Chango's Fire (17 page)

“Okay, thanks man,” I tell Raul, “let her just get her water.”

“You know you were lucky this time. I can't be Mighty Mouse and save the day again. You got to tell that girl of yours to stay on her side. You know.”

“Yeah,” I'm glad Helen isn't around, because then the fight would start all over again. “I know.”

“She can't just go up to my boys and say shit like that. And you know, bro',” he says, pointing at me, “that's your mistake, bro'. You got to train that white girl.”

“I'll look into it,” I say, knowing it's too late. Too late to debate anything right now, especially on the street. We both make a fist. We give each other a pound by clashing our knuckles together.

Helen walks out of the bodega, screws open her bottle of water. She drinks half of it down. Her lips are moist and cool when she kisses me shortly afterwards, and I realize she is more drunk than I thought, because she has forgotten all that's happened.

On the way home she talks about Greg and what a good friend he is. How he'd stay over at her dorm and sleep on the floor after they had been drinking all night. Once we reached our building, I can tell Helen is fading, and I open the door and help her up the stairs. I reach in her purse for her keys and open her door and take her shoes off and put her to bed. Helen passes out, and her small frame reminds me of fairies, like Tinkerbell sleeping. I kiss her good night and she only moves slightly. Like a cat yawning. That overwhelming feeling of hopefulness returns. I feel like I can do anything. What was I so worried about? I'll just work twenty jobs to pay Eddie back. I'll work twenty jobs for twenty years if I have to. But I can do this. I'm the master of my own destiny. The Orishas have smiled upon me. Maybe I'm just drunk. But at that moment, all things seem possible. I kiss Helen's cheek one last time and walk out as the door locks itself behind me.

The
boss is in no mood to abuse anybody. The copper and brass pipes and wires that had been stolen a few weeks ago have not been returned. Usually the boss hands out the checks by lunch time, giving the system of exchange enough time to work. When the owners of the social security numbers collect their checks and hand the workers some cash, this exchange takes time, it always cuts the lunch hour in half. But this payday the boss is holding on to every check. Many of the workers are nervous, rightfully thinking they might not get paid at all.

“What you think he's waiting for?” Mario asks me.

“I don't know,” I say, taking my hard hat off, “don't look good though.”

“You smoke?” he offers me a cigarette.

“Nah, thanks.”

“No come on,” he says, “have one, no Bloomberg bullshit law here.”

“I know, I just don't smoke,” I say and look at the trailer where the boss is talking to the rightful owners of everyone's names, except for me and Mario. “I got nothing to do with this shit. I need my check.”

“You and me both, pal,” he says, lighting up.

Pal, I say to myself, who uses that word these days? How long was Mario locked up?

“Say, you know Eddie, right?” he says, smoking away.

“No,” I say, still looking at the trailer, “I just want my check.”

“Whatever you say pal,” Mario knows I'm lying, “but word is you owe Eddie a lot of money.”

I almost sprain my neck as I quickly face him.

“Hey, you got something to say?”

Mario pats the air as if calming me.

“Nah, nah pal,” he says, still patting invisible air, “I know one thing. I stay out of people's business.”

“Good,” I say, looking back at the trailer.

“But I also know when two people can help each other.”

Mario moves his entire body in front of me. He wants to make sure I listen to him. He can tell I'm not.

“Listen, Julio,” his face is in front of me, “you ever heard of N-50s?”

I sigh like I'm bored, and then shake my head no, because I don't have a clue what N-50s are.

“Listen, N-50s are American citizenship certificates. Know what I mean? It's what a naturalized citizen is awarded after he passes that citizenship test, making them Americans. N-50s are worth more than gold. Now imagine if there was a load of blank N-50s around. Blank N-50s? Blank American citizen certificates and all you had to do was write your name and place your picture and just like that, you're an American? You know the price they go for!”

The boss comes out, the owners of the names stay inside the trailer.

“You listening to me, pal?”

“No,” I say, “I just want my check.”

The other workers all fear what I fear. That we're all getting docked or worse, not getting paid. “Listen up,” the boss hollers, “Julio tell them, until those pipes are recovered, I'm forced to dock all of yous.”

“Hey man that's not right,” I protest.

“Damn right it's not. I'm docking you too.”

“Me, you docking me?”

“And you too,” he looks at Mario, who shrugs like he could take the hit, but I know he can't. He is just playing it cool, though he plays it badly. “When the office comes to ask for those pipes they better be here or there's going to be hell to pay.”

“What are they doing?” I say, pointing at the owners of the names who are in the trailer.

“They,” the boss says, “are adjusting these tacos' money.”

“They can't do that. They don't lift a finger—”

“If they don't like it, they can go,” he says, “and when are you going to break the good news to them?”

I know the workers already know. They don't speak English well but they understand it and they can sense bad vibes in any language. The boss leaves and the workers surround me. Asking me in Spanish if they are going to receive the same amount of money as they always do. I tell them that none of us are. They begin to curse, and conspire. I hear all sorts of ideas, like beating him up and taking the money.

They quiet down some, but they're still angry. When the owners of the names come out of the trailer, the workers all settle down and their eyes focus on the ground. White men scare them. They'd rather not talk or look them straight in the eyes. To them, white men are nasty and abusive. And when white men are polite and friendly, they get suspicious wondering what it is that they want.

The white men, owners of the names, aren't happy either. They talk among themselves about “getting rid of all of them and breaking in a new crop.” A new crop that won't steal from them. Another white man disagrees. “They all steal,” he says, “these tacos have no honor.” Another says they shouldn't be paid at all. But in the end the white men give in and pay the workers some money for their work. I can only think that the inconvenience of “breaking in a new crop” exceeds what they lost.

The workers aren't happy but they take what is given to them. Many don't bother to count their bills. They curse, spit, curse and spit. But they take the money and place it in their pockets.

I join the boss at the trailer. I knock and enter. He is making changes to the books.

“Hey,” I say, interrupting him, “how long you gonna keep docking us?”

“Till it's all paid. Every single pipe,” he says, “tell Mario to come get his money.”

“Where's my check?” I say. Dock or no dock, I need the money.

“Eddie has it. Says you owe him money.”

“Wha',” I protest.

“Take it up with Eddie. I only know those pipes got to get paid for.”

“That's not right.”

“Look, go talk to him if you like. Just go. I'll have to dock you an extra hour for no work though.”

I walk out of the trailer. Antonio is staring at Mario like a dog does when he hates another dog. They can't look at each other for a second without a growl. Mario arrogantly blows smoke like he is royalty. Antonio's thoughts must be about killing and strangling Mario.

“Mario, boss wants you,” I say.

Mario grins, breathing in smoke through his teeth.

He kills his cigarette and brushes by Antonio, daring him to push him aside. Antonio puts his hard hat back on and drinks some water out of a plastic bottle. The owners of the names have all cleared out, their SUVs nowhere in sight.

Antonio and the rest of the workers have gathered in a tight circle. I don't join them. I hear them speak about some woman. Antonio says that he doesn't know her name, but they say she can make you an American. Supposedly she has that much power and she can do it for free. They get excited and Antonio tells them about a friend of a friend who can now travel back and forth to Mexico, or his country of origin, because of this woman. The workers become more animated when Antonio tells them he will find her, somehow he will find her, talk to her, and maybe they will be citizens, Americans soon. I think Antonio is just making them feel better. Talking tall tales, like Christ's second coming, he is giving them hope.

A
t the coffee shop, a waiter tells me Eddie takes late afternoon mass at around this time at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I walk toward the church a few blocks away and think if Eddie keeps my pay I'm done. If I can't pay Papelito, Papelito loses his botanica and I lose my apartment. If I fault, he faults. If it was just my house, I'd burn it. As much as it'd kill me, I'd do it. Being dispossessed by fire never scared me. As a child in Spanish Harlem, I'd go to sleep with the lullabies of fire engines. It was a sound I had adjusted to. It was as natural as my father's snoring. At school, firemen would visit to give demonstrations of what to do if your house was on fire. “It's not the fire,” they'd tell us, “it's the smoke that will get you. So drop to your knees.” Still, you knew when someone had burned to death by the smell of burned hair. It was a powerful odor that could engulf a whole city block.

I remember a fire, nasty and vicious, that had taken the lives of seven lonely women. The mother of the brood was a beautiful lady who had been blessed with a long and lush mane that draped all the way down to her waist. This feature was inherited by her six daughters, who were only one year apart from each other. But that's where it ended. The daughters were not so easy on the eyes. By the time the girls were in their teens, four of them were extremely overweight and the other two had bad cases of acne, so bad their faces always seemed wet and slimy. The father had deserted the family by then, and people would cruelly joke that his daughters had scared him away. The girls were not popular, they stuck to themselves. At church I remember seeing all six of them sitting together, four of them stealthily eating chocolate as the sermon was in progress. I never spoke to them, because they were older than me at the time, except for the youngest, Aracelis. But I did like to sit one row behind them, because all you saw in front of you was this amazing jungle of hair. The image was perfect, beautiful and subtle. It was only when the congregation had to stand and praise the Lord in song that the cruel reality would hit you. The mother had hoped that one of her daughters would find a man and marry. She had spoken with the pastor, asking for answers. Why had God played a joke on her daughters? How could He tease her girls like He had? Who would take them? Who would marry them? The pastor suggested she exhaust all her savings on a used car and give it to the eldest. A man was sure to be lured, if not by the girl then at least by the car. The mother did as told. But the car was stolen, and soon the fire arrived, and none of them would ever marry. After the fire occurred, the five-floor walk-up they had lived in was cinder-blocked. The windows and doors were boarded. And it stayed that way, shut like a trunk, like a box hiding dirty secrets. But it is said that years later, when the neighborhood bounced back and the building was set to be renovated, when the first board was removed from the entrance, a thick and misty black cloud escaped, screaming. Those who were there said it smelled terrible. Those who were there said it smelled like burned hair.

O
ur Lady of Mount Carmel on 112th and Lexington is beautiful. Made of lime and stone, it's always cool inside, even in the summer. Eddie likes this church better than Saint Cecilia's on 106th Street, because it's closer to his side of the neighborhood. The side that was Italian. And now, like the rest of the neighborhood, you can only find pockets of its past.

I'm not dressed to be in church, and I'm holding my hard hat at my breast, as least to show some respect. I see Eddie by the altar, kneeling down, praying and waiting for the wafer to dissolve in his mouth. Next to him are four old ladies. Probably the same four who have been coming here every day, year in and year out, for this service that no one attends or deems important.

The mass has just ended, and I sit on a pew and wait for Eddie to see me.

A young priest walks by Eddie and hugs him. Eddie spots me and comes over.

He sits next to me, rosary beads still in hand.

“I grew up with his father,” Eddie points at the priest with his chin, “now his son puts things in my mouth.”

“Why you doing this to me?” I ask him.

“I always got lost in altar pieces. Crucifixes, stained glass, triptychs, murals. Christ dying alongside robbers.” I let Eddie ramble. This isn't a good place to complain about money, especially when I do owe him. Or maybe being in church is the best time?

“See over there,” he points with his chin again at a stained-glass mural of the three Marys. “As a kid I always wondered who had been Mary Magdalene's last client? It drove me crazy. Was it Christ? Drove me nuts. Just like this place drives me nuts. Look at it, Julio. People like me and you, those three.” I gaze at the three old women praying. They are dressed in gray and look like mice. “Then you have saints, prophets, angels, devils, demons all under one roof. How can you have all these opposites under one roof?” he says and I notice his voice is scratchy, like he has a cold.