Old Spanish Days
F A PATROL cAR or the Immigration came along there would be no one to look at but him. Amado hurries up State Street to work. It's always so empty, the shops not open yet, nothing moving. Jesus has been stopped, just walking, twice in the last month. But Jesus tries to look tough. And Jesus has his Green Card.
There are banners stretched across State for the Old Spanish Days parade. The other lavaplatos say that on Cinco de Mayo only the Mexicans celebrate, but for Old Spanish Days the whole town comes out.
Amado crosses the street to avoid the Fremont House. The old Anglos gone to drink are up and out at dawn, and sometimes they follow him and say crazy things he can't understand. They have their own tongue, the drunks, just like the ones in Durango.
The Fremont is the only brick building left on State. An earthquake took the others long ago, and when the Anglos rebuilt they decided to copy the original Californio settlement. Everything is adobe, or made to look like it. Stein's Drugstore, The Meating Place, the Great Lengths beauty parlor, Fat's Chow Mein, all the real-estate and travel agencies, the surf-and-turf restaurants. There aren't any Mexican restaurants on State, they're mostly wooden buildings across the freeway, on the East Side.
OLD SPANISH DAYS 1978
says the huge green-white-and-red banner above Amado -
jVIVA LA FIESTAI
A patrol car eases up the deserted street. Amado makes a tunnel with his eyes, walks stiffly into it.
Beginning at eight o'clock at the Sambo's restaurant downtown, comes the squawk from the sound truck cruising the West Side, the Old Spanish Days Fiesta Costume Breakfast. Enjoy huevos rancheros, hot chorizo and other authentic favorites. Costume competition commences in the parking lot starting at ten-thirty. Viva la Fiesta!
"Que pasa, nano?"
Luis stands outside the Golden Calf waiting for him, smiling and holding the brooms. Luis is younger than Amado, maybe seventeen, but has been up for three years and tries to act older. They sweep the empty parking lot.
"You hear what happen to Ortega?" Luis always sweeps too fast, raising a lot of dust. He does everything too fast, Luis.
"La Placa. They got him."
Amado had been there, waiting in the back of the car in front of the liquor store when the fight started. If the cop hadn't been right around the corner it would have been nothing. Amado saw him first and yelled, and the driver, who was illegal too, screeched away.
"I hear they pull him in," says Luis.
"That's right."
"I wonder what they do to him?"
Amado shrugs. "We should have gone to Rubio's. I told them we should." He wants to remind Luis that he was there.
"Rubio charges more."
"Maybe. But you go down lower State at night, you just ask for trouble."
When the parking lot is done they vacuum the dining rooms and the bar. It's Amado's favorite time at work, the restaurant all to themselves like they own it, like the soft, red carpet and cane furniture and leather bar-counter belong to them. The liquor and food are kept locked till Mr. Charles comes, so all they can do is pretend. Luis sits at a corner table in the bar and snaps his fingers for service till Amado comes over and gooses him under the arm with the vacuum. Sometimes they find money customers have dropped, but the night shift gets most of that.
… La Misa del Presidente, at the Old Mission at eleven o'clock. Benediction by the Mission padres and the finals of the Miss Spirit of the Old Spanish Days contest. Admission free. Viva la Fiesta!
"Put lettuce in box," says Mr. Charles. "Put box in walkin."
He always talks that way to them, Mr. Charles, even to Jesus, who can sound like an Anglo.
"Then do chicken. Then do eggs," says Mr. Charles. He stands checking the produce off as it comes in from the delivery vans. "Armando do too. Armando help."
After correcting him the first dozen times, Amado has given up. It's like he's deaf to whatever they say, blind to the fact that they know where all the produce goes already. He calls Luis "Ruiz" and Ramiro "Ramirez."
"Your shift forgot to put the roast beef in yesterday," he says to Motown, the black cook. "We had to eighty-six the French dip."
"I'll have Ross put one in this morning."
"See that you do," says Mr. Charles. He talks regular English to Motown but never looks at him.
Amado and Luis transfers heads of lettuce from bags into plastic containers and lug them into the walk-in. Mr. Charles comes in the early morning to check the deliveries and then leaves till dinner. The night people get him all shift. Mr. Charles gets nervous if he sees anyone standing still and can invent new jobs on the spot.
"Take meat to freezer," he says when the butcher's truck arrives. "Then get old bottles, put in box, we send back. Mucho work today, hurry, hurry, mucho work!"
… at the Beef and Brew, 1631 State Street, the annual Lions' Club Enchilada Luncheon. Guests in costume admitted half price. And on Embarcadero del Mar this afternoon, do your Old Spanish Days shopping at El Mercado, the Old World open market. All items are muy autentico and the price is right. Viva la Fiesta!
"Estoy rendidol"
Jesus blows in a little after eight. He's the senior lavaplato and Motown is in charge of the time cards so it's all right.
"All last night I'm out with mi ruca," Jesus says. "Too much bullshit. Din get any sleep."
"Which one was it?" Luis always wants to hear.
"Patty. The blond. She gonna wear me out, put me in the grave before my time. Good mornin, campesinol" He ruffles Amado's hair.
Amado tries to ignore him.
"I see you wearin shoes today, man. That's real progress. They not gonna believe it when you go home, tell em about paved roads and hot water an evrythin."
Amado has been up almost a year, used to live right in the city of Durango, can order a meal and read his pay slips in English, but still Jesus picks on him. Of course Parrando is newer and Jesus picks on him too, and he picks on Luis for being nervous and on Rudy for being fat and Motown for being black and Chow for being Chinese and old and on Ross for being stupid. Jesus picks on everybody he's bigger or louder than, which is just about everybody.
Jesus sings with a mariachi group in town, sings high and piercing and full of emotion. Even in rush times, with the radio on full blast and the dishwasher going and the disposal grinding and the cooks and waiters shouting threats at each other, Jesus can make you wince with his voice.
"I'm singin tonight," he says. "First at the courthouse and then at the Steak-and-Grape and then at the Museum for the Daughters of the Golden West."
"Bunch of old ladies."
"Hey, they pay us good, Luis. You come by an see how it's done."
"When you at the courthouse," says Amado, "sing a song for Ortega."
Jesus makes a face. "That's true, then, huh? They got him up there?"
"That's true," says Amado. "I saw him catch."
"Pendejo. He should of known better. You can fight over on Castillo or Monte Perdido and they don bother you. But lower State, watch out man. Too much bullshit, this town."
"Well they got him."
Jesus scowls.
"How come you not singin at the Park?" asks Luis. "That's where evrybody gonna be. "
"Cause they got some shitkickers from down South, Luis, that's why. Probly some neighbors of Amado's."
"Charles say Luis got to stay late today," says Amado. "Cause of Ortega's not here. Cause of Old Spanish Day."
"Old Spanish Days," says Jesus. "Too much bullshit."