,
Lazo Returns
I work in a restaurant and have a cool manager, but tonight is the end of the year party for my exchange student friends, and these, asides from Christian, are my only friends. I don´t want to lose this job, but I have to get out of here.
I bounce around Mandy’s hosting area thinking of ideas, but she is too busy writing on the restaurant layout on top the podium––her short, straight, blond hair swaying back and forth. I act as if nothing was going on in my head, but I am really caught up in this situation. I sit on the empty bench and look back to the main floor of the restourante to distract myself.
Amber light from green lamps on the low ceilings lands nicely on the wood walls, tables and chairs, and filters through the flower-patterned stained glass that divides the booths. Below, it's hard to tell the fake ceramic tiles from real ones. Suddenly, I notice a quick change of light and turn my sight to the swinging silver doors that lead to the kitchen, a waiter with a tray has just gone through. I love the atmosphere of restaurants, their weak cozy lights, waiters moving, cooks cooking, people coming in and out, and we busboys clearing tables fast so new customers can come in.
Suddenly, Mandy looks up with her sparkling blue eyes looking at me.
“My friends are having a party, and I´m scheduled until close. My friend Christian is already on his way over here to pick me up.”
“Is the party that important?” she asks
“I have to see my friends before they go back home.” I say feeling desperate about the situation. “I am even thinking of walking out.”
“Have you called the other busboys?”
“I called them half an hour ago.”
“You should call again.”
“You’re right.”
I start for the back, passing under the murky lights and through the silver doors that lead to the kitchen, then walk down the narrow aisle that leads to the manager’s office. On my right, there’s the walk-in fridge; and on my left, the kitchen where all the Mexicans work. They’re relaxing and cleaning their stuff––but wait until the orders start coming. Then the grill’ll be sizzling, the dishes'll be clicking, and the lead cook, Marco, will be right there in the middle of the action, setting the tempo, yelling orders left and right, moving his arms all over the place like a mad Shiva, preparing up to three dishes at once. That’s when you get into the rhythm that makes you forget everything but the task at hand; time sweeps by, and before you know it, the place is empty and you feel like going to the bar to talk with the other workers.
I enter the manager’s small white windowless office, get the numbers out of a white binder, and start dialing. Ring, ring, too many times; nobody is home. I step out disillusioned, and see Rusty about to come in. I get out of his way but wait by the threshold.
“What’s going on, Lazo?” he asks.
“I have a doctor’s appointment”
“You have a doctor’s appointment at six p.m. on a Friday night?”
I feel awfully stupid and shameful. I did´nt want to lie to Rusty. He's my first boss ever and has been nothing but nice. He took me in even though I had no experience. He now looks at me with his chin up and his eyes half closed. His friendly red freckled face does not look that friendly anymore.
“I know I am putting you in a tight spot, Rusty, but I have something really important going on. I’ll make up it to you. I promise,” I plead.
“Have you called the other busboys?”
“Yes, I called them all,” I say and see him go to his books.
“You are a good worker, so I’ll let you go this one and only time. But check the floor and go through the closing duties.”
“Thanks Rusty,” I say relived and think how much I would have hated to lose this job and how big of a debt I owe him: he's gonna have to do all the work.
I go back and check on the bread, which is a duty I enjoy because you have to think. If you cook too much and no customers come, the bread gets cold on the drawers. If you don’t cook enough, you run out of bread. And when there are lots of customers, and you are on the floor clearing and setting tables, putting the dishes and glasses in the dishwasher, helping waiters with orders, there is barely enough time––so you have to be efficient like a machine, which I like.
The drawer is full of bread. I go out to the floor and make sure the tables are clean and set. I go to the closet, get the broom and dust pan and make sure I leave the floor clean. I check myself out on the cash register and breeze by Mandy on my way out.
“So he let you go!” She says.
“He did. I owe him now for sure. I'll work every weekend he wants me to.”
“Tell me more about this party.” She says, and I see the slits of her eyes narrowing; she is interested. She looks away.
“It’s going to be awesome. All my friends are going to be there. Do you like to dance Salsa?”
“I don’t know how. Wait, do they all speak Spanish?”
“Yes, most of them do. They are from all over Latin America, but they speak English too.”
“I can speak some Spanish. I am in Spanish 3 at school.”
“Do you want to come?”
“I don’t know if my parents will let me...”
Wide eyed, I lose no time in grabbing the pen on top of her podium.
“What’s your number? I’ll call you later."
“OK. Call me after work.”
She dictates the number, and I write it on a napkin.
“See you later” I say and walk out feeling real good. Mandy might come with me. It would be crazy if she actually comes; she’s so nice and good looking. I’m going to tell Christian all about it, but as I push the outside doors and step through, everything starts changing. I always forget about the rest of the world while working at the restaurant.
-/-
I don’t know if I’ll ever get out of this place and go back to my real home. I grew up in a dense city with people walking, talking, and getting on each other’s way all the time. Denver sits on flat desolate beige plains under a huge, blue and cloudless sky, which is like a celestial dome that always seems to be pulling you upwards. The sky at home was low and cloudy most of the time, and sometimes the fog in winter didn't let you see past the block, it made you feel hidden and secur. Everything here is vast and empty and seems to go on forever. There ain´t people on the streets either: sidewalks empty. I get out of the restaurant, see my surroundings, reemember all of this, and feel so out of place, I want to go back inside.
But going out with Christian gets me on the groove. It’s like teleporting back home for a short bit, so I start feeling better as I walk to my car and change clothes: getting rid of my smelly uniform and putting on a light blue billabong shirt, black jeans and vans. It’s funny to think that there’s no surfing here. I was never a surfer there neither, but I was a skateboarder, and that’s why I have these nice vans. As I finish tying my shoelaces, I see Christian’s two-door white Saturn with polarized windows and Mexican flag bumper sticker pulling into a parking spot, smoothly. A moment later he gets out in that same manner. He’s well dressed; a striped blue-white polo shirt and jeans.
Christian is my homey. I remember how he was fired from the restaurant. It would be hard to know, but although chubby and of short stature, he punches like a boxer, the weight of his whole body culminating in one efficient “kabbooom.” I remember how on a busy night, he was working hard as a line cook while the assistant manager kept getting on his way, watching over him, trying to make him screw up. I don't know why. I think his girlfriend, who was a waitress there, either liked Christian or was weirded out by him. Then Christian was walking with his gaze down, trying to get through the day, carrying two open giant cans of tomato sauce, when the cojudo got in front of him on purpose. Christian bumped him and dropped the tomato sauce all over the manager, who then pushed Christian when he was not expecting it, making him fall on the trays and pans. Christian got up, went outside, and the assistant manager followed. Half the kitchen staff, the assistant manager’s girlfriend, and I went behind them. Here the two stood across each with their guards up. The moment the manager made the first move, Christian cut through the his guard like a knife, punching him in the chest––in and out––dropping him down in front of his girlfriend. I am happy to say that Christian has showed me a few things about boxing.
I now see him go up to the entry, and I think he’s already starting to feel out of place because he knows that all the Mexicans are in the kitchen. It really does look kind strange seeing him go up the front, I wonder if I look strange too. I think Mandy will make him feel comfortable though. She is nice to everybody regardless of who they are. It must be nice to be so nice and not with all this problems about being in a new country like Christian and I.
Shoelaces done, I run towards the restaurant, push the doors and see Christian talking with Mandy. I am so happy when I see Christian. He and I are like brothers, or like carnales, as he likes to call us.
“Christian, cabrón!” I say loudly and enthusiastically.
“¿Cómo estás Lazo?” We hug, laugh, and exchange greeting words in Spanish. After our greeting is done, I introduce him to Mandy. She extends her arm, offering a handshake.
“Hi, I’m Mandy” She says, smiling.
After the introduction is done, Mandy goes back to work because a new costumer has just come in, Christian says in a low voice to me:
“Man, I could not get alcohol.”
“¡No jodas! En serio,” I say.
I walk around then sit down at the bench, thinking of solutions.
“There is this Mexican in the kitchen whose shift ends now, and who’s old enough to buy us some. Let me go talk to him,” I say
I go back to the kitchen and find him.
“Hey man, I was wondering if you could do us a favor,”
I explain the situation. He goes the front with me, then we all go to the parking lot; his shift{s just ended, and he tells Christian and I of an unopened vodka bottle he has at home. He can give it to us if we give him a ride.
We get in Christian’s car, the Mexican on the passenger seat, and I on the back. The Mexican is skinny and is wearing baggy jeans, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap that covers his gaze. I distrust him because I can’t see his eyes. But Christian is already conversing with him, asking him where his from and about his job. Christian is from Juares, the other Mexican is from Jalisco, they talk about about el trabajo, el America, las mujeres, la migra.
We are soon at the highway, which is high up above ground. The sun is going down on the west behind the mountains and light rays cut across the windows. I look away, to the east, to the grid like suburbs spreading on the barren plains and remember my first view of the US from the plane, everything looked so organized, as if drawn with a ruler. Back home, houses are different in shape and color and it looks like a mess from above. I then look at the highway’s concrete median, and try look at the top of the sky, where it’s darkest now, but can’t really manage it because the back windows don’t open. I wish we had the vodka so I could take three caps full. This would be funny. I lay on the back seat. I hope we get to this dude’s place fast.
“It’s right there.” I hear him say.
I see two rows of three-story apartment buildings with grass in the middle. We park, and the Mexican gets out of the car and goes up the stairs to one of the apartments. We get out too, and I go explore and see plastic cars and dolls on the grass that look like they have been through heavy duty use. I then hear some children playing on the stairs, other kids on balconies––a mother looks at me.
I turn to Christian. “Is this the hood?” I comment.
“What is that?” Christian says.
“You know, those places that are supposed to be bad”
“Yes, I am corrupting you”
The Mexican comes down from his apartment carrying a bottle of vodka and a jug of orange juice. He walks to Christian, who offers him some money for the merchandize. “Don’t worry about it, diviertanse” he says in Spanish and laughs. Christian and I get back in the car and drive to his house.
He lives in a neighborhood with many Chicanos and Mexican immigrants. As we drive deeper into it, I see a few low rider cars and vans, some blasting Ranchera music out of powerful speakers and boom boxes. On a corner, I see a young couple: the girl has long black shiny hair and painted eyebrows, the guy wears baggy pants and a shirt. I don’t see any sombreros, the guys with the nice cowboy boots, tucked in shirts, and cowboy hats. They are the most dangerous, Christian told me once, they come from las haciendas and fix their problems with a rifle.
We get to Christian’s house, which is in the nicest part, where the houses look very similar. We walk inside and I see a gold covered wood cross that reminds me of the colonial decorations in my grandmother’s house back home. We go down the stairs to his room in the basement.
He has a pimp room: a big screen TV, a Super Nintendo, a nice stereo system, a sofa, and lava lamps. I put the vodka on the coffee table in front of the TV. Christian has brought glasses and orange juice. He puts them in the table and goes to his stereo.
“Check this band out. They’re from el D.F.”
And I hear a deep slow tempo baseline followed by a low voice singing a melody that goes into long winded segments like mariachi music often does, but this is not mariachi, it’s softer, and it’s rock.
“I like it,” I say. “Who is it?”
“Los Caifanes.”
We make ourselves screwdrivers, but not before we take a shot each.
“Dale Cabrón” he says as I take mine.
“Salud,” I say.
“Salud,” he says after his.
“I love you man, cause you like to drink,” he says
“Heck yeah,” and I do like to drink. The effect is similar to what happens when you work really fast in the restaurant: they both give you a break from reality.
“Any good-looking girls tonight?” Christian asks me.
“There are some real good-looking Argentineans,” I say.
“But the Argentineans don’t mess around with Mexicans,” he says humorously.
“I know.”
“You gonna go for any of them?” He asks me.
“They don’t go for my kind either.”
“But you look very Spanish.”
“I got Mandy’s number,”
“Mandy, that hostess at your work?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know man, she might be too nice.”
“Yeah, that’s what I am afraid of.”
I think of Mandy. She is so pretty that it is hard to look at her for a long time. Her eyes remind me of this famous lake in my country that I heard of and saw in pictures. It was famous because it reflected the turquoise of the sky. Up close, the water is supposed to be clear, it’s just the reflection that makes it that color.
I tell my thoughts to Christian then ask him: “Are Mandy’s eyes a sign of the purity of nice people?”
He laughs loudly from the belly.
“And what are our eyes, swamps,” he says. “Besides, some girls take a chance on guys like us,” he adds enthusiastically.
Then I remember my high school where nice people like Mandy are. I feel jaded in the light of the nice people.
“She’d probably end up with a football player,” I say sarcastically.
“Chill out man. You got a number. Drink some more.” He says trying to liven up the mood. I pour some more vodka in my screw driver and finish it.
We don’t say so, but knowing that the conversation will lead, to us bitching about school, about been immigrants and feeling like outsiders, we decide to change the subject to something more positive. I am about to speak of my country, but Christian interrupts me.
“I miss buying alcohol whenever I want to,” he says, seeming to have read my mind.
“Yeah, me too,” then I think about the comment slowly because the alcohol is starting its effect on my brain.
“But when we were over there, we were too young to even think about alcohol.” I add.
Christian laughs.
“You are right,” he says and keeps on laughing. I laugh too, but not that much.
“Where are you from man? I ask Christian mockingly.
“Where are you from?
This is our own private joke. We both laugh some more.
Christian looks at his watch.
“It’s getting late, we better go.” Christian says
“Let’s get out of here.” I say and we leave
-/-
We drive carefully and slowly to the party while listening to old school mariachi Christian got who knows where and singing its long-winded howls:
“Ayyyyyy, Ayyyyyyy, Ayyyyyyyyy…” We howler.
The house is of a friend of Christian’s whose parents are out of town. It’s a small duplex with a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the front yard. As we walk to the door, Christian points to it and says his friend’s parents are crazy.
We hear and follow Spanish and English voices down the lower grounds and into a brown-carpeted room with a table cluttered with beer bottles and empty, used plastic cups. I grab a bottle. There is also a couch where two girls are talking. One of them is a sparkly Colombian exchange student we know. She turns around.
“Christian, Lazo.” She gets up and greets us with a kiss on the chick. I drop my shoulders and relax. She points to an open door. It leads us to a dim-lighted patio surrounded by a garden where we see the contours of people on the grass, sitting, standing, laying down, and talking. I hear somebody call my name in Spanish. I go joyfully while Christian goes to say hi to his Mexican friend who lives here.
“Lazo,” they all say as they see me.
“Hey,” I say and go around and hug everybody and kiss the girls.
There is my friend from Venezuela, who called my name; there is my friend from Chile, my friend from Ecuador, my amiga from Uruguay, my other amiga from Venezuela, my friend from Colombia, and my amiga from Argentina. I say amiga because there’s no term for that in English. I sit down next to them on the healthy summer grass and we cheer for the good times we have had.
“Lazo, even though you got us lost all the time, we thank you for taking us everywhere,” one of the guys says.
“No problem, my pleasure. You guys would have been cooked up in your houses if it was not for Christian and I. You will repay me when I go back to South America and knock on your doors for a place to stay.”
“Absolutely, don’t forget to write your e-mail on the sheet that’s going around.”
My friends are leaving the country for good and may never come back. I took these guys everywhere in my car, and not only on big trips, but Friday nights as well.
I lie down on the grass and look at the northern hemisphere sky. I hear my friends talking. They are saying what they like and dislike about America, and what they want to do when they get home. I went through the same initial shock. I know what it’s like... They talk about how cold Americans are, son frios, they talk about how everything is done in cars and nobody walks. They talk about how people here respect rules and keep the streets clean. And they talk about many other subjects that I have heard many times before.
“Did I tell you the story about the fruit I drew when I first arrived to the US?” I find myself asking my friends.
“No,” say all but one.
“I have heard it, but tell it. It’s hilarious.”
I take the last swig of my beer. “This was when I first arrived to the US and all the English I knew was the colors, the numbers, and “What’s up man.” I walked around my school feeling like a Martian. I missed Peru passionately, and the only class I enjoyed was art because you did not have to talk. Then one day, my art teacher asked us to draw something about America. Then she approached me and suggested, in Spanish, that I do something personal. I remembered the rich and tasty fruit back home so I drew enormous apples and oranges that filled the entire paper. I then colored them real shiny with plastic markets that smelled like fruit. When she came over and asked me what I had drawn, I told her it was American oranges and apples. And when she asked me why I had drawn them, I told her they were big, looked good, but were really bland, and tasteless, and were all show, all show!”
They laugh loudly, some of them telling me “it’s so true”.
“Thank you!” I say theatrically.
This sparks a conversation about the America they saw in movies. Then I lie down on the grass and let them talk. I want to relax and feel the nostalgia of another group of exchange students that I’ve met, showed around, and is going back home. But I can’t. I sense a little voice in my head nagging me, telling me this is a waste of time. This little voice never leaves me alone. I usually stop it by working hard at the restaurant or by drinking, but tonight, this is not helping. Maybe I should walk back to the house and get another beer. But I forgot: I have to call Mandy! I look around for Christian to ask him where the phone is.
I don’t see Christian, but I see the host talking with an American. I approach him and talk to him in English so the American does not feel left out. He tells me Christian went to get some more beer with a fake ID of a guy who looks just like him. I ask for the phone so I can call Mandy. He tells me where it is, and I’m about to leave, but the American introduces himself. He is a tall dude with red hair, and an open and confident face with a smirk. His name is Red and I can’t help but like him, so I introduce myself as well and ask him about his night so far. He picks my accent up instantly, tells me so, and asks me where I am from. The expectancy I had for an interesting conversation is gone. I know in my head how the conversation will proceed: I will tell him where I am from, how long I’ve being here, he will ask me about Peru, what girls are like, how partying is, and I will tell him about brown skinned beautiful girls, how easy it is to get booze, about Machu Picchu, that we play soccer over there but we call it football, etc. I am tired of repeating the same answers again and again. Do I know what’s it like there anymore, do I have any friends there anymore? Do I really live there anymore? Where am I living? And I’ve been in the U.S. for so long. It feels as though a ball of steel has pushed its way from my chest and gotten stuck in my throat. I turn around and walk away.
I go in the room through which we first came and find the phone next to the couch. I take the napkin with Mandy’s number, and I call her.
“Hi, is Mandy there?”
“This is her.”
“Hey, this is Lazo, how are you?”
“I am well… Are you calling me from the party? How is it?
“It’s OK, I guess. Do you want to come? Christian and I can pick you up.”
“Are you drunk? You sound different.”
“I’ve had a couple of beers. Do you want to come?”
“It’s kind of late and I should ask my parents in advance about these things. I really don’t think I can.”
“OK.”
“OK, bye”
“Bye.”
I now feel depressed because I really wanted her to come. I sit on the couch and pick up one of the used cups on the table. It has a little bit left of beer. Should I drink it? I smell it, and it smells horribly. I put it back, pick up another, smell it, and put it back. I rest my head back on the couch and close my eyes. I could go outside to my friends again, but I know the conversation too well. In a couple of days they will go back home different people, yes, yes. But I am not going back home. I didn’t choose to come here, and now I have to stay and deal––whether I like it or not. Then I think about the story of the fruit. Maybe the fruit is bad in Denver because we are high up and is dry. It may be better in Florida or California.
I want to get some fresh air. I decide to go out to the street, but first walk to the bathroom, drink some water, and wash my face. I walk out to the street and start jumping around to freshen up, to get out of this mind rut. Moving saves me, that’s it, just like in the restaurant when I work hard clearing tables. And I like the way my Vans grip to the concrete. I miss skateboarding in my city, here they put gravel to melt the snow which makes it really hard. These tiny rocks stay most of the year, and you fall on your face when they get stuck on your wheels. I loved skateboarding back home, I loved everything back home, then one day my parents tell me I have to come here, I have no choice but to pack. But this is too much thinking. I start shadow boxing a few punches that Christian has taught me.
“There is the bitch,” I hear and turn around. It’s Red with some other dude, probably heading out to go home.
“Hey. What’s up man?” I say and think that he may have got upset when I walked away from him back there.
“Let’s go, Red,” I hear Red’s friend say.
I turn around and see Christian’s car approaching. He parks and gets out with two twelve packs of beer. Red stands firmly with his arms crossed and his feet apart in front of the door of the house. I am on the sidewalk. Christian, who knows me well, senses the tension of the situation and puts the beer on the ground.
“You think because you are foreign you are better than everybody,” Red says loudly.
“No Man. It’s not like that. I am sorry I turned away from you like that,”
He waits, as if to test the mood.
“Why don’t you go back to your fucking country, where you belong,” Red says loudly. He stands there in front of the door’s threshold, looking up, defiantly.
Christian’s face is unreadable, I am not sure if he is angry or about to smile, what I am sure is that he has already checked if he can take this guy or not, he has seen his angle, he does these things automatically. I admire that about him, and I admired how he took down that assistant manager prick when he quit the restaurant. That was a fair fight, the assistant manager deserved it. I am pretty sure Red is angry because of miscommunication. Nevertheless, how stupid can he be to say what he just said in a party like this one, full of foreigners! Now I have to defend my honor. Red begins to approach me; I am not really sure what he‘s thinking, but my right hand starts to tighten, and I feel my vans get a firm grip on the sidewalk again. In my head I can see myself swinging at him. What would I gain if I start a fight? What am I defending? I don’t feel like a foreigner anymore. I am not like my exchange student friends... but neither am I an American. What does going back to your fucking country mean if I don’t live in my fucking country anymore! It doesn’t matter, time is running short, it’s like in the restaurant, if I don’t act quickly, the bread burns. I decide that I am faster than him, and that if he does as much as flinch I am going to swing at him on soft spot at the side of his head. As he gets within two meters of me, he slowly raises his hand.
“I am sorry, that was uncalled for,” he says.
“No problem.”
“Do you want to grab a beer?”
“Sounds good.”
We go back to the house, Christian behinds us with the case of beers. We get to the garden, grab each a can and start talking while Christian looks at us in total disbelieve.
"Where are you from, Red?"
"I am from Wyoming."
I keep asking questions, and I find out that his family is all into motorcycles, and that he`s saving money to buy a Harley. Then he tells me about long motorcycle rides on empty country highways.
“I'd get bored in those long motorcycle rides. I like to go really fast,” I say.
“We can go to Nebraska. They raised the speed limit there,”
It dawns on me that I have made a new friend.
Lazo Returns
I work in a restaurant and have a cool manager, but tonight is the end of the year party for my exchange student friends, and these, asides from Christian, are my only friends. I don´t want to lose this job, but I have to get out of here.
I bounce around Mandy’s hosting area thinking of ideas, but she is too busy writing on the restaurant layout on top the podium––her short, straight, blond hair swaying back and forth. I act as if nothing was going on in my head, but I am really caught up in this situation. I sit on the empty bench and look back to the main floor of the restourante to distract myself.
Amber light from green lamps on the low ceilings lands nicely on the wood walls, tables and chairs, and filters through the flower-patterned stained glass that divides the booths. Below, it's hard to tell the fake ceramic tiles from real ones. Suddenly, I notice a quick change of light and turn my sight to the swinging silver doors that lead to the kitchen, a waiter with a tray has just gone through. I love the atmosphere of restaurants, their weak cozy lights, waiters moving, cooks cooking, people coming in and out, and we busboys clearing tables fast so new customers can come in.
Suddenly, Mandy looks up with her sparkling blue eyes looking at me.
“My friends are having a party, and I´m scheduled until close. My friend Christian is already on his way over here to pick me up.”
“Is the party that important?” she asks
“I have to see my friends before they go back home.” I say feeling desperate about the situation. “I am even thinking of walking out.”
“Have you called the other busboys?”
“I called them half an hour ago.”
“You should call again.”
“You’re right.”
I start for the back, passing under the murky lights and through the silver doors that lead to the kitchen, then walk down the narrow aisle that leads to the manager’s office. On my right, there’s the walk-in fridge; and on my left, the kitchen where all the Mexicans work. They’re relaxing and cleaning their stuff––but wait until the orders start coming. Then the grill’ll be sizzling, the dishes'll be clicking, and the lead cook, Marco, will be right there in the middle of the action, setting the tempo, yelling orders left and right, moving his arms all over the place like a mad Shiva, preparing up to three dishes at once. That’s when you get into the rhythm that makes you forget everything but the task at hand; time sweeps by, and before you know it, the place is empty and you feel like going to the bar to talk with the other workers.
I enter the manager’s small white windowless office, get the numbers out of a white binder, and start dialing. Ring, ring, too many times; nobody is home. I step out disillusioned, and see Rusty about to come in. I get out of his way but wait by the threshold.
“What’s going on, Lazo?” he asks.
“I have a doctor’s appointment”
“You have a doctor’s appointment at six p.m. on a Friday night?”
I feel awfully stupid and shameful. I did´nt want to lie to Rusty. He's my first boss ever and has been nothing but nice. He took me in even though I had no experience. He now looks at me with his chin up and his eyes half closed. His friendly red freckled face does not look that friendly anymore.
“I know I am putting you in a tight spot, Rusty, but I have something really important going on. I’ll make up it to you. I promise,” I plead.
“Have you called the other busboys?”
“Yes, I called them all,” I say and see him go to his books.
“You are a good worker, so I’ll let you go this one and only time. But check the floor and go through the closing duties.”
“Thanks Rusty,” I say relived and think how much I would have hated to lose this job and how big of a debt I owe him: he's gonna have to do all the work.
I go back and check on the bread, which is a duty I enjoy because you have to think. If you cook too much and no customers come, the bread gets cold on the drawers. If you don’t cook enough, you run out of bread. And when there are lots of customers, and you are on the floor clearing and setting tables, putting the dishes and glasses in the dishwasher, helping waiters with orders, there is barely enough time––so you have to be efficient like a machine, which I like.
The drawer is full of bread. I go out to the floor and make sure the tables are clean and set. I go to the closet, get the broom and dust pan and make sure I leave the floor clean. I check myself out on the cash register and breeze by Mandy on my way out.
“So he let you go!” She says.
“He did. I owe him now for sure. I'll work every weekend he wants me to.”
“Tell me more about this party.” She says, and I see the slits of her eyes narrowing; she is interested. She looks away.
“It’s going to be awesome. All my friends are going to be there. Do you like to dance Salsa?”
“I don’t know how. Wait, do they all speak Spanish?”
“Yes, most of them do. They are from all over Latin America, but they speak English too.”
“I can speak some Spanish. I am in Spanish 3 at school.”
“Do you want to come?”
“I don’t know if my parents will let me...”
Wide eyed, I lose no time in grabbing the pen on top of her podium.
“What’s your number? I’ll call you later."
“OK. Call me after work.”
She dictates the number, and I write it on a napkin.
“See you later” I say and walk out feeling real good. Mandy might come with me. It would be crazy if she actually comes; she’s so nice and good looking. I’m going to tell Christian all about it, but as I push the outside doors and step through, everything starts changing. I always forget about the rest of the world while working at the restaurant.
-/-
I don’t know if I’ll ever get out of this place and go back to my real home. I grew up in a dense city with people walking, talking, and getting on each other’s way all the time. Denver sits on flat desolate beige plains under a huge, blue and cloudless sky, which is like a celestial dome that always seems to be pulling you upwards. The sky at home was low and cloudy most of the time, and sometimes the fog in winter didn't let you see past the block, it made you feel hidden and secur. Everything here is vast and empty and seems to go on forever. There ain´t people on the streets either: sidewalks empty. I get out of the restaurant, see my surroundings, reemember all of this, and feel so out of place, I want to go back inside.
But going out with Christian gets me on the groove. It’s like teleporting back home for a short bit, so I start feeling better as I walk to my car and change clothes: getting rid of my smelly uniform and putting on a light blue billabong shirt, black jeans and vans. It’s funny to think that there’s no surfing here. I was never a surfer there neither, but I was a skateboarder, and that’s why I have these nice vans. As I finish tying my shoelaces, I see Christian’s two-door white Saturn with polarized windows and Mexican flag bumper sticker pulling into a parking spot, smoothly. A moment later he gets out in that same manner. He’s well dressed; a striped blue-white polo shirt and jeans.
Christian is my homey. I remember how he was fired from the restaurant. It would be hard to know, but although chubby and of short stature, he punches like a boxer, the weight of his whole body culminating in one efficient “kabbooom.” I remember how on a busy night, he was working hard as a line cook while the assistant manager kept getting on his way, watching over him, trying to make him screw up. I don't know why. I think his girlfriend, who was a waitress there, either liked Christian or was weirded out by him. Then Christian was walking with his gaze down, trying to get through the day, carrying two open giant cans of tomato sauce, when the cojudo got in front of him on purpose. Christian bumped him and dropped the tomato sauce all over the manager, who then pushed Christian when he was not expecting it, making him fall on the trays and pans. Christian got up, went outside, and the assistant manager followed. Half the kitchen staff, the assistant manager’s girlfriend, and I went behind them. Here the two stood across each with their guards up. The moment the manager made the first move, Christian cut through the his guard like a knife, punching him in the chest––in and out––dropping him down in front of his girlfriend. I am happy to say that Christian has showed me a few things about boxing.
I now see him go up to the entry, and I think he’s already starting to feel out of place because he knows that all the Mexicans are in the kitchen. It really does look kind strange seeing him go up the front, I wonder if I look strange too. I think Mandy will make him feel comfortable though. She is nice to everybody regardless of who they are. It must be nice to be so nice and not with all this problems about being in a new country like Christian and I.
Shoelaces done, I run towards the restaurant, push the doors and see Christian talking with Mandy. I am so happy when I see Christian. He and I are like brothers, or like carnales, as he likes to call us.
“Christian, cabrón!” I say loudly and enthusiastically.
“¿Cómo estás Lazo?” We hug, laugh, and exchange greeting words in Spanish. After our greeting is done, I introduce him to Mandy. She extends her arm, offering a handshake.
“Hi, I’m Mandy” She says, smiling.
After the introduction is done, Mandy goes back to work because a new costumer has just come in, Christian says in a low voice to me:
“Man, I could not get alcohol.”
“¡No jodas! En serio,” I say.
I walk around then sit down at the bench, thinking of solutions.
“There is this Mexican in the kitchen whose shift ends now, and who’s old enough to buy us some. Let me go talk to him,” I say
I go back to the kitchen and find him.
“Hey man, I was wondering if you could do us a favor,”
I explain the situation. He goes the front with me, then we all go to the parking lot; his shift{s just ended, and he tells Christian and I of an unopened vodka bottle he has at home. He can give it to us if we give him a ride.
We get in Christian’s car, the Mexican on the passenger seat, and I on the back. The Mexican is skinny and is wearing baggy jeans, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap that covers his gaze. I distrust him because I can’t see his eyes. But Christian is already conversing with him, asking him where his from and about his job. Christian is from Juares, the other Mexican is from Jalisco, they talk about about el trabajo, el America, las mujeres, la migra.
We are soon at the highway, which is high up above ground. The sun is going down on the west behind the mountains and light rays cut across the windows. I look away, to the east, to the grid like suburbs spreading on the barren plains and remember my first view of the US from the plane, everything looked so organized, as if drawn with a ruler. Back home, houses are different in shape and color and it looks like a mess from above. I then look at the highway’s concrete median, and try look at the top of the sky, where it’s darkest now, but can’t really manage it because the back windows don’t open. I wish we had the vodka so I could take three caps full. This would be funny. I lay on the back seat. I hope we get to this dude’s place fast.
“It’s right there.” I hear him say.
I see two rows of three-story apartment buildings with grass in the middle. We park, and the Mexican gets out of the car and goes up the stairs to one of the apartments. We get out too, and I go explore and see plastic cars and dolls on the grass that look like they have been through heavy duty use. I then hear some children playing on the stairs, other kids on balconies––a mother looks at me.
I turn to Christian. “Is this the hood?” I comment.
“What is that?” Christian says.
“You know, those places that are supposed to be bad”
“Yes, I am corrupting you”
The Mexican comes down from his apartment carrying a bottle of vodka and a jug of orange juice. He walks to Christian, who offers him some money for the merchandize. “Don’t worry about it, diviertanse” he says in Spanish and laughs. Christian and I get back in the car and drive to his house.
He lives in a neighborhood with many Chicanos and Mexican immigrants. As we drive deeper into it, I see a few low rider cars and vans, some blasting Ranchera music out of powerful speakers and boom boxes. On a corner, I see a young couple: the girl has long black shiny hair and painted eyebrows, the guy wears baggy pants and a shirt. I don’t see any sombreros, the guys with the nice cowboy boots, tucked in shirts, and cowboy hats. They are the most dangerous, Christian told me once, they come from las haciendas and fix their problems with a rifle.
We get to Christian’s house, which is in the nicest part, where the houses look very similar. We walk inside and I see a gold covered wood cross that reminds me of the colonial decorations in my grandmother’s house back home. We go down the stairs to his room in the basement.
He has a pimp room: a big screen TV, a Super Nintendo, a nice stereo system, a sofa, and lava lamps. I put the vodka on the coffee table in front of the TV. Christian has brought glasses and orange juice. He puts them in the table and goes to his stereo.
“Check this band out. They’re from el D.F.”
And I hear a deep slow tempo baseline followed by a low voice singing a melody that goes into long winded segments like mariachi music often does, but this is not mariachi, it’s softer, and it’s rock.
“I like it,” I say. “Who is it?”
“Los Caifanes.”
We make ourselves screwdrivers, but not before we take a shot each.
“Dale Cabrón” he says as I take mine.
“Salud,” I say.
“Salud,” he says after his.
“I love you man, cause you like to drink,” he says
“Heck yeah,” and I do like to drink. The effect is similar to what happens when you work really fast in the restaurant: they both give you a break from reality.
“Any good-looking girls tonight?” Christian asks me.
“There are some real good-looking Argentineans,” I say.
“But the Argentineans don’t mess around with Mexicans,” he says humorously.
“I know.”
“You gonna go for any of them?” He asks me.
“They don’t go for my kind either.”
“But you look very Spanish.”
“I got Mandy’s number,”
“Mandy, that hostess at your work?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know man, she might be too nice.”
“Yeah, that’s what I am afraid of.”
I think of Mandy. She is so pretty that it is hard to look at her for a long time. Her eyes remind me of this famous lake in my country that I heard of and saw in pictures. It was famous because it reflected the turquoise of the sky. Up close, the water is supposed to be clear, it’s just the reflection that makes it that color.
I tell my thoughts to Christian then ask him: “Are Mandy’s eyes a sign of the purity of nice people?”
He laughs loudly from the belly.
“And what are our eyes, swamps,” he says. “Besides, some girls take a chance on guys like us,” he adds enthusiastically.
Then I remember my high school where nice people like Mandy are. I feel jaded in the light of the nice people.
“She’d probably end up with a football player,” I say sarcastically.
“Chill out man. You got a number. Drink some more.” He says trying to liven up the mood. I pour some more vodka in my screw driver and finish it.
We don’t say so, but knowing that the conversation will lead, to us bitching about school, about been immigrants and feeling like outsiders, we decide to change the subject to something more positive. I am about to speak of my country, but Christian interrupts me.
“I miss buying alcohol whenever I want to,” he says, seeming to have read my mind.
“Yeah, me too,” then I think about the comment slowly because the alcohol is starting its effect on my brain.
“But when we were over there, we were too young to even think about alcohol.” I add.
Christian laughs.
“You are right,” he says and keeps on laughing. I laugh too, but not that much.
“Where are you from man? I ask Christian mockingly.
“Where are you from?
This is our own private joke. We both laugh some more.
Christian looks at his watch.
“It’s getting late, we better go.” Christian says
“Let’s get out of here.” I say and we leave
-/-
We drive carefully and slowly to the party while listening to old school mariachi Christian got who knows where and singing its long-winded howls:
“Ayyyyyy, Ayyyyyyy, Ayyyyyyyyy…” We howler.
The house is of a friend of Christian’s whose parents are out of town. It’s a small duplex with a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the front yard. As we walk to the door, Christian points to it and says his friend’s parents are crazy.
We hear and follow Spanish and English voices down the lower grounds and into a brown-carpeted room with a table cluttered with beer bottles and empty, used plastic cups. I grab a bottle. There is also a couch where two girls are talking. One of them is a sparkly Colombian exchange student we know. She turns around.
“Christian, Lazo.” She gets up and greets us with a kiss on the chick. I drop my shoulders and relax. She points to an open door. It leads us to a dim-lighted patio surrounded by a garden where we see the contours of people on the grass, sitting, standing, laying down, and talking. I hear somebody call my name in Spanish. I go joyfully while Christian goes to say hi to his Mexican friend who lives here.
“Lazo,” they all say as they see me.
“Hey,” I say and go around and hug everybody and kiss the girls.
There is my friend from Venezuela, who called my name; there is my friend from Chile, my friend from Ecuador, my amiga from Uruguay, my other amiga from Venezuela, my friend from Colombia, and my amiga from Argentina. I say amiga because there’s no term for that in English. I sit down next to them on the healthy summer grass and we cheer for the good times we have had.
“Lazo, even though you got us lost all the time, we thank you for taking us everywhere,” one of the guys says.
“No problem, my pleasure. You guys would have been cooked up in your houses if it was not for Christian and I. You will repay me when I go back to South America and knock on your doors for a place to stay.”
“Absolutely, don’t forget to write your e-mail on the sheet that’s going around.”
My friends are leaving the country for good and may never come back. I took these guys everywhere in my car, and not only on big trips, but Friday nights as well.
I lie down on the grass and look at the northern hemisphere sky. I hear my friends talking. They are saying what they like and dislike about America, and what they want to do when they get home. I went through the same initial shock. I know what it’s like... They talk about how cold Americans are, son frios, they talk about how everything is done in cars and nobody walks. They talk about how people here respect rules and keep the streets clean. And they talk about many other subjects that I have heard many times before.
“Did I tell you the story about the fruit I drew when I first arrived to the US?” I find myself asking my friends.
“No,” say all but one.
“I have heard it, but tell it. It’s hilarious.”
I take the last swig of my beer. “This was when I first arrived to the US and all the English I knew was the colors, the numbers, and “What’s up man.” I walked around my school feeling like a Martian. I missed Peru passionately, and the only class I enjoyed was art because you did not have to talk. Then one day, my art teacher asked us to draw something about America. Then she approached me and suggested, in Spanish, that I do something personal. I remembered the rich and tasty fruit back home so I drew enormous apples and oranges that filled the entire paper. I then colored them real shiny with plastic markets that smelled like fruit. When she came over and asked me what I had drawn, I told her it was American oranges and apples. And when she asked me why I had drawn them, I told her they were big, looked good, but were really bland, and tasteless, and were all show, all show!”
They laugh loudly, some of them telling me “it’s so true”.
“Thank you!” I say theatrically.
This sparks a conversation about the America they saw in movies. Then I lie down on the grass and let them talk. I want to relax and feel the nostalgia of another group of exchange students that I’ve met, showed around, and is going back home. But I can’t. I sense a little voice in my head nagging me, telling me this is a waste of time. This little voice never leaves me alone. I usually stop it by working hard at the restaurant or by drinking, but tonight, this is not helping. Maybe I should walk back to the house and get another beer. But I forgot: I have to call Mandy! I look around for Christian to ask him where the phone is.
I don’t see Christian, but I see the host talking with an American. I approach him and talk to him in English so the American does not feel left out. He tells me Christian went to get some more beer with a fake ID of a guy who looks just like him. I ask for the phone so I can call Mandy. He tells me where it is, and I’m about to leave, but the American introduces himself. He is a tall dude with red hair, and an open and confident face with a smirk. His name is Red and I can’t help but like him, so I introduce myself as well and ask him about his night so far. He picks my accent up instantly, tells me so, and asks me where I am from. The expectancy I had for an interesting conversation is gone. I know in my head how the conversation will proceed: I will tell him where I am from, how long I’ve being here, he will ask me about Peru, what girls are like, how partying is, and I will tell him about brown skinned beautiful girls, how easy it is to get booze, about Machu Picchu, that we play soccer over there but we call it football, etc. I am tired of repeating the same answers again and again. Do I know what’s it like there anymore, do I have any friends there anymore? Do I really live there anymore? Where am I living? And I’ve been in the U.S. for so long. It feels as though a ball of steel has pushed its way from my chest and gotten stuck in my throat. I turn around and walk away.
I go in the room through which we first came and find the phone next to the couch. I take the napkin with Mandy’s number, and I call her.
“Hi, is Mandy there?”
“This is her.”
“Hey, this is Lazo, how are you?”
“I am well… Are you calling me from the party? How is it?
“It’s OK, I guess. Do you want to come? Christian and I can pick you up.”
“Are you drunk? You sound different.”
“I’ve had a couple of beers. Do you want to come?”
“It’s kind of late and I should ask my parents in advance about these things. I really don’t think I can.”
“OK.”
“OK, bye”
“Bye.”
I now feel depressed because I really wanted her to come. I sit on the couch and pick up one of the used cups on the table. It has a little bit left of beer. Should I drink it? I smell it, and it smells horribly. I put it back, pick up another, smell it, and put it back. I rest my head back on the couch and close my eyes. I could go outside to my friends again, but I know the conversation too well. In a couple of days they will go back home different people, yes, yes. But I am not going back home. I didn’t choose to come here, and now I have to stay and deal––whether I like it or not. Then I think about the story of the fruit. Maybe the fruit is bad in Denver because we are high up and is dry. It may be better in Florida or California.
I want to get some fresh air. I decide to go out to the street, but first walk to the bathroom, drink some water, and wash my face. I walk out to the street and start jumping around to freshen up, to get out of this mind rut. Moving saves me, that’s it, just like in the restaurant when I work hard clearing tables. And I like the way my Vans grip to the concrete. I miss skateboarding in my city, here they put gravel to melt the snow which makes it really hard. These tiny rocks stay most of the year, and you fall on your face when they get stuck on your wheels. I loved skateboarding back home, I loved everything back home, then one day my parents tell me I have to come here, I have no choice but to pack. But this is too much thinking. I start shadow boxing a few punches that Christian has taught me.
“There is the bitch,” I hear and turn around. It’s Red with some other dude, probably heading out to go home.
“Hey. What’s up man?” I say and think that he may have got upset when I walked away from him back there.
“Let’s go, Red,” I hear Red’s friend say.
I turn around and see Christian’s car approaching. He parks and gets out with two twelve packs of beer. Red stands firmly with his arms crossed and his feet apart in front of the door of the house. I am on the sidewalk. Christian, who knows me well, senses the tension of the situation and puts the beer on the ground.
“You think because you are foreign you are better than everybody,” Red says loudly.
“No Man. It’s not like that. I am sorry I turned away from you like that,”
He waits, as if to test the mood.
“Why don’t you go back to your fucking country, where you belong,” Red says loudly. He stands there in front of the door’s threshold, looking up, defiantly.
Christian’s face is unreadable, I am not sure if he is angry or about to smile, what I am sure is that he has already checked if he can take this guy or not, he has seen his angle, he does these things automatically. I admire that about him, and I admired how he took down that assistant manager prick when he quit the restaurant. That was a fair fight, the assistant manager deserved it. I am pretty sure Red is angry because of miscommunication. Nevertheless, how stupid can he be to say what he just said in a party like this one, full of foreigners! Now I have to defend my honor. Red begins to approach me; I am not really sure what he‘s thinking, but my right hand starts to tighten, and I feel my vans get a firm grip on the sidewalk again. In my head I can see myself swinging at him. What would I gain if I start a fight? What am I defending? I don’t feel like a foreigner anymore. I am not like my exchange student friends... but neither am I an American. What does going back to your fucking country mean if I don’t live in my fucking country anymore! It doesn’t matter, time is running short, it’s like in the restaurant, if I don’t act quickly, the bread burns. I decide that I am faster than him, and that if he does as much as flinch I am going to swing at him on soft spot at the side of his head. As he gets within two meters of me, he slowly raises his hand.
“I am sorry, that was uncalled for,” he says.
“No problem.”
“Do you want to grab a beer?”
“Sounds good.”
We go back to the house, Christian behinds us with the case of beers. We get to the garden, grab each a can and start talking while Christian looks at us in total disbelieve.
"Where are you from, Red?"
"I am from Wyoming."
I keep asking questions, and I find out that his family is all into motorcycles, and that he`s saving money to buy a Harley. Then he tells me about long motorcycle rides on empty country highways.
“I'd get bored in those long motorcycle rides. I like to go really fast,” I say.
“We can go to Nebraska. They raised the speed limit there,”
It dawns on me that I have made a new friend.