The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (35 page)

“None of it makes sense,” Franklin said.

Jaime nodded. “We have to pretend it makes perfect sense. We think that way in the United States.” Jaime laughed at his own answer. Franklin laughed, too. They laughed for different reasons.

“Why is your name Franklin?” Jaime asked.

“That's what my mother named me.”

Jaime smiled at his answer. He was only a kid, fifteen years old, and already he'd seen everything. But he still didn't know what was behind all the questions. “Yes, I know, but why did she name you that? It doesn't sound like a name from someone who comes from El Salvador. I mean, like my name: Jaime. My parents are Mexican so I have a Mexican name, but ‘Franklin'?”

Franklin nodded his head. “Well, my mother joined this new church in our town, a church the gringos started, and one of the elders said Franklin would be a good name when I was born, so my mother named me Franklin like the elder said, but I never went to my mother's church, but I liked my mother, and all I have left of her is the name she gave me.” He paused, “If your mother was Mexican, and you were born in the United States, aren't you American?”

“Yes,” Jaime nodded, “I'm an American.”

“Do you like being an American?”

Jaime popped his knuckles. “Yes,” he said, “it's very nice.” He lied, but what else was there to say.

Franklin smiled and nodded.

Jaime pictured Franklin as he had looked when he let him in the door that morning. His dark Mayan features impressed him. He carried himself with ease—grace—but when he spoke he almost apologized for it. He showed up at the door saying, “But you don't have to help me if you can't, I understand, it's just that someone said you might help me and they gave me your name and told me where you lived.” Franklin had apologized several times before he had even walked in the house. Jaime offered him a cup of coffee and watched in amazement as he poured four spoons of sugar into the cup. He looked around the living room and asked, “Are you rich?”

Jaime thought a minute and said, “Yes, I'm rich. Not rich like the people who own banks but rich enough.” If anybody else had asked that question he would have laughed.

Franklin was immediately drawn to all the paintings on the walls. Jaime noticed him staring at them and asked him if he liked them.

Franklin nodded. “Yes, I like them. Did you pay a lot of money for them?”

“No, my brother gave them to me. He's an artist.”

“Will he teach me how to paint?”

“I'll ask him if you want.”

“And how much do you charge for helping me?”

Jaime thought that Franklin already knew there was no charge since whoever told him to come had also told him his services were free. Perhaps he felt better if he asked the question. “Nothing, I don't charge you anything. You just have to come and sign all the papers, and then when we're ready, my wife, the lawyer, will represent you in court and you can both go before the judge and the judge will decide whether you can stay or not. But once we put in your application you won't have to be hiding from the Migra anymore.”

Jaime thought of their morning interview. He looked at the words he'd dictated on the yellow legal pad. He asked himself why he did this, and why he let people like Franklin interrupt his life. He shook his head. He was tired of analyzing himself, and he was sick of other people's insights into his motivations. His mother said it was because he was a good person; his friends said he did these “things” because he was guilt ridden; and his sister said he had a need to do “radical things.” “What's the use of asking myself why I do things when I know I'm going to keep on doing them?” he said aloud. He shook his head in disgust. “But they never let any of them stay, anyway. They always get shipped back like unwanted mail.” He arched his back and stretched his arms out towards the ceiling. “Maybe this time, we'll win. Sometimes asylums
were
granted, after all. Why shouldn't it be Franklin this time?”

Franklin should be out playing football, he thought, or discovering girls or something like that. He should be doing all those things that fifteen-year-old boys do. Instead, he's hiding from the green vans of the border patrol and coming to perfect strangers asking them for help. He looked at the yellow legal pad and re-read the first paragraph. He made notes on a separate sheet of paper. “I'll need some dates,” he whispered to himself. “I'll have to make him remember the exact year, maybes won't do for these kinds of cases. He's going to have to remember the exact day his teacher was killed.” He took a few more notes and then put the pad down. He fixed himself a cup of coffee and stared at his brother's paintings. The colors were soothing: Indian blues. He wished Franklin could live inside one of those paintings and live in peace. “Goddamnit! Why did they have to go and name him Franklin?” He took a drink from his coffee cup and fought the urge to have another cigarette.

“What in the hell is a Mayan with a gringo name doing in El Paso?”

David Meléndez

First Prize: Drama

(It is late night on the Gerathy Hill. A small campfire is lit which dances on
TONY
and
MIGUEL
who squat down and smoke cigarettes. Various books are scattered about them along with bottles of wine and beer. Both boys are nineteen.
TONY
is short with a stocky body and a thin mustache. His smile is wide, happy and he looks upon
MIGUEL
with hope.
MIGUEL
is tall, thin, with a trusting face but hard eyes. He is brooding and slightly nervous.)

TONY:
(Putting down a book.)
There are more, Miguelito. Isidro and Georgie-Boy are set. Everyone knows the safe houses if something goes wrong, and if you're caught, not a word without the attorney around.

MIGUEL: I know, I know. I don't want to hear about the plan anymore.

TONY: If they catch us, they are going to kick our ass. But no names, no addresses and nothing about the Gerathy Hill.

MIGUEL: I know, Tony.
(Pause.)
It's quiet tonight. It's hard to understand how things get this quiet. I know something's happening. They're just whispering now.

TONY: You're tired, Miguelito. Tomorrow it will happen.

MIGUEL: Really, they're just whispering. They're whispering it in the ears of their lovers right now. They're whispering about tomorrow. The word's getting around.

TONY: Come on, Miguelito. It will all happen tomorrow.
(Pause.)
I have to tell you something.

MIGUEL: I don't want to talk about the plan, Tony.

TONY: This is not about the plan.
(Pause.)
Miguelito, after this summer, regardless of what happens, I'm leaving City Terrace.

MIGUEL: But, Tony, we have no place to run. Not with all this …

TONY:
(Interrupting.)
I have to go.
(Pause.)
I'm leaving for Cuba.

MIGUEL: You can't, Tony.

TONY: I have to go. In a way you're right, Miguelito. Even if everything succeeds tomorrow, there will not be a place for me. I can tell. I see it in the others.

MIGUEL: Tony, everyone listens to you and they follow our …

TONY:
(Interrupting.)
All I do is help with the message of City Terrace and you're right, Isidro and Georgie-Boy and the others listen to me and they follow what I say, but I am a dark shadow to them. They are afraid of me.

MIGUEL: No they're not, Tony. You're hard on them, but they understand.

TONY: Listen to me, Miguel. I am a dark part of their hearts that they are scared to face. They know I am necessary, but they are still afraid. But you, Miguelito, you have my rage, but it grows in you in a different way. It blooms tender and gentle in you. (
Pause.
) Most of the time, they look at me frightened. I am a demon weed to them.

MIGUEL: Tony, we did this together. We made the plans and…

TONY:
(Interrupting.)
It's inside of you now, Miguelito. It's inside of you. This thing has a heart now, Miguelito, one I could never give it. I leave no heart. I pass and leave no trace except for the cinders of my campfires.

Tomorrow, Miguelito, if there are cinders on the street, walk through them and leave them alone to soak up the blood of the others. Your mother left, Miguel, and your father's a bastard.
(Pause.)
You have this hill, and tonight you have this fire, and tomorrow you will have the cinders.

MIGUEL: Tony, you can't leave. Not with so much happening. Without you …

TONY:
(Interrupting.)
There is you now, Miguelito. That I is why I can leave. This is not my place.

MIGUEL: I don't want to lose sight of you when we're out there tomorrow.

TONY: You won't.

MIGUEL:
(Pause.)
I took my things from the house tonight when my father was gone.
(Laughs to himself.)
Fuck, I'm calling him “my father.”

TONY: You're right. He's not your father anymore.

MIGUEL: I'm worried about my little brother.

TONY: Fabian is a good boy.

MIGUEL: He came up to see me today. He brought some sandwiches from the house. I could've cried.

TONY: He'll be alright.

MIGUEL: He took a big chance. You know how the old man is about food and money.
(Pause.)
When he came up, I looked straight at him and, I swear, I couldn't remember what it was like to be ten years old anymore. I'm glad I got out of that house. I'm going to stay here now, in the tent.

TONY: You can't stay here after tonight.

MIGUEL: But the hill …

TONY:
(Interrupting.)
They'll come here looking for you. Somebody will get caught and they'll talk about the hill. They'll wait for you. They're going to know about you, Miguelito. You'll have to hide in the projects.

MIGUEL: At Maravilla?

TONY: That's too close. They'll look there first. Go to Ramona Gardens. They'll protect you. I told Isidro and Georgie-Boy. They'll look for you. They'll go anywhere you go.

MIGUEL: This is going to be big, Tony.

TONY: I know.

MIGUEL:
(Pause.)
What we're doing doesn't come from a song or a prayer,

Tony. It's instinct. Isidro and Georgie-Boy have that. You have that too. TONY: Yes.

MIGUEL: Things can become so sentimental around here. There can be nothing sentimental about what we do tomorrow. Nothing optimistic.
(Pause.)
We'll never rest again.

TONY: You have to tell them that.

MIGUEL: Who?

TONY: Everyone at the bottom of the hill.

MIGUEL:
(Pause.)
They don't need us to talk. They need to see us strike up a furnace, and they have to see the light.
(Pause, then plays with the fire.)
I don't want to talk anymore, Tony.

TONY: We are going to be born tomorrow, Miguelito.

MIGUEL: I don't know, Tony. But they're whispering down there.
(Laughs to himself.)
You know those plans we have will last for a few minutes. When we're down there and the smoke comes up and fills our eyes, we'll forget everything.

TONY: That's what I mean, Miguelito. They'll follow you. Even if everything fails, they will look for you.

MIGUEL:
(Pause.)
What can I say to console them?
(Pause.)
They need to hear these whispers.

(BLACKOUT)

(It is the following morning at Los Compadres, a tired little bar in City Terrace. The bar is filled with young men off from work. They are drinking beer and playing pool for money. The bartender,
LOUIE
, is bored reading a folded newspaper and is unaffected by the chatter of the boys and rancheros playing on the jukebox.
LILLY
, the waitress, is beginning to age but still has a sturdy, attractive body. She sits at the far end of the bar, smoking a cigarette slowly. From time to time she sways to the songs on the jukebox. It is late afternoon and soon the sun will be going down.)

LILY:
(After a long drag.)
Is there anything good in there, Louie?

LOUIE: Nothing.

LILLY: All those words and there's nothing?

LOUIE. There's something about the guy who killed King.

LILLY: Nothing about César Chávez?

LOUIE: Nothing today.

LILLY: Goddamn it. Anything about those walkouts?

LOUIE: Nothing.

LILLY: Nothing about those kids from Garfield High?

LOUIE: Not today, Lilly.

LILLY: Goddamn it! Then what are these newspapers writing about?

LOUIE: I told you. The guy who killed King.

LILLY: Those newspapers are missing something, Louie. Don't ask me what but something is happening out on those streets. Two days ago I was walking by the Boulevard Theater, and I heard some students whispering out in front. I don't know what they were saying, but they were planning something. You could tell.

LOUIE: How's that, Lilly?

LILLY: You can just tell, Louie. The way they looked around the streets, like they were looking at an old mountain they used to climb. Like someone took away their mountain.

LOUIE: There's no mountain near the Boulevard, Lilly. That's an old street, and in case you can't tell, it's as flat as any other street in town.

LILLY: You know what I mean. You know the way young people look when they dream, and you know what they look like when they get angry. They scared me.

LOUIE:
(Smiling.)
You're beautiful, Lilly. You still bring in customers who want to come in and look at your legs. You can sell anything to anybody when you wear that outfit. You can even sell the pope a double bed. But you're starting to show your age when you talk like that.

LILLY: I get the feeling something's going to happen.