Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Seventeen): Stained Glass on the Ground

Part 17: Stained Glass on the Ground

by Armando Ortiz

One day Pedro was on the second floor of the church sweeping and picking up debris. After a few hours of gathering pieces of drywall and splintered wood, he decided to take a break in one of the rooms. He went inside and slightly opened one of the windows that faced the alley and noticed that the kids were all in a circle. There were two kids in the middle of the human circle punching each other. The memory now is quite vague but it certainly was a fight, because at the end one of the contestants was bloodied and crying. It makes one wonder how the actions of others have a more profound effect on the viewer. Those kids probably were not aware that they were being watched, nor were they aware of their reality. To them it might have been a fight, just a fight, where there was a winner and a bloodied loser. 

Maybe it is one of those things that one will never really know. A lesson that is being acted out in real life. How many life lessons had he participated in unconsciously that taught someone else or left a lasting impact on some random person without him knowing? He couldn’t remember who had won or if the two had been too bloody to be able to point out who was the victor. One thing is for sure, at that moment the tears that flowed down the cheeks of the two kids, blended with the blood, creating a gorier scene that looked like condensed raspberry syrup, resembling the very pieces of glass that he’d come across outside the church grounds, Pedro never forgot the scene. 

Bus Stop: Sketches of Los Angeles

Bus Stop

by Armando Ortiz

It was a foggy morning, and the mocking birds were singing. Yolanda could hear their coos and tweets a few minutes before the alarm clock began to ring. The digital numbers looked like red matchsticks lined up and organized to read 5:30 am. She awoke and stretched her arms a bit as if she were a cat that’s been napping for hours under the warm sun. Her feet touched the hardwood floor and felt the chill of the long night. The bathroom was next door and there she took a shower. Steam engulfed the bathroom and clouded the windows and mirror. As the towel cleared her legs of water droplets she remembered his words.

Standing in front of the mirror and moving the towel around her body, his words echoed within the walls of the home, “Every time I look at you, I see the pouring maple syrup I’d put on my morning waffles.”

The long slow words with that deep voice brought a smile. After brushing her teeth and putting on some lotion, she made her way to the front door of the small bungalow home, opening the door and reaching for the newspaper. Dew blanketed the grass with beads of water, the car windows were covered with a thin layer of grey moisture, like the frost that would build on the windows of the school bus. She walked back inside, and across the living room where there was a bookshelf at one end that contained numerous books, along with a collection of photographs that had been taken in the past fifteen years.

The routine was normal procedure and after a coffee and toast with raspberry jam, she would dress up, step outside once again to get in the car. The car was a simple sports sedan purchased a few years back when she’d decided to treat herself to something nice. Today though, the car wasn’t turning on. It wasn’t something new; it usually would start up on the third try and eventually stutter and warm up to a fine hum. The battery light on the dashboard flickered a pale red signal, the voltage gauge was very low. The keys kept being turned inside the ignition, but the only sound coming from the car was a tattering tat tater that suggested that a different mode of transportation would have to be used. She returned to the adobe-like house, and called her brother, Bryce. He was sleeping and lived about an hour away, so asking for a ride was out of the question, but she’d ask him to come check her car in the afternoon.

The phone call startled him awake, and as the eyes began to open and his head turned and peered out the window - a hummingbird was piercing a scarlet painted bristle brush plant. As the tiny bird found the sweet nectar it noticed a sudden movement from within the apartment room, and then a set of eyes began observing. The ruffled spec of feathers continued with its own routine.

“I’ll be there as soon as I have breakfast,” Bryce’s voice soothed away any worries.

Now the main concern was getting to work. She walked out of her one story house again. It was barely 6:30 in the morning and the fog wouldn’t disappear till around 11am. The cool humid air caressed any one’s face and brought a slight shiver to all living beings, though by the afternoon the weather would warm up, so she decided not to take a sweater. Opting to take the bus to downtown Los Angeles, she walked three blocks south to Slauson and looked left and right to see where the nearest bus stop was. She turned right and walked towards La Brea noticing a black phoebe jumping on branches and making bird sounds. The trip downtown usually took 30 minutes driving on the street, but today it would probably take 45 minutes to one hour. Luckily before leaving the house for the last time, she had called the office and informed the head supervisor of Child Services of arriving late. It was ok with him and told her to take her time. She was always on time and the few times that she’d missed work she’d actually showed up but visibly sick, so she’d be sent back home to take a rest.

Yolanda arrived at the bus stop and sat down on the wooden bench that had been painted a deep forest green. The morning traffic was picking up and with every red light more cars would make a unified stop. Traffic was heading east. Quick glances were taken of the people driving their cars or the passengers that were inside. She’d already seen a few kids that were being driven to school. Some didn’t look that excited to be heading there, while others leaned their heads on the glass that allow spectators to see them dozing off with their eyes closed. Some of the parents driving the kids wore uniforms of all kinds, and she wondered if they too were going to work or coming back from a long night of work inside some air conditioned building that perpetually hummed. She hadn’t really put much thought to her attire and to standing at the bus stop, but soon began to hear whistles coming from indistinct places, and felt as if she were in that Dali film, being watched by a thousand eyes. She grabbed her bag and pulled it closer, and pressed it to the body as if it was a child’s safety blanket.

The solid red light brought traffic to a stop.  Some of the faces inside turned to look at her, and despite the closed windows and all the different barriers separating the driver from where she was sitting it created uneasiness from within. She imagined her clothes being torn and thrown to the ground. She continued looking towards the East, and occasionally would turn to look West to see if the bus was coming, but none was in sight. She caught the glances of the stares and for some reason the image of a salivating creature with giant eyes crossed her mind, like a street cat creeping up on an innocent mouse. She tried to focus and decided to get up from the bench, and noticed the long wooden planks covered in dew. Now she stood behind the precarious bus stop bench. Her silver wristwatch read 6:48. Only 10 minutes had passed. Reaching into her leather bag, she pulled out a small booklet, opened it and wrote some lines, and quickly put it back inside. The thought of standing behind the back rest and covering herself would bring a temporary halt to the sounds and eyes that were disrobing her would immediately disappear, but from the other side of the intersection there were occasional honks.  Maybe it was a person late to work and trying to maneuver through the slow cars.

A grey conservative suit clothed the body, and her finger nails along with lips were covered in a deep strawberry, his favorite color. He’d call her his chocolate covered strawberry when wearing anything that was a deep red. Her eyes were like those found in the mosaics of Pompeii. Being of medium height, with additional 3 inch heels gave people the impression that she was much taller, which brought unwarranted attention. 

Suddenly the rasp of a broom made her turn around to see who was there. The gas station attendant was sweeping the ground and picking up wrappers and receipts left over from the night’s customers. They both made eye contact. He briefly stopped and waved after he recognized her. He’d been working at that station for 4 years and knew all the regular customers of the neighborhood.

“Good morning! How are you today?,” he said.

“I’m fine, just running a bit late to work,” Yolanda replied.

“What happened to your car?,” he inquired while walking towards her. He wore a blue work suit with an orange traffic vest.

“Aw, it wouldn’t start up, so I called Bryce to take a look at the thing. It had been giving me some problems for the last few months, but I never thought it would die on me,” she seemed a bit resigned to the fact now.

“Well, all problems have a solution ma'am. Look, the bus is coming,” he said as he pointed to the approaching bus.

“Thanks Pedro, I’ll see you around,” she turned around and stepped inside the bus, but not before waving goodbye. As she turned around to face the driver, and boarded the bus, her booklet fell out of the purse landing on the sidewalk. Some days start off slow, but end up being long journeys.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Sixteen): Hoover Elementary School

Part 16: Hoover Elementary School

By Armando Ortiz

The events detailed here will sound somewhat fantastic and unreal because the picture that many people have of Los Angeles is of Hollywood and all the electrons that orbit its center. In this story, Hollywood only represents a sketch, a backdrop, a giant prop studio of noises. The lives and hardships of the people that were a part of Repuesto’s were outside that orbit. He grew up in what is now considered Koreatown. Even as he was growing up the only traces of Koreans were those that did their grocery shopping at the local supermarket. Mexicans, Salvadorans, Guetemalans and some Hondurans made up the majority of his social exchanges. It was during the mid-1980s though a steady change was happening, mainly with the small businesses that proliferated Vermont and Olympic. Slowly people were replacing shop owners who’d been there for years and setting up business signs that could only be read if one were versed in hangul.

One day, his fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kim, told the classroom that she wanted every student to bring a picture of “lenscaip.” No one in the whole class, especially those that spoke only English or Spanish knew what “lenscaip” meant. For days on end, as he recalled, she went on and on, like a scratched vinyl record with her “lenscaip” but to no avail. It turned out, years later, as an adult he recalled, that what the teacher wanted was a landscape photograph or picture, but all that Repuesto could do at that time was come up with a pig. So, instead of bringing a picture of “lenscaip” he brought a little toothpick holder shaped like a cute little piglet. It was Repuesto’s unconscious giving the message that the hollow ceramic represented what was not there, the living trees instead of toothpicks. The wealth of life in the forests, represented by the little pig, and the silence contained in the hollow body of the ceramic creature. Nature’s loud silence was kept inside the belly of a porcelain animal.

But then again it might have been his attempt at giving her a gift because when she sat behind that brown desk she would spend a good part of the day picking the inside of her mouth with a toothpick, and with one hand making an ill attempt at covering the meticulous digging. She wore braces, and from his chair he saw the aqua blue ligatures and the infamous white rubber band that held them in place. She was a short version of 007’s arch nemesis, the steel toothed Jaws, but with the unique appearance of a bobbing head toy with jet black, short hair that curled upwards slightly 3 inches above the shoulders. A mirror was used to look at her reflection the other half of the time, which was constantly. Mrs. Kim apparently had a huge house somewhere in some nice place that was not anywhere near the school or the neighborhood we lived in. That year, he learned the word “pabo seki'' and “pali pali,” from his classmates, and discovered that “kim” was also seaweed, and that with rice and veggies one could make “kimbap.” 

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fifteen): D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other

Part 15: D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other

By Armando Ortiz

About three of us almost broke down that day. It might have been four, but I can’t exactly remember. Mariela was the one that actually shed a few tears, but they dried before streaking all the way down her cheek. We had finally graduated from the D.A.R.E. program. None of us in the class had signed up to take the bi-monthly class. The officers came and talked about their experiences in the field and the dangers of drugs. I knew drugs were bad, heck, these eyes had seen people smoke crack, and observed crackheads go at it on the sidewalk of our neighborhood, but could not conceptualize drugs in a family or my life. The cop wore a deep blue uniform, and her long hair was kept in a bun. She was Hispanic, with light brown skin and green eyes, which made you think of Veronica Castro every time she visited our class. Her last name was Garcia. Officer Garcia would stand in front of the classroom and talk about life as a public officer and give us many reasons why not to turn to illegal substances.

After the program was over we were going to get awarded a black T-shirt that had the acronym D.A.R.E. emblazoned across the front of the shirt, with bright red letters. If you wanted a shirt and if you wanted to complete the program you had to give a speech/pledge about never touching drugs. Well, the day came and all of us had to go up to the front of the class and each had to promise to never do drugs and explain the dangers of drugs. Two classmates whom I rarely spoke with standout from that day. The first said that he would never do drugs, because drugs could kill people, but before he could complete the word “kill,” he jerked a bit and his face, especially around the eyes wrinkled up. He had dirty blond hair, and his parents were from El Salvador. He liked eating cheese pupusas and his favorite sport was kickball. He was one of the best in our class. The next up was Evelyn. She went up there and stood tall.

“I will never do drugs because drugs hurt your body, and my mother’s cry,” right after she said “my,” she looked at the audience, which was about 25 six graders, who were all too familiar, but now she looked lost, like a deer that was about to get slammed by a car.

She had a desperate look, and those hazel eyes looked side to side after she completed her first statement going on to say, and with a slow tone, “Drugs were dangerous because it hurts family and make grandparents cry.”

Evelyn was from Guatemala, from the highlands of Quetzaltenango, and a bit shorter than the rest of the students, but was smart, witty and always full of smiles. She would tell jokes to make us laugh, but on that day those marble eyes glazed up and got unusually watery, and suddenly turned completely black. After completing her speech she managed to get back to the seat, not one tear fell. Only sniffing once or twice, but we convinced ourselves that it was probably some type of cold that she had suddenly acquired.

It was my turn. I had not given this activity much thought. We had been told weeks prior about this mini-ceremony and that we’d get some T-shirts but we would have to make a pledge. So, the time for me to go up came, “I promise to never do drugs.” I began to choke up, but continued with my talk.

Other students, who made up the crowd, just saw the image of their classmate in the flesh. He promised never to do drugs and to not do bad things, like get drunk because it made the family unhappy. Though it didn’t seem like he choked up, and no one noticed his eyes glaze up. At that instant the cop tilted her head and wondered. Though her body posture had changed a bit she was too preoccupied in fulfilling her duties to really pay attention to what was going on or maybe she was observing.

At that moment as he gave that speech the class before him was silent and appeared motionless. Ms. Hopkins, to the right, was silent and heard our pledge. She wore a white Adidas sweater, and light blue Adidas running shoes. She sat on her desk and took notes. The class was still there, silently listening to all the other classmates go up.  No one really knew what the other was experiencing or going through. We were all inside that shoebox of a room, in the maze of our minds, and the momentary experience of being social, and yet though we were all there, none of us really knew each other or our very selves. Too many things were happening to really comprehend the gravity of life and all its consequences. We were all forced into that situation, as speakers, audience, and public servants, and yet none of us could really protect the other from themselves or their temporal realities. At that instant the handcuffs of the police officer were made obsolete, her gun was powerless, the ears of the audience were blind, and their eyes dumb to the sounds that the children saw in their homes, and the strange and incomprehensible situations that would continue to occur.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fourteen): Los Angeles Pompeii

Part 14: Los Angeles Pompeii

By Armando Ortiz

I walked across campus today, from the student union out to the new library. Every step I took brought back reminders of when I’d walk the dry and brittle field. The Southern California summer sun shone on me and the perspiration on my body transported me to that time, when days were hot, and afternoons were spent playing baseball, practicing catch with brown leather gloves, and drinking from the water fountains.

Today, a layer of grey concrete and black asphalt covered it all, like the sweat that covered the body after running up and down the bleachers that were there, the field was not there anymore, but was with me (but my feet were walking on the grass).

Layers of memories and strata of former realities lie beneath, unexposed to the eye and deep as the Grand Canyon, like the strawberry shortcake that I’d cut for my birthday. Like a time capsule that silently waits to be uncovered, unearthed at once as we walk past once beaten paths.

It seemed like walking through library stacks and passing encyclopedias of instances that were covered within the new structures. Then I imagined giant Caterpillar engines tearing through walls, crumbling adobe foundations and old rail tracks, and within the creamy icing and layers of cake I would find pieces of strawberry. Birthday celebrations and a time of carefree childhood came to be. Rows of dusty tomes describing a Los Angeles that was, with its collective history of gestures and looks, with smiles and frowns, with unknown pine boxes covered in dirt and memories hidden in that forest of the mind like a Pompeii of the American dream, like a desert mirage that dissipates as we arrive.

For an instant, I think of those Shanghaied from foreign lands, desperados enslaved in native shores, of the families that came from distant countries, traditions casting shadow of when the elderly were cared for and plates of food that were always shared. Images instantly conjured up by the mind, but I return to the present, and remember the child that didn’t fear the sun, and the home-runs that were scored during the endless afternoons.

The real libraries of this city are edited by film crews, and bulldozed by giant yellow tractors, reconstructed by unregistered names, making sterilized versions of what was and isn’t, projecting a collective memory of the population, but my experience is here on this land and on that invisible and forgotten field. Memories are like shadow puppets to the mind, every surface has unseen layers of personal experience and every detail is hidden behind a blinding silhouette.

Potter fields talk to us with multi-colored beaded work, Jade bracelets, and Mexican silver coins, click clack against each other inside Chumash baskets, where golden Mormon books, adjacent to iron skillets, porcelain pipes with sage, and tomahawk smokers filled with opium adorned by the scattered burial incense of tobacco, veiled over by cement sidewalks that are imprinted with acronyms of local hoods.

Hieroglyphs spray painted on the walls of crumbling plastered walls testifying of the presence of earth’s gypsies, shadows of the past casting images with the present light on nameless graves where mummified miners lay forgotten. What memories did they take into the eternal time clock?

Walking across campus also brought back that tumultuous time, when glass pipes were used and broken, and jitteriness was a vexing reality, mother would come home tired and unharmed at half past eleven, after the sirens and flashing red lights disappeared from down the street. Unknown shadows would merge with darkness stabbed by the hand of death that quickens time. The glare of the television had us captive and its luminosity kept us safe from the wails of night, its images somehow magically protected the home.

These memories unwove themselves with every step that I took and loosen up the dyes and the fabric that have always been there, like the time two junkies started fighting in front of the apartment and the hollow acoustics that could be heard outside the window, when a head bounced off the concrete sidewalk and the person laid motionless. We would order pizza to be delivered to the unsuspecting neighbor next door.

Now there is more of everything everywhere, throngs of students here and there, countless pedestrians exiting the subway, like a faucet that gushes people. Maybe I’m just getting old, becoming nostalgic for the past, somehow though the memories are there within the layers of experience and within the brush strokes of life’s moment, everlasting, the child inside the adult me, but I am here now.

We walk through every valley on this earth, and in death voiceless bones cannot be silenced and sacred artifacts, like holy temples that stand on perfect space, speak volumes of truth to me and everyone else.

The science building is not there, nor is the library, only a barren grassy field where time went by slowly because the memories we made on fields of grass, will carry us through the golden meadows of time becoming holier than thou art and thou was. And even when we return to the slides of our youth that have been replaced by condominiums images, like Lazarus are revived. It is in those visions, conjured up by memory, despite places covered over by a new strip mall, where we hear the hollow clang of the aluminum bat that sent the ball flying over their heads and it will be like it always has been, with the sun shining over our withering bodies.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Thirteen): Morning Quake

Part 13: Morning Quake

by Armando Ortiz

Back in the mid-eighties there was an earthquake that happened early in the morning during school hours. The ground began to move side to side, like a rocking chair, and I began to run, but running was like racing across an old suspension bridge. Then the teachers began to yell to get on the ground, which I immediately did. The swaying seemed to last forever, the ground seemed to rock up and down, the telephone cables were swinging round and round but without anyone jumping over them, and the red rubber balls seemed to be confused and could not stop rolling in circles. The earth was churning and something was brewing under the earth. That day we came out early from school. I had to wait for an hour or two on the playground. My cousin came and picked me up, we both hurriedly walked back home.

Childhood: Poem

Childhood

by Armando Ortiz

As a child mother took him to the park

and there she bought two bags of popcorn.

One bag was to feed pigeons and the other

they had to share with each other.

They walked along the cement trail and through a tunnel

to get to the sandbox where the swings and slides were.

The metal structures were huge

and glistened under the gigantic lamp of light.

Those scaffolds of youth and imagination

now bring back old memories as he drives by

of when he would let go of mother’s hand

and under her watch lose himself in the playground.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Twelve): After the Rain

Part 12: After the Rain

By Armando Ortiz

He walked outside to smoke a cigarette, and downtown LA’s skyline could be seen at a distance to the east from where he stood. It had rained earlier so the view was quite fresh and crisp. The lights at a distance flickered and he could see the old neon sign that read, Westlake Theater, suggesting to people that a long time ago the swap meet where everyone shopped had once been a venue for black and white films. A white Datsun could be seen at a distance driving west towards Vermont, and a thin haze of grey clouds hovered over the cityscape.

Standing on the roof of the apartment building, he lit his drag and suddenly heard symphony music at a distance. He looked around to see where the music was coming from but couldn’t quite make out its location. The music sounded important, with its violin and suspenseful melodies, conjuring up images of a distant love and present royalty, as if some queen or prince had decided to visit the neighborhood and the only proper thing to do was to put Beethoven or Mozart. None of that was happening though; it was a girl down the street that was celebrating her 15th birthday, a quinceanera. He soon spotted some kids dressed in long sleeve shirts that had been neatly ironed, wearing grey vests and pressed black pants, the shoes they wore, like the puddles by the sidewalk, reflected the liquefied amber color of the street light above. Somehow he’d linked the orchestra music to some embedded feeling or idea that he’d assimilated in the past. He wasn’t sure though.

Wheelchair Basketball: Sketches of Los Angeles

Wheelchair Basketball

by Armando Ortiz

We’d been in the area before, south of Adams and somewhere in between those old two story homes made out of wood in the early 20th century. Three men were sitting out on the porch talking and hanging out. We hadn’t come to see them though, the address was for a lady who was bed ridden. I guess she was inside. We parked the white van in front of the house. The weather was hot and dry, like a clay oven, so it might have been late-September, but I can’t exactly tell that this is Los Angeles. The house was white with brown molding. The lawn was made up of green patches, but it was mostly a carpet of golden crabgrass. We stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the house. The keys, jumbled together, made sharp jingles.

“Buenas tardes,” said one of the old men.

“Buenas tardes,” we replied in unison.

“Is Betty here?” Juan asked.

I wasn’t supposed to be on the delivery, but lately I’d been tagging along after work. It was a part-time job, and afterwards I didn’t have much to do those days.

“She’s inside,” one of the old men said, quickly swinging his arm as if he was hitchhiking and aiming his thumb inside the house.

Juan went inside the house and I stayed outside with the other men. Santa Ana winds usually added hot dry air to the sunny weather.

“Where did you learn to speak Spanish,” I asked the old man.

“From my wife,” he said.

He stood up and walked towards the front door that was already open.

“That’s her picture over there,” he said, aiming at the fireplace that had been painted ochre. Above the mantle were pictures of a young couple.

I looked inside the living room towards the area pointed out. Black and white pictures of a young black couple were there along with some trophies and other family pictures. One of the photos stood out, and seemed to radiate a warm aura - they looked really happy. His hair seemed to be slicked back and she wore a very conservative dress with cotton trim. It might have been the day they got married or maybe a time when they were celebrating one of their birthdays.

“Is that your wife in the picture,” I asked.

“Yes, that was taken about thirty years ago in New York,” he said, “She moved there with her parents when she was 12.”

“Where did she learn to speak Spanish?” my curiosity seemed to reveal itself like the sweat bead on the forehead.

“She’s Panamanian,” he quickly responded, adjusting his cap. “I am originally from Harlem, but after the Nam I moved to LA.”

Here was a man who could speak Spanish and who had married a Central American woman. Now I look back and consider all the endless possibilities and strange combinations that exist out in the world. Every valley has a story to tell. I was too young to really understand this at that time.

One of his friends suddenly said something about a wheel chair not moving. I was busy looking down the quiet street. It seemed that light and heat soaked everything in sight. Tall slender palm trees bordered the edges of the sidewalk every few meters. The wind made the long palm trees gently sway and bend to the side. Most of the houses on the block looked kept, but it wasn’t like the houses up in the hills, where gardens and lawns were worked on by gardeners. Here it seemed that people had jobs and worked on their homes themselves, none of that hiring help type of thing. I turned around and woke up from my daze. The man was in a wheelchair, had a plain white t-shirt on, and wore some really dark shades.

“Where is the problem?” I asked.

“The right wheel on the front,” he said pointing straight down to the wheel.

“Hmm….lemme see.” I kneeled down and noticed a bunch of hairs that had accumulated on the sides of the wheel.

“When I come back, one of you gentlemen will have to tip him back a bit so I can unscrew the hinge off the wheel,” I said as I turned and started towards the van.

I ran to the van, grabbed the oil can, and searched inside the tool box for a 10. By the time I got back Juan was exiting the house, and said he was going to go get the new mattress from the back of the van. I returned to the man on the wheel chair, and noticed that a scar ran from his forehead all the way to his left cheek.

“I unscrewed the wheel and began pulling all the grey hairs and brown polyester fibers out of the bearings.” Suddenly his voice inquired.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Oh, just a few months,” I replied.

         “Well you’re doing a good job,” he said

I looked up, smiled and said thanks. Then I noticed that the area that had the scar looked lifeless. 

I immediately focused my attention on the task in hand, and wondered what it was that I had seen.

“Were you guys born in Los Angeles?” I asked as I sprayed the center of the wheel with DW-40.

“No. My buddy as you know is from New York, Jack over there, he’s from Cleveland, and I’m from Oakland. We did time in Nam, and after returning to the states we stayed in contact. We all sort of wandered into Los Angeles and never quite left.”

For a moment I imagined bullets flying everywhere and bombs exploding by the side of roads. I’d heard that people would say “hit the shit!” when attacked by sniper fire. Apparently the Vietcong didn’t put boobie traps or landmines where they took a shit though that meant that the soldiers would carry a putrid smell with them afterwards. It was either crap on their bodies or death.

“How long were you guys in Vietnam,” I inquired.

“We did two years,” said the man in the wheelchair.

The sun was hot, and even though we were in the shade the concrete steps and the work made sweat beads gather around my face like morning dew. I soon finished and put the wheel back. I looked up and told him to test the thing. I took a glance at the scar once again, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was that I was looking at. I pretended not to notice. Soon his friend helped him down the steps and now he was swiftly moving around.

“Hey Jack, throw me the ball,” he hollered.

The man who sat silently picked up an old leather basketball that was lying on the porch and threw it at him. He caught it without a hitch, and placed the ball on his legs. He had long brown arms and slender hands. He moved aggressively through the lawn and reached the garage area. His forearms were still chiseled. He began bouncing the ball and making baskets. Then he began to swirl his wheelchair round and round. I was in awe.

“Good job kid!,” he hollered, “Now I can go on whipping ass at the courts. Mother fuckers have been running their mouths about me no longer playing. I’ll show them.”

He returned, once again struggling through the dry grass. He rolled up next to me and smiled. I smiled back. One side of his face was sweaty, while the other wasn’t. It seemed that his left side had melted, but that was strange. An opaque pastiness on the surface of his left side could be seen. He turned around, faced the street and told his friend to put him back on the porch. His friend wore a mechanic’s shirt with the name Donovan stitched on the chest area. The men looked weathered, and sun beaten, but their spirit was still intact. A lot of stories must have been shared between them. The wheels bumped on the concrete steps and made a final thud once on the wooden porch. The old man adjusted something on the waxy side of his face. Up to that moment I hadn’t noticed, but his left side seemed out of place, but after he’d adjusted his sun glasses it seemed his face was symmetrical again.

Juan suddenly emerged from the house with an old hospital mattress and told the husband that the bed was as good as new.

“Le puse nuevo colchon y le ajuste los resortes con un poco de aceite,” he told the man.

I guess they already knew each other. Juan had been working for the company for ten years.

“Ah, muchas gracias amigo, hey, tienes buen asistente, mira al Damian ya puede ir al gimnasio a jugar basketball con los demás cabrones!” the old man retorted.

“What can I say, he’s learning from the best!,” replied Juan smiling and giving a couple of loud laughs.

The man in the wheelchair said thank you and gave me a thumbs up. I smiled back. We all smiled. The sun kept showering us with its rays.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eleven): Saturday Services

Part 11: Saturday Services

by Armando Ortiz

After the church had been fully restored service began to be held there four times a week. One day, out of the blue, some people showed up for the Saturday evening service. A couple walked inside the church and were quickly guided by the ushers to sit on any of the two columns of wooden pews. Churches never refuse entry to anyone who might be in need of a heart change, and even in the deepest recess of the heart there always lies a desperate voice that seeks answers in all kinds of places. The inner workings of the congregation usually didn’t apply to visitors so people were always welcome.

They headed towards the front and sat on the bench that was before the altar. The first row seats were usually reserved for young adults, musicians that performed, visiting preachers and wives of those running the show. On the altar was an old wooden pulpit with a holy cross. A plastic stained glass decorated the front of the standing oak box with a brass outline seemed to hold the multi-color jigsaw puzzle in place. We sat on the left like all the men, and the girls like the women, on the opposite side of us, on the other column of pews. The couple sat a few feet away from us on the front row. The pastor was preaching to the audience and saw the man and woman that had just sat down to his right. The women of the congregation who were to his left were glancing at the recently arrived couple. They somehow seemed out of place.

They just sat there, listening intently to the sermon being given by the evangelist. As soon as they sat down the man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the sweat from his bald head, it was as if someone were cleaning a ball peen hammer. Their eyes were locked on the pastor’s every movement and occasionally would slightly turn and talk into each other’s ear. The lady’s hair was gathered up into a bun. Grey earrings with onyx beads dangled from her earlobes matching her silvery roots. They both had a stoic appearance, and seemed to be entranced by the preacher’s sermon. The preacher was fully aware of their presence but he was used to sudden appearances and change in audience attention, so he knew the cues. The man had a gold earring on his left earlobe that contrasted with his dark skin, like the gold foil that is used to wrap a chocolate coin. We couldn’t hear their conversation, and don’t recall what was spoken that night, but I do remember that after we got back home and turned on the television the news was showing a man that had been caught for a crime south of San Pedro and Adams. His wife or girlfriend wasn’t there. It was only him, with hands behind his lower back held in place by handcuffs. There were times when people in the church, after lengthy songs of worship and prayer, would receive the holy spirit and speak in tongues. All we could hear from them were rushed whispers.  

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Ten): Church Services

Part 10: Church Services

by Armando Ortiz

I grew up going to a Pentecostal church and our pastor was Bernardo Marquez. He was from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Occasionally a pastor from Panama would also visit and give some memorable sermons, his name was Bolivar Guevara, from Panama. He lived in Fresno, and the first time my family went to Fresno was to visit his church. The homes in Fresno were big with a low profile, and the trees were tall, giving lots of shade. The other times that I remember going to Fresno we ended up going to Yosemite National Park, while the last time we went there, as a family, was to his wake and partake in the burial of his wife.

As a kid, church was a big part of my life, not because I personally chose to go, but because my parents seemed to like going. I still have pictures of myself at 2-3 years old standing in front of the church that was on what used to be 9th street, a block east of Alvarado. Sometime later the congregation moved to Pico and Bonnie Brae street. Sunday service was sometimes held in MacArthur Park. Back then the park’s name didn’t conjure up images of bums, drug dealers or dead bodies. El Piojito was still across the street and the street vendors had yet to claim the corners as theirs. McDonalds was across the street from the park on Alvarado. Inside the burger joint was a giant mural of ancient Mexica designs eating hamburgers. Meso-American hieroglyphics had been turned into clever advertisements and all I understood was that these gods or mythological figures weren’t feasting on venison, wild turkeys or tortillas but on burgers. Those murals left a deep impression on me, and ever since then I’ve haven’t been able to come across any comparable images as those put there. Talk about clever marketing and using culture to promote a company’s image. Being near a park would always guarantee great returns to their investment. Our church was in the business of saving people, so in terms of evangelizing and reaching out to lost souls, Sunday was a good time to go to the park and proselytize because everyone one that lived in the surrounding area went there to relax.

At times it seemed that the only permanent location for church services was at the park among the patches of crabgrass and the palm trees that stood tall. The members always formed one giant circle and sang songs like, Alabare, Alabare, which in English means, I will worship, I will worship. As a kid, the park was always a better location than being inside the confines of a room where the preacher would occasionally give a loud burst of praises. One also had to stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down, and repeat the cycle about five times before the preacher gave his Sunday service. Nevertheless, the congregation, La Senda Antigua, kept moving locations and kept adjusting to the needs of its congregation. Though the church made up a cohesive group of worshipers and the preacher made the nucleus of the congregation, as a group, we were more like a lone electron trying to fit into the larger flow of the city’s beat.

The church soon moved to another locale, which was on Alvarado and 3rd. At this time the church began to focus more on trying to raise money to buy its own property. We’d have a permanent location and we wouldn’t have to be moving around. The building where we had recently moved to was small, but big enough to fit the eighty or so members. It seemed like this place was geared to house a small shop, but people always find ways to make sanctuaries out of random places, and landlords never mind renting out space when money is tight. For many years after we moved from that location the place functioned as a pawn shop, a flower shop and now it's a thrift shop selling 80’s vintage clothing at dirt cheap prices.

Occasionally, we would meet inside a church that was located on Grand View street, between Olympic and 9th street. This church was owned by a Korean preacher, who mainly used it to minister the congregation he led. He rented out the space to our pastor for weekday services and occasionally for weekend services. The church, from the outside, looked like a big craftsman house, but once inside the house became a real church, with balcony seats, and a basement that had been converted into the children’s Sunday church area. The floors were all covered with a deep burgundy carpet, and the stairs at times seemed to take you into another world. Christian movies were shown in the main auditorium most of the time. As a kid, images of those films would occasionally haunt my mind. There was this particular film of a man that was a race-car driver that ended up dying but somehow returned to visit family. He realizes that he is going to hell because he hadn’t accepted Jesus into his heart, so he decides to return and warn his family.

It seemed that the places where we met for church were indirectly showing me the surrounding landscape of what I called home and would be driving through as I got older. Weekend evening services were always memorable because we had service for kids, and food was sold to raise funds for other church activities. At the 3rd street location the ladies of the congregation, who always cover their hair, would make different snacks like nachos or atole de elote. They also, on a regular basis, made pupusas, which are handmade tortillas with cheese in the middle, but with that special touch of Central America flavor that was topped with pickled cabbage and a light and spicy tomato sauce. My parents usually bought one for my sister and I, and were always left wanting more.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Nine): Conjuring up Monsters

Part 9: Conjuring up Monsters

by Armando Ortiz

My fourth grade class was not immune to superstition. We’d occasionally hear stories from different kids that lived near the school that the house next to our school came alive once the sun set. Noises were heard from the halls, abandoned rooms let out a slow hum, and a lot of booze was spilled by the cholitos. Some of the kids would tell us that if we stepped inside that empty shell of a house we wouldn’t make it out alive. Another story told by other classmates was that of Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary could appear in the bathroom if you stood in front of the mirror and called out her name several times. The mirror would turn into a window and she’d come out of the glass and snatch kids away. One of my classmates even had the good fortune of escaping but not before she changed one of the shoes he was wearing into something completely different. Because of this, it was believed that Bloody Mary did, in fact, exist. I sort of believed the story, but there was something within me that made me go to the public library and get to the bottom of this.

One day, after school was over I went directly to the local public library nearest to my house, which was on Olympic. Eventually the library became a dental office and finally an aquarium. Today that place is painted in navy blue with gold fish floating on the concrete blocks. Occasionally one spots the acronym of the locals that claim that as their territory and who’ve seem to have dug in deep roots. The Korean man that owns the aquarium has no clue what was there before he moved in and who are the thugs that spray paint on his wall.

I walked into the library and asked the librarian for help. Inside were books, and the mellow yellow glow from the lights made the walls, books and furniture have a dark beige aqua tint aura. The librarian looked ancient, but was very kind and helpful. I wanted to find out more about Bloody Mary, if she had really existed and eaten her kids and drank their blood. Of course what I was undertaking was tantamount to learning things from the occult, but I was not frightened away, somehow I had this belief that a book would have concrete information about this so-called Bloody Mary. The book was opened by the librarian. Her slow moving fingers that looked like dried mango peels directed me to the section that talked about Bloody Mary. In that small section I discovered that she had been the Queen Mary the First of England, and that she had had several miscarriages, which at that time I wasn't sure what it meant. Then right below that was some information about a drink that involved some vegetable juice and alcohol.

What was odd about this whole superstitious event was that it permeated into our regular student lives. Bloody Mary could be summoned in the bathroom of our school, and could even change your shoes to give you a good scare. I tried calling Bloody Mary a few times, and I was really scared. The times I tried it I expected glowing red eyes on the other side of the reflective glass but only my own reflection could be seen. I prayed before calling out her name, and I was glad that nothing happened afterwards.

What was a story about the Queen of England  doing in our elementary school? Well, the only explanation is that we were students in the US and we were growing up in a community that had its strange beliefs of “La Llorona,” “Judas,” “El Cucuy,” and “El Chupacabras,” but we were also, by osmosis, being exposed to the greater culture that existed. Of course all the names mentioned above plus Blood Mary created fear in us. We’d debate amongst ourselves trying to figure out the overall profile of the Blood Mary. Some said that she had long bloody fingernails that were dripping in calves blood, while others just mentioned the eyes that glowed red or green. No one ever really had a good view of her because they were too scared to stick around and see her come out of the mirror. Yet, it left one wondering. None of my classmates ever did disappear because they’d called her name. 

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eight): El Piojito

Part 8: El Piojito

By Armando Ortiz

My dad once told me a story. It was about how my mom got swindled out of fifty dollars. It took place a half a block down the street from where I stood that day. In front of the Botanica del Pueblo, on the corner of 7th and Alvarado, is where a man and woman desperately approached my mom and sold her a gold nugget. They told her they needed the money in order to fly back to their hometown. It turned out that the stone had been painted over with gold paint. The tricksters probably bought food and laughed at how another poor and naïve country bumpkin had been fooled once again.

El Piojito or in other words The Tiny Lice was near that intersection and directly across the street from MacArthur Park. Its logo was a cartoon of a smiling kid who had two antennae coming out of the top of its head. The store wasn’t the size of a louse, but it was a nice way of referring to a store that was small. One could buy all kinds of things inside. El Piojito was a downsized version of a third rate mall and we went there every other weekend to buy stuff like pans, slippers, shirts, detergent, deodorants and maybe a couple pairs of pants. One day, I wandered out of the store and decided to wait on my mom by the sidewalk. Out in the open things moved and the hum of cars could be heard.

I saw pedestrian traffic pass bye, and observed people float on towards unknown places. You could also see the street vendors that peddled their mangos, cacahuates Japoneses, and pepinos with sal and limon. It all seemed like water coming out of a faucet that pours onto the sink. The swish of the movements was like artificial white noise to my ears. I stood outside the entrance, looking across the street where three giant fountains were spewing water up into the air. The mist of the water was picked up by the wind and it slowly floated down settling on the one natural lake where ducks still waded. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a group of people all huddled together.

My curiosity got the best of me and I walked over to see what was happening. A game of hide the ball was taking place. The man in charge of the game was using baby food caps, colored in blue, and a tiny foam ball that looked like it had been used for so long that the yellow had turned brown. He kept repeating in a loud inquiring voice, “Adonde esta la bolita, adonde esta la bolita!?” He was dexterous like a magician and shot words rapidly. His eyes goggled every which way resembling those stuffed bunny rabbits. Occasionally he’d stretch his neck and turn to left and right as if to see what was happening on opposite corners of the street. The foam ball hovered on top of the black velvet cloth that the man had placed over his makeshift platform. He moved the caps swiftly, but I could see where the ball was going. The tiny inanimate object was directly across from my eyes. The sidewalk everyone stepped on was speckled with black spots of bubble gum contrasting with the grey cement. For some reason the sky that day was a deep blue, unlike any other sky blue I’d ever seen blanketing the city.

       

The man’s skin was a red mahogany. He wore a brown shirt that had white stripes running horizontally across his upper body. His hair was uncut and large curls were forming. He’d been out in the sun for longer than a day. I couldn’t quite tell if anyone was winning or losing money. I wasn’t playing nor could play because of my age and because frankly speaking kids weren’t the target for these hustlers. It was other people they were trying to get and who knows if they were successful at what they were doing. I found it fascinating though, and twice was able to guess where the ball was. Of course with those types of games odds were drastically stacked against the person betting their money. Looking back now I imagine that the man running the game most likely had some watchers and some people standing guard in case something funny happened.

I don’t remember what happened after my mom stepped out of the store. We probably walked to the car, got into the little Datsun and rode back home. I do remember telling my mom that I’d guess the location of the ball twice. She just smiled and swayed her head left to right in disapproval. “Did you win anything?” she inquired. “No,” was my reply. Her arm extended outwards and with her finger pointed up to the sky and reminisced out loud on that Tuesday afternoon that she left her town.