked wistfully south only to see Sol skipping aimlessly in that direction. “Sol!” she screamed in horror as the boy danced farther and farther away. She ran after him, but Sol thought it was a chasing game and zigzagged happily around and around the trunk of a sweeping palo verde. “Stop! Sol! Come back. No. No!” The boy scurried away.
Now the villain of the Jaguar watched for his chance. He crouched in the dust ready to snatch the boy, but Sol was suddenly stopped in his tracks by music and clapping. Arcangel was juggling the ears of corn, the orange, and various sizes of colored balls. Sol watched with fascination the menagerie of items flying from the old man’s hands and ran back north. But Rafaela had missed catching the boy in her frantic chase, skidding perilously south. The strong hand of the villain reached out and clutched her arm, covered her screams, pulled her away.
Arcangel employed Sol to put the juggled objects away in his suitcase one by one, gently nodding in Rafaela’s direction. The last object was the orange which Sol felt unable to relinquish for a long moment. Rafaela’s eyes pleaded from afar. Arcangel took the boy by the hand and stepped lightly into the bus.
Rafaela, forced into the body of the Jaguar, saw the delicate strand of line straggle with the old man and Sol into the bus and reassert itself through the bus and across the road. The bus’s motor gunned to a start, spitting behind it a gust of black smoke, and moved slowly away. And Rafaela saw the sun above following the bus in its interminable noontime, and with it went the sweltering afternoon, the listless evening, the warm dark night, the starry midnight, leaving behind a cruel dawn.
CHAPTER 31:
AM/FMFreeZone
Buzzworm had headquarters set up semipermanently in the gold Mercedes. It was the central location, not the digs. Cellphone didn’t stop. Messages were piling up. Pager was going every five minutes. Mona was the secretary ’cause she could write. She told Buzzworm there was a reason she sat in the driver’s seat. He said, knowing her habits, it was a blessing this thing wasn’t going nowhere. He didn’t razz her too much; she was pretty good on the job. But he was needing some duplication service, meaning he was needing some self-duplication. Situation was needing a dozen Angels of Mercy.
“Where’d you find this bozo?” Buzzworm propped the phone to the shoulder and leaned back into the leather.
Homey on the other end said, “1-800 number advertisin’ your show, brother.”
“Don’t you know no 1-800 lawyer can be up to any good?”
“Got a brother point five and a motorbike.”
“That a workman’s comp or a car accident?”
“One or the other.”
“I know the brother. Half went to pay the lawyer. Other half ’s child support, and he’s still owing. Motorbike’s only thing left.”
“So what do I need? A lawyer to beat off another lawyer?”
“’Bout says it. What sort of fix is this?”
“Crips and Bloods. Making a truce. We made a contract. Make it legal binding.”
“What you need a contract for?”
“Gets it on paper. Gets respect. Like we corporate-like.”
“Crips, Inc.? What’s this? Some kinda merger?”
“First up, we were gonna do a joint CD. Talk mean, ’bout blowin’ off some slob’s head. Make us some money. And then after gettin’ it all out (watchu call it, like therapy?), it was just we gonna stop the shootin’. Gonna respect the territory.”
“Yeah?”
“Then, question is what’s the territory? See we gotta define the territory. Like who gets Van Nuys or what side of the Westside.”
“You consult a Thomas Guide?”
“How’d you know? Attorney got it all marked up, annotated in writing.”
“So when the LAPD taps an incident, they can go direct to your map, figure who’s jurisdiction and peg the correct gang?”
“Hey, it’s not even about bangin’.”
“It’s about trust?”
“It’s about how come the map’s wrong? It’s about shrinkin’ and expandin’ jurisdictions. How come Adams is this wide and Martin Luther King’s got more miles on it than you can walk comfortably anymore. How come a little crew with a bit-time two-block piece of the action now’s got a three-mile fiefdom? Contract like this gonna mean some heads get bashed.”
Buzzworm sat up straight. “What are you talking about?”
“We might be droppin’ out, but the hood’s what we know, like the tattoos on our arms. You don’t understand the demographics, you don’t understand nothing. And someone’s movin’ it around.”
“Maybe this lawyer’s pulled the so-called rug from under you.”
“What you jokin’ about this for? Anybody on the ground’d know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Buzzworm remembered the little homey with the vision of curving bullets. Homies talking nonsense had to have some sense behind it. He looked out the tinted windows. Folks were all settled in for the time-being. Washed baby socks and panties hanging out the window of a Chrysler van. More wash sunning out on the ivy. Kids were playing tic-tac-toe on all the dirty windows. What didn’t make sense? What made sense? Buzzworm scooted forward and popped out the sunroof. Manzanar was still up there vigilant-like. Like he couldn’t stop doing it. Somebody oughta take some food up to the man. Buzzworm made a note of it. Suddenly, he got the notion. Brother said, anybody on the ground’d know. Could it be? Manzanar’s overpass was stretched out, curved and maybe longer even. Could concrete do that? Buzzworm got back on the line, “So now what? You gonna start a war because the ground under you’s moving?”
“First off, we ain’t paying no lawyer.”
“’S not about no lawyer. It’s about things beyond our control.”
“Most things’s beyond our control.”
“This is way beyond. Before you go picking fights, better air this out. Do it on my show tonight. Whole world watching. Hear what you got to say.”
“Don’t guarantee nothing.”
“You about to sign a contract. Better to give your word to me.”
Buzzworm hopped out of the Mercedes to take a look at the general scene. Made a beeline for the NewsNow van. NewsNow Asian baby sister (aka Balboa’s substitute) was there looking somewhat stressed, but she never lost her ability to try to be wise. She said, “What? You run out of batteries already?”
Buzzworm tapped the Walkman. “If someone’d told me you’d be my supplier, I’d ’a lost this habit long ago.”
Baby sister pulled four Triple-As from the glove compartment. “I’ve been saving these for you.”
“We need to talk about sponsors. I don’t want no 1-800 lawyers doing commercials about how they can get a brother off DUI or put him on easy street with a disability check.”
“Maybe you don’t understand. You don’t choose the commercials. They choose you. I wouldn’t screw this one up. It looks good for syndication, you know.”
“Now let’s get a reality check here, baby sister. How long do you think this situation can last? Look around. LAPD’s not exactly surrounding us to protect and serve. They’re not going to let us live in the middle of a major thoroughfare forever, would you think?”
“This situation can be duplicated.”
“I want to ask you a serious question.”
“If that’s possible.”
“See that HOLLYWOOD sign out there yonder?”
“Hmmm.”
“I been watching it.”
“Right.”
“Either it’s coming closer this way, or we’re going closer that way. Know what I mean?”
“Haven’t you learned to talk to me straight yet? I failed English Metaphors and Symbolism 101.”
“I am talking to you straight.” Buzzworm moved into the van. “Kerry, pull down wha
t the copter sees up there.”
Everyone peered into the screen—copter’s shadow running itself across the greater L.A. street scene. “There,” Buzzworm pointed, “that’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“Can’t you see it? Where we are. Harbor Freeway. It’s growing. Stretched this way and that. In fact, this whole business from Pico-Union on one side to East L.A. this side and South Central over here, it’s pushing out. Damn if it’s not growing into everything! If it don’t stop, it could be the whole enchilada.”
“Kerry, what’s he talking about? Do you see something?”
Kerry shook his head.
“Look, there might be some video distortion, but reality is reality. Are you all right?”
Buzzworm wondered about this reality. If they didn’t see it, they didn’t see it. Like the homeboy said, anyone on the ground’d know. These folks weren’t on the ground. They were online or somewhere on the waves. He shook his head. “Forget it. Gonna traipse over to check out the mama cookin’ at the hot dog stand. She puts out a red beans ’n rice affair that shouldn’t be missed.”
Baby sister smirked, “She may be cooking at a hot dog stand, but she put together a contract for her show that calls for Direct TV and cable rights, all foreign rights, even publication and movie rights.”
“Mona must’ve written it. Mona knows the lingo,” Buzzworm nodded.
“But movie rights?”
“Why not? Mama’s had an interesting life.”
“And what about this group called LAPD?”
“Los Angeles Poverty Department.”
“So.”
“Homeless performance group. They want a piece of the action. We were missing arts and culture. So I said why not?”
“They’re doing the news.” Baby sister pointed at the monitor. Two homeless anchors were sitting in beat-up bucket seats behind some kind of make-shift desk with decorative hubcaps, the real L.A. skyline draped behind them. Report was something like, “On the local front, memorial services for Newton Ford will be held this evening near the construction heap on the southbound at Expo which has been requisitioned for a cemetery. Ol’ Newt died of complications from starvation and the elements.
Tropic of Orange Page 19
