Chango's Fire (3 page)

“I brought it for Ma'.” And just then I hear Mom get up and walk toward the living room.

“Mira, it's late. Where's the
vi-va-poru? Quien ha visto el vi-va-poru?”
Mom is looking for the Vicks VapoRub. I laugh. Whatever linguists say about Spanglish being invented in the street is wrong. It was invented in the home. By our parents, who weren't born in America or didn't come as children. “Where's the
vi-va-poru}”
Our parents never had a chance to grasp the English language. They just worked and worked and worked. With no schooling, they made English their own.
Pichon
for pigeon,
rufo
for roof, and so on. It's a language of family, of home, not street.

Mom sees the cat and forgets about the medicine.
“Que lindo, de quien es ese gato?”

“Ours,” I say. Mom takes it from Pop's arms.

Hot potato with a cat.

“It's hungry and skinny,” she says, then lifts its tail.
“Un macho.
Kaiser,” she holds the cat up,
“te vamos a llamar Kaiser.
“

“No that's a terrible name,” I protest, “that's not a cat name.”

“Let's call him Hector Lavoe,” my father says and we pay him no mind.

“Kaiser is a German king, Ma'.”

“No it's not.” She goes to the kitchen to pour the cat some milk. I follow her. The dishes are dirty. Mom looks at Pops and points at the dishes.

“You better start
dishwashando,”
she says to Pops and then tells me, “Is not a German king,” picks up a clean plate,
“ese nombre esta en la biblia.
” She takes the milk from the fridge, pours a plateful of milk, and places it on the floor.

“Kaiser?” I say. “I never read that name in the Bible.”

The cat starts licking the milk clean, like it hasn't eaten in ten years.

“Well it's there, in the Book of Job,” Mom says.

“How you spell that?
Cómo se escribe, Ma.'”

My father starts doing the dishes. This late, and he's doing the dishes. Why? Because like me, Pops can never say no to Mom.

“No se,
but it's in the Bible.” She strokes the cat as he drinks. “I've seen it.
Mira,
Trompo Loco was around looking for you.”

“What he want?”

“Nada,
I guess he just wanted to play.
Bendito,
Trompo Loco, he should just move in with us,” Mom says to me, not looking up, admiring Kaiser licking his whiskers.

“Barretto, let's call the cat Barretto,” my father says as he washes, “after Ray Barretto.”

“You forget about those old musicians and just keep
dish-washando,”
Mom tells him as she strokes the cat's fur.

Having both my parents up, I decide I might as well tell them that things are going to be tight.

“I quit my second job,” I say, and Mom takes her eyes off the cat and embraces me. Her hair smells of almonds.

“Graciasal Señor,
” she says. “Now you'll be a full-time student?”

“No, I'll still have to work, at the construction site,” I say. I know they had their suspicions about my second job, but they never asked me what it was. I see Pops start to nod and smile as he keeps washing. “I want to pay more attention to graduating next year. It's taken me seven years,” I say.

“Mijo,
” Mom says, “now see, see,” she says, pointing a finger at me, “now all you have to do is find a good girl, get married, have kids, come back to the Truth,
mira que el fin está cerca.
“

“Ma', please,” I say, and she gets a little embarrassed; because we had this discussion already, years ago when I broke away from the church.

“Look at what happened in September, those are signs, Julio.
Cristo viene y pronto.”

“Whatever, Ma'.” I'm not going to get into it with her.

“Then at least get married, let Christ come back and at least find you married.
Mira, que hay una blanquita, muy linda que se mudó aquí.”
Mom whispers about our new neighbor. “She seems nice.”

“Ma', please. You sound like Papelito.”

“Oh no, not that man,” Mom shoots the wall a dirty look, “that
pato es hijo del Diablo.”

“I like him, Ma,' and Pentecostals have their little weird shit, too—”

“Don't curse, Julio. Every time you curse the Devil takes a little piece of you.”

“If that were true, Ma',” I say, “there would be no Puerto Ricans. Come on, Ma'.”

She calms down. “'
Ta bien,
he's your friend. But why don't you make that
blanquita
your friend, too?”

I stay quiet.

“The thing is, those
blanquitas
don't clean their houses,” Mom says. “We may never be rich but we will always be clean. Our cup may be small but it will never leak. These women dress nice but their apartments are a mess. But I hope you find someone soon. You're almost thirty.”

“Jesus never got married,” I say. “I'm just following in his footsteps.”

“You're so funny today,” she smirks, and I await another of her favorite expressions. “Did you swallow clown for lunch?”

“Yes,” I say, “how did you know?”

“All I'm saying Julio, is I can pray
al Señor.”
Mom shrugs, looking at me, “I can pray that you'll get married, see the signs and come back to truth.”

“Keep praying, Ma',” I say,
“al Señor y al doctor chino.
“

“Mira cuidado,
” she says, knowing I'm making fun of her praying.
“Cuidado.
You can't talk to me like that, I carried you for nine months. So you can't talk to me like that. Nine months I carried you.”

“Oh yeah, Ma',” I say and lift her up, “well I'm going to carry you for nine minutes.”

“She's heavy,” Pops says, “like nine seconds is all you gonna make.”

I put her down after she complains.

“Mira que sinvergüenzas los do',
” she says, laughing.

My father cleans his last dish, wipes his hands dry on his shorts, and joins Mom, who is petting the cat again.

“Mira
Julio,” my father says, looking up at me, “I'm happy you're leaving that other job, too.” His stare holds my eyes. I know what he means. “You did a good thing.”

“Gracias, Pa'.”

“But your mother's right, you should get married.”

“You can't force marriage Pops.”

“No you're right, you can't force it,” he says.

Mom puts the cat on the floor and places her hands on her hips.

“Yes you can,” she says to him.

“No you can't,” Pops shakes his head.

“But if Julio was a girl, you'd then be forcing him to get married,
verdad?”

“That's different. A woman is different.”

“No it's not,” she says.

“Oh sí,”
he says.

“Oh no, señor,
” she says.

“Oh sí,
” he says, and I leave them arguing as Kaiser finishes his milk and starts sniffing around his new home.

I go get ready to shower. Maybe later get in a bit of studying for class tomorrow night. I leave my parents in the kitchen talking. My parents always talk in the kitchen. It's like their conference room. When I was a kid, the kitchen was always warm, even when there wasn't enough heat. I'd usually see my parents sitting at the table, with the oven door open, emitting its warmth at full blast as they argued, laughed, or just stared at the walls. The kitchen had food and water, and so it was the ideal room to discuss matters of survival, rent, family, God.

My parents had met during the glory years of salsa, when the neighborhood was full of people and not projects. My mom was the religious one, really. She loved singing hymns with that voice of hers that went high enough to break glass and low enough to make you shiver. My father, Angel Santana, could play the timbales like Puente. Okay I'm lying, no one could play like Puente, but my father came close. I have the tapes to prove it. My father played with the greats, though—Barretto, Blades, De Leon, Colon, Palmeri, Cuba, Feliciano, Pacheco, and
“el cantante de los cantantes,
” Lavoe. He was partying with Lavoe, when my father said,
“el Señor se me presentó.
” When the Lord appeared to him. Lavoe and Pops had shot up everything
“hasta gasolina,
and when we ran out of that, we cooked the Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet and shot that up, too.” Hector Lavoe was always late to his concerts, and many times it was because he was living it up with my father. All this hard living led Pops to fall into a deep depression. He stopped playing music and one day, while sitting alone in his apartment, ready to jump off the fire escape, my father asked God to give him a sign that He loved him. At that instant, he heard a knock on the door, and it was my mother, preaching with her fellow sisters, the Good News of Jehovah. Not only did he convert, he married Mom, who helped him kick the habit, and years later Pops even played his music at church.

They are a pair, those two. I love them dearly, and as insane as Mom can be and as wimpy as Pops gets, I never doubt their love for me and they never doubt mine for them.

Getting ready to shower, I hear my parents talk about helping me pay the mortgage. I hear my father regret how he threw his life away doing too many drugs. And that his disability check is nothing. Mom thanks the Lord for what we have and how her job at the hospital can help me pay the bills. They talk about fixing some of the bedrooms that are not fit for anyone to live in them. Especially the walls. What a mess. That will be expensive. Mom would rather have new wooden floors put in. That is expensive, too.

But they are happy. Especially now that I am doing the right thing. My parents aren't stupid. They know that I have done things God wouldn't approve of. But they never questioned me. And if I had told them, given them the choice, your son can be an arsonist and buy a place in five years or just work a nine-to-five job, go to church, and die paying rent?

I know what they would have said.

So I made my own choice.

Not just because I love this town but because I also know this town. And New York City, like the country it's in, is a place that promises you everything but gives you nothing. And those things that can't be worked for must be taken, conned, or traded for with bits of your soul and sometimes even the morals of your parents. In America, it's where you end up that matters, not how you get there. As long as you get there, no one asks questions. You don't ask. You never ask. And if someone does ask how you got there? It's usually a harmless person who never got anything, never got out, died paying rent as he waited for God to deliver him.

It's
payday in America,” the new boss, a small man with huge slumping shoulders, as if his arms weighed him down, hollers at the workers. “It's payday in my country and I want to hear English, Ennnnglish!”

Just a minute ago I was stripping the roof of a five-story walk-up groomed for renovation. It's one of five tenements lined up on 108th and First Avenue. They're beautiful buildings, one of the many that were set afire years ago and are finally being renovated.

Like the rest of the workers, I get in line to collect my pay.

We know this new boss is nothing like the old one. The other boss was kind and understanding. There is a nervous silence on the line. But I knew this about the job the minute Eddie offered it to me.

“James Steven Phillips,” the new boss calls out and a worker walks happily to collect his check. The boss stares at him.

”
No habla
English?”

The Mexican worker just smiles at him.

“You tacos,” the boss hands him his check, “are stupider than the niggers ever were.”

I'm sandwiched between Antonio and a new worker, a real white guy, not a phantom but a white man of flesh and bones who keeps cursing under his breath.

The boss yells out another Anglo name, and another Mexican worker walks up to get his check. “No English, too?” The boss gives him the check. “Ah fuck it, at least you work, not still angry about the past.”

On line, Antonio whispers to himself in Spanish, knowing I can hear it and understand him.

“I didn't come to this country to be an American. I came to work.”

I don't answer Antonio. I just nod.

“Vincent Pennisi,” Antonio's named is called. He goes to get his check. “A satellite dish for your house in Mexico. Pick up
Baywatch.
Learn English,” the boss says, laughing, and behind me the white guy loses it. He barges to the front of the line.

“Mario DePuma!” he yells. “Just call my name and give me my fucking check!” the white guy demands.

The boss smirks at him.

“DePuma, right? Mario DePuma,” the boss says, fumbling for the guy's check. When he finds it, he doesn't hand it over to him. “You must be a very important man, Mario DePuma. So important, you have to actually be here in the flesh.”

Mario looks up, shrugging his shoulders in embarrassment.

“I got a parole officer with a hard-on, threatens to show up at any time, you know.” Mario reaches behind his ear for a cigarette.

“So what you are telling me,” the boss says, “you actually have to work, just like these tacos here?”

That right there tells me that whoever got Mario this job isn't anyone important, like Eddie. Mario is just a favor for someone's brother, cousin or nephew.

“Hey, I was told I would work for real. But I wasn't told it was gonna be with all these fucking Mexicans.” Mario glows incandescent, you could see the green veins in his neck. “Since when do we work with Mexicans?”

I don't know how long Mario had been locked up, but he is Rip Van Winkle waking up in an East Harlem he is not familiar with. Undocumented workers and yuppies are the rage. Both groups live in boxes, apartments that had been cut up to make more units, charge more rent. Only yuppies don't have to worry about the INS knocking at any minute and kicking them out.