“It’s better just to forget everything that’s happened.”
“Why is that, Sammy?”
“You can’t change the past, Elena.”
“I don’t want to forget, Sammy.”
“Well, I guess I don’t either.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Things never end the way you expect them to.
We start off down one road—toward a place we’ve picked out on a map. A place we’ve spent years imagining. Then something happens. And everything changes. Maybe the problem is that we expect too much. I mean, what did I think was going to happen to me after high school was over? Did I think I was going to wind up in Hollywood—the one in California?
I don’t know why I’d bothered to make so many plans. Eight schools—that’s how many universities I applied to. I planned it all out, all by myself. And I never told anyone. But after the letters started coming in, I told my dad. Well, really, he’s the one that always got the mail—so he figured it out soon enough. Eight schools. And that’s just how many acceptances I got. Well, they didn’t really know me, anyway. If they would have known who I was, they wouldn’t have accepted me. All they saw were my grades and those stupid essays I wrote. So I told myself that really those schools accepted an idea of me.
Berkeley. That was the place on the map that I’d picked. And that school had said yes. And my dad had saved money, and he said yes too. Berkeley became a secret my dad and I shared for a few brief months. For a while, I really started believing that it was really going to happen. Me, Sammy Santos from Hollywood was going to Berkeley.
When my dad gave me the letter, my whole body shook. And when I opened it, I said, “They took me! They took me!”
My dad cried and said, “Of course they did, hijo de mi vida.”
I didn’t know I had that kind of happiness inside me. I thought all I had was that damned pigeon. Anyway, like I said, we spend years imagining and making plans. And then something happens. Something always happens.
Things never end the way you expect them to.
There were lots of parties the night we graduated. That was the plan—go to lots of loud parties. We were the generation of loud. Rock wasn’t rock unless it was loud. What was Jimmi Hendrix if he wasn’t loud? What was Three Dog Night? What was Grand Funk Railroad? Loud, baby, that’s what we liked. Except me. I hated loud. Hated loud and hated beads and hated bellbottoms. I never liked slogans and that’s what everything was. Sometimes, I wonder if I was ever really a part of my own generation. If I wasn’t a part of my generation and if I wasn’t a real Mexican and if I wasn’t a real American, what the hell was I? I was my pigeon. That’s what Elena had decided. I was Al, my pigeon. I’d given him a name. If the pigeon was gonna stick around, he might as well have a name.
Graduation was pretty damned dull for the most part. That was the school administration’s plan. Dull. They loved their plans more than they loved the kids they taught. More than they loved us. They’d warned us about demonstrations. Graduation wasn’t political. That’s what they told us at practice. And it was also no place to demonstrate your egos, your originality, or your sense of humor. “Make your jokes somewhere else.” Yeah, yeah. When Susie Hernandez got her diploma, she raised her gown and showed the world her latest short dress. Here. Here’s my sense of humor. She didn’t care. Her father was in some bar getting drunk. Again. And Gigi? Gigi threw kisses. Like an opera star taking a bow after the opera was over. Kisses. Kisses for everyone. We all reached out to catch them. Some guy named Brian took out a big sign from under his gown that said, “Love and Grass.” And Charlie Gladstein—not to be outdone—had a sign too, “Peace is a state of mind.” René was sitting in the row in front of me. When Charlie whipped out his sign and showed it to the audience, René whispered, “Yeah, sure, it’s right next to the state of Chihuahua.”
And when it was all over, diplomas in hand, we marched out. And the Class of 1969 was history. Our parting gift to Las Cruces High: a new dress code and a bronze plaque that read: “Love is the Answer. Peace is the Way.” Oh, we were so fucking cool. Only we didn’t know what love was. Peace either. Peace was not something the world taught us about. The only redeeming thing about that plaque was that Colonel Wright and Mrs. Jackson would hate it.
But now the plan was to do some serious partying. Some of us in our class had been born to do just that. And only that.
Me and my friends, we started out at my house—not exactly a center for wild blowouts. Dad had put up Christmas lights all over the porch. Red and blue, our school colors. Dad, he was so straight. And predictable. And steady. I laughed when I saw the lights. Funny. René thought it was really cool. Pifas would’ve said “Fuckin’ A, Mr. Santos, Fuckin’ A.” It was really Hollywood, those lights. Some little kids came by and looked at the house. They laughed. But they liked it. I liked it too. And all the little kids, they brought other little kids. And they pointed. “¡Mira! ¡Mira! And it’s not even Christmas.”
And me, I was all dressed up for the occasion. I was wearing a new shirt. Green. The color of olives. It was the only shirt I’d ever picked out myself. Pure silk. Soft. Like my mom. Like Juliana’s skin. Soft. My dad, he’d bought me everything I had. I’d never really cared. He’d just pick clothes out for me, bring them home, and he’d say, “¿Te gustan?” And I’d say, “They’re great, Dad.” He knew I didn’t care. But this shirt, I’d picked it out myself. Cost me fifteen dollars. A fortune. And for the first time in my life, I went into a men’s store and gave myself a good look in the mirror. Nice shirt. Fifteen dollars.
Gigi wore a dress the color of the sun. I swear that yellow dress glowed. That dress made you want to touch her dark skin. That was the point, I think. Gigi, she was something. She always had been, always would be, and I hoped one day she’d look at herself in the mirror and say it: “I’m something. I’m really something.” Her and Charlie had broken up, gotten back together, broken up, and graduation night, they were back together. He was crazy about her. I mean, loco, baby. I mean that guy had it bad for Gigi. Gigi liked him too. But really, I think Gigi liked the idea of someone worshipping her. That’s why she got mad at me—because I wouldn’t always go along with her bullshit schemes. Because I didn’t worship her. At least not in the way she wanted me to. Not that she wasn’t great, Gigi. She was. Yup, she was something. But she was also hell.
But graduation night wasn’t about love and dating—it was a group thing. We’d survived something together. A place called Las Cruces High. We were done with it. And it was done with us. So me and René and Susie and Angel and Gigi and Charlie and Frances and her new boyfriend, Larry Torres, who still could still piss me off in ten seconds flat, we all went out together. No fights, I told myself. Keep your fists in your pockets.
We got in two cars. Angel and I wound up in the back seat of René’s car, and Susie and René looked like maybe they had a thing for each other. Bad idea, I thought. Susie didn’t put up with much. Spoke her mind. René didn’t like that. He said he did. But he didn’t like that at all. No, they didn’t go together any more than Gigi and Charlie. Already, Susie and René were in the front seat arguing about how many beers a girl should drink. “One. Maybe two,” René said. “That’s it.”
“And a guy?” Susie wanted to know.
“Many as he wants. As many as he can handle.”
Angel rolled her eyes at me. I laughed.
I lit a cigarette.
“Gimme one of those,” Angel said.
“You don’t smoke.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Your mother’s going to kill you.”
She shrugged. “Just give me one,” she said. So I did. She didn’t even cough when she lit it. She was a natural. Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, taking to a bad habit like that.
She looked at me. “How come you never talk to me, Sammy?”
“I don’t?”
“No. You don’t. You talk to everybody. Except me.”
“Is that tr
ue?” I felt stupid. Maybe it was true. Well, it was true. I never knew what to say to her. She was always so quiet. It seemed like so much work to talk to her. Even though I liked her. How could you not like Angel?
“Yeah, Sammy, it’s true. You just see me as Gigi’s friend—someone who follows her around. A cat she carries around. Or a dog she walks around the block.”
“Where do you get that? People don’t do that crap in Hollywood. Dogs. Cats. That’s crap.”
“You know what I mean. You think I’m just her little friend.”
“That’s not true.” It was. It was true. Shit. I wasn’t doing well here. She knew I was lying. Girls, they always knew. They had a little compass inside them.
She nodded. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“With who?”
“Gigi.”
René and Susie had stopped arguing, and they decided to join our conversation. That was the problem with traveling in cars—no privacy.
“Hell no,” René said. “He’s not in love with her. You think he’s fucking nuts? Are you in love with me, Angel? Are you?”
Angel looked at René like she’d look at a brother who was always being stupid in front of the whole world. “Who can love you, René? There’s only one thing you want from a girl, and you want it when you want it. And if you don’t get it, you move on. And if you do get it, you still move on.”
Susie laughed. “The whole world knows about you, René.”
“You and me don’t have anything to do with what Sammy feels for Gigi.”
“You’re the one who brought up the subject, René,” Angel said. Something was happening to her. She was busting out of herself.
René wasn’t keeping his eyes on the road. He kept trying to turn around as he talked. That made me nervous. Angel was a better driver. “Well, I say Sammy doesn’t love her.”
“Drive,” I said, “you’re gonna kill us. I don’t want to die. And I can talk, you know?” I looked at Angel. “I’ve never loved Gigi. I haven’t. Not ever.” I felt like I traitor. I was betraying her. Like there was something wrong with being in love with her. Like she wasn’t worth anything. That’s not what I meant. I felt like she was a part of me. What I felt for Gigi wasn’t nice and neat. Not everything fit into neat little categories. Especially not Gigi. I’ve never loved her. I felt like I was slapping her in the face.
“So how come you and Gigi are always talking?”
“She’s like my sister. She calls me. ¿Qué quieres que haga? You want me to hang up on her?”
“Admit it. You like talking to her.”
“Sure I do. Who doesn’t? So what? Who doesn’t like talking to Gigi? She’s like a sister.”
“You have a sister.”
“She’s ten, Angel. Damn. Can’t guys be friends with girls?”
“René can’t.” That was Susie. Then she and Angel started laughing. They were having a good time, laughing at René. That was kind of a hobby for them—laughing at guys. Especially at guys like René.
“Tengo muchas amigas. Girls like my ass.” René at least knew enough not to believe his own bullshit. His words were as empty as his wallet.
“Your ass is the only part of you they like,” Susie said. She could be like Gigi sometimes.
“Name one,” Angel said. “Name one girl who’s your friend.”
René was thinking. “Hatty Garrison. Hatty Garrison. She’s my friend.”
“You never see Hatty Garrison. Never. And besides, you asked her out, and she turned you down flat.”
“You did? You asked her out?” I said. “You did?”
“That’s a damned lie. I didn’t. No way in hell.”
“Yes, you did,” Susie said. “The whole school knew. Hatty told Pauline. And Pauline told the whole school. Ya sabes como es la Pauline. She told the whole world.”
René didn’t say anything. “Why are we talking about shit like this? Chingao. Who cares?” He lit a cigarette as he drove. He looked at Angel. “Angel, you’re my friend.”
“Being friends was my idea. Not yours.”
“Who cares whose idea it was? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
I watched Angel puff on her cigarette. “Yeah,” she said, “we’re friends.”
“Not by choice,” Susie said. “Guys. Guys are all the same. They don’t know how to be friends with a girl. Not one damn guy.”
“Gigi and I are friends,” I said. I looked at Angel. “Angel and I are friends.” I looked at Susie. “You and me, we could be friends. Only you’re not interested in having guys be your friends, are you?—So what are you screaming at guys for? Hell, you’re just as bad.”
René laughed at that one. And then we were all laughing. At each other. At our dumb conversation. Who knew why were laughing? Who cared? We just wanted to laugh. We’d known each other all our lives. We’d graduated from high school together. We were scared of what was going to happen tomorrow. Sure we were. Everything we knew was gone now. We were scared. Why not laugh? At the stupid things we said.
René parked the car in front of the abandoned farmhouse right behind Cruces High. Site of a hundred fights. That’s where everyone went to have it out. That’s where everyone went when they needed to explode—take out their rage on some other’s guys face. I’d been there a few times myself. Against my will. And when it wasn’t against my will, it was always against my better judgment. I hated to fight. But you’d never know it. Too many fights. That was the thing about high school. Too many fights. I was glad it was over.
That farmhouse, it made me think of Pifas. Pifas was always getting cars to follow him here. He could come to blows with someone he’d be hanging out with a week later. That Pifas. I missed him. “What are we doing here?” I said.
“Right this way,” René said as he got out of the car. “Órale! We’re gonna have some fun. Baby, baby, fun.” Fun was his favorite word. Maybe that’s why his mom called him Chiste. René was yelling and laughing like a crazy man. So we piled out of both cars and followed René into the old farmhouse, which wasn’t anything but a small four-room adobe place with dirt floors and busted-out windows.
Once we were in the front room, René started lighting candles. And as he lit the candles, we could all see there was a table there, and on the table there were some bottles of wine and some plastic glasses, and there was some ice in an ice chest with beer in it, and there was Bacardi rum and Coke and lime to make cuba libres. And there was even some Fritos and potato chips and stuff. And after René finished lighting the candles, he screams out like he was James Brown or something like that, “Yeeeooooow! ¡Órale, let’s party! Let’s swing some nalga, baby!” And then he let out another scream and took a swig from a bottle of Bacardi and then he yelled out, “Listen, everyone. Welcome! Welcome to Hollywood!” And then he just laughed like a pendejo. Like he was drunk. But he wasn’t. He was just letting go. But, God, he made me smile, that guy. He could be so many different things, René. I was beginning to understand that he was a lot of different people. And that was the good thing about him, that he could be so many people, all in one body. And maybe all those people inside him were all fighting for control. I wondered how he was gonna turn out. “Welcome to Hollywood!” he screamed. “Where the girls tease you more than please you. . .” God, sometimes he was as good a performer as Gigi. He went on for a while, making us laugh. That’s what he wanted to do, make us laugh. Because that had been Pifas’ job. And Pifas was gone. So now René was taking his place. This party, I guess it was his gift to us. And he’d planned it and paid for it. All by himself.
It was fun, hanging out in that farmhouse. René must’ve worked hard to clean it up because the last time I was there, it was full of junk and all kinds of crap. He’d cleaned it up. In some places, there was the faint smell of urine. But not too bad. Who cared about a little urine?
It was fun. God, I hadn’t had enough of that in my years at Cruces High. I hadn’t. Too serious. I needed to change. Already, I was making other plans. T
o change myself. I was addicted to making plans.
We were drinking and smoking. But we weren’t drinking too much. René and Charlie—they were the biggest drinkers. Angel, she was drinking more than usual. I noticed that.
After a while, a few more cars showed up. I guess René invited some other people. And after a while, there were maybe forty people there, and the radio was going, and people would dance when there was a good song, and everyone was laughing about the stupid things we did. And I could smell pot which was better than smelling urine. And this one girl did this great impersonation of Gigi’s speech when she ran for president of the senior class, and we all clapped and laughed our asses off and Gigi said, “Not bad—but you didn’t move your hips right.” And then René starts reenacting that time when we were passing out flyers to change the dress code. “Change the dress code! Change the dress code!” he yelled. Just like he’d yelled it that day. Like he was selling peanuts at a ballgame.
I remember sneaking out of the farmhouse to get some air. I looked up at the stars. There were millions. And from Las Cruces, New Mexico, in 1969, you could see them all. I swear. You could see every damn beautiful star in the sky.
And then I heard this voice, “Someday, Sammy, you’re gonna be up there.”
I knew that voice. It was a voice I’d keep with me forever. I didn’t even turn around. “I don’t think so, Gigi. But I like it here. On the ground. It’s a good place. Maybe I’ll be a farmer.”
“Yeah,” Gigi said, “maybe I’ll be a nun.”