Juan Rulfo's World: A Literary Diorama

Juan Rulfo's World: A Literary Diorama

by Armando Ortiz

Juan Rulfo is one of the best short story writers of the Americas, and his one short novel ranks as one of the best. He stands amongst the great short story writers of all time, and will be read for many years to come. 

Rulfo was born in 1917 in Jalisco, Mexico. His father was killed at 6 years old, and four years later his mother died. In his early teens he lived in an orphanage located in Guadalajara. Despite these challenges he managed to study accounting and went on to become an author and salesman. He received a fellowship that enabled him to focus on writing which gave birth to two books.

His stories take place in a time of great instability and violence, The Mexican Revolution (1910-1920) and the Cristero Wars (1926-1929) during which poverty became the environment from which his stories emerge. The violence he describes must have been born from the experiences of that time. Violence, was and still is very common in Latin America stemming from politics. It's a theme that many people around the world can understand. 

His whole written canon is made up of two books: a collection of short stories, El Llano En Llamas (The Burning Plain and other short stories) and one short novel, Pedro Paramo.  There is another book that was published, a collection of photographs that he took throughout Mexico. I’d heard his name in passing from an acquaintance. He was very familiar with Latin American writers and told me that there was one particular character found in Rulfo’s book of short stories, El Llano En Llamas, that stood out, Lucas Lucatero.

Reading his works one easily gets lost in the web of his prose which creates magical settings inside the mind. His descriptions and emotions blend to become enigmatic of what word play ought to be. His stories set the bar high and are a template for good writing.

In Rulfo’s world people are always coming and going. Going to places unknown and never seen before. Characters come from locations with strange names and sites where prayers go unheard. Protagonists are always passing through towns where the inhabitants seem more like wandering spirits in purgatory. The people in his stories have condemned themselves or have earned the condemnation of others.

Furthermore, the poor travel by foot or donkey, while the rich gallop around in horses. Ghosts, like Sisyphus, are condemned to carry firewood on their backs on paths that lead to nowhere- forever. Horse riders become the embodiment of the pale horse rider found in the Book of Revelation, and are not given the sacred sacraments of priests. Salvation is inches away but never acquired. No one is immune to the sins of humanity, and to the consequences of violence. Heaven has become a mirage that exists only in delirious dreams.

Though not spoken, each character’s perception, hand gesture, physical movements and journeys to certain places indicate their destiny. Fate becomes an individual’s collective decision and collective future. Bandits are shot at night in the midst of a robbery. Murders are swept away by torrential rains or are relegated to haunt towns forever.

Choices that were made at a time of heated passion, anger and depression become part of the condemnation. Death becomes imbued with sentimentality and regret. Revenge almost completes the cycle of justice but the circle is never really closed. Vengeance leaves the door open to more misfortune. Incest brings about hidden desires and outward shows of affection towards the dead through hollow rituals.

Exploitation is a byword for the impunity by which people live. Killers are condemned by their own crimes and their sleep becomes one where ghost talk and victims scream at night. Violence is the accepted norm. Blood, the sacred liquid that is supposed to cleanse, just gets coagulated with dust, dirt and sweat infecting the body. The sick are relegated to sweat it out in their own mental sweat lodge. Clinging on to the hope of going to the bigger town to pray to the holier relic.

Despite the suffering that many characters live through, every one of them wishes to keep on living. Yet when the time comes to confront death everyone tries to run away. Like Antonius Block, the Crusader in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, they try to play chess against death and make excuses to prolong the game. 

Wishing to hold on to life a bit longer, the sweetness of sautéed onions with garlic and olive becomes delectable to them. Morning toil becomes dawn’s morning glory. The gun to their temple makes his characters kneel down and beg for life. Their existence is rough but also bearable in Rulfo’s diorama. Nature in his world takes on dimensions that are linked to ancient Mexican mythology with the recent experienced lives.

Reading through his stories you arrive at small towns where natural forces punish its dwellers, as if the Aztec god of tlaloc slithers around in the background. Streams seem to feed the wild weeds. There is hardly any water that’s drinkable, and irrigating the cornfields is a precarious endeavor. Fruit that is harvested by the shadow characters isn’t sweet. Bitter is the taste of life. 

When the rains come, it pours, rivers awaken and can take small adobe homes down canyons and arroyos. The possessions of poverty stricken families; a cow, a pair of pigs and occasionally a relative; are washed away. Life is harsh, but nature seems to be the cruelest of them all.

This harsh natural backdrop becomes a vivid canvas in Rulfo’s narratives. His descriptions of the environment and climate are active and alive, portraying the sun as hot embers hanging over the heads of everyone. When it rains the tears of his characters’ eyes flow as fast as the savage rivers. The sky is blue, and lifeless. Even in the oppressive heat the sky remains cold and silent. 

The winds walk down corridors like lost children at the mall, wailing for something. Waking life becomes an itch that has no origins and no cure for it can be found. Sleep becomes torturous, because the weather is uncomfortable and secrets can’t get lost in the darkness. Night quickly disappears and the rising sun quickly wakes everyone up from their slumber. 

With the unrelenting heat of the moving sun and the trampling of dirt roads, dust rises. The floating sand particles enter through the mouth and nostrils of the characters making breathing, even for the reader, difficult. Life is tough and complex but his stories are easy to understand.

Even after death spirits wander in the stories in their own hell. Infinity is not something worth talking about or worth discussing because the present moment is too bleak and death so certain. It's just a matter of time before we once again wake up and have to deal with the realities of life. As a result superstition seeps through in many of the religious scenes.

Superstition becomes an outlet of hope where there is none. Saints bleed tears of remorse, because no god exists within Rulfo’s stories. Virgin statuettes seem to shed tears but are artificially placed there by priests in the morning. Idol’s hands spread like branches accepting all, listening to the incoherent cries of believers. Carved dolls cannot see mourners because of the thick incense smoke and their own wooden eyes are blind to injustice. Rulfo, in essence, walks the reader through the Valley of Death and tells them that the journey never ends. 

In a way we see the complexity of life through Rulfo eyes. He reveals that humans have complex desires and needs and sometimes are expressed through violence, and superstitions. Yet, a strong sense of human spirit is found in his stories. His characters at times depend on the blessings of priests, blessings that money can and cannot buy. Individuals that have to be forgiven but are not or cannot. 

Everyone at some point wants to be forgiven for something they’ve done. Remorse, even in death, is what many spirits continue to carry. Even in the bleakest of scenes you can hear the traces of hope being whispered throughout the stories. Life can be harsh, with violence being relative around the world, and humans always adapting to the changing winds of new ideas versus old traditions. Yet, it's the heat of the day that causes the nectar of flowers to drop like water onto the ground. Experiencing Rulfo’s writing is like entering an entire self contained world where the forces of nature are unforgiving and harsh, and yet people continue to persist in life.

The Golden Hour of LA: Free-verse

The Golden Hour of LA

By Armando Ortiz

The glow of the sun still bursting through the incoming night

lights still reflected on the side of the northwest facing glass,

contrasting an orange glow to the dark silhouette.

The city lighting on, adding a delicate air of earthly stars

low beam headlights reflected from the traffic signs.

A flow of geese form an incomplete V crossing the sky

and at a distance the trails are dry and the color of clay.

The chaparral covered hills turning into unknown shadows,

white, purple, and black sage merging with the wind.

The golden hour quickly fades into the evening

peaceful serendipity as the instance lingers in the clouds.

Kayaking on the Los Angeles River

Kayaking on the Los Angeles River 

By Armando Ortiz

Have you ever floated down the Los Angeles river, catching sight of the traffic on the 110 freeway from within the shadow of a willow tree? Kayaking the Los Angeles River was a unique and memorable experience that exceeded my expectations. A few years back, I had come across an article or news segment on how kayaking was now a possibility on the L.A. River. Kayaking on any body of water was not on my itinerary until recently so I decided to give it a try. With a camping trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks on the horizon, I wanted to gain some practice and training in kayaking so that could be a possible option on the lakes over there. That’s when I discovered the LA River Kayak Safari, which offered local kayaking tours, classes and activities on the river. Last year’s unprecedented rain falls really made me decide to follow through and sign up for one of their excursions.

The LA river, which originates from the northwestern edge of the Angeles National Forest, the Simi Hills and Santa Susana mountain. There are other areas that would drain into the Los Angeles River. According to the owner of the company, Mt Washington and the surrounding hills also contributed as a water source to the river. The areas along the river were peppered by Tongva villages, Native American tribes, by the time the Spanish missionaries began exploring the areas. The river was a  vital water source for the Tongva, providing food like fish and nuts from trees, shelter from from young willow trees and tule whose branches and reeds made up the frames of their dwellings, and resources for tools, like grinding stones, and the raw materials necessary for basket making were found along the river. Exploring the river allowed me to appreciate the historical and cultural significance of this natural waterway. It also combined what I’ve learned in books and articles with a hands-on activity that puts me in an outdoor setting.

Our kayaking adventure began at Oso Park, where we met our guides and completed the necessary paperwork. We then chose bikes to ride to the staging area, which was located about two to three miles north along the river. This unique mode of transportation added an extra element of anticipation to the experience. It was also my first time riding along the Los Angeles river and the weather was perfect. At the staging area we were given a brief lecture on the Los Angeles river, and ancient villages that once existed in the area, as well as information on the local frog population that continues to endure, and when the river began to be contained within concrete walls and channels. Afterwards, we were given paddles and instructed on how to handle the paddles, basic movements to turn left and right, and ways to turn once in the water, after which we strapped on life vests and were ready for the adventure.

Once on the river, I was immediately captivated by the serene beauty of the surrounding. Native plants create a green cover, along with oaks and willow trees giving an occasional respite from the sun. The LA River is home to a variety of birds, which include white egrets and blue herons which stand elegantly and more like kabuki dancers along the water. A black necked stilt greeted me along the way as their sounds broke the solitary silence that was experienced at times. The occasional sight of fish jumping out of the water added to the sense of nature’s enduring presence. Being my first time kayaking, I focused on trying to paddle correctly and to be in sync with the pace of the group, but also took moments to appreciate the wildlife and scenery around me. Ducks, geese, other waterfowl added to the vibrant life of the river’s ecosystem making any signs of city life a distant backdrop.

In conclusion, kayaking the Los Angeles River was an excursion that provided both a recreational activity and a deeper connection to nature. It offered a glimpse into the historical and cultural significance of the river, as well as a chance to appreciate the diverse birdlife that is hardly ever noticed, and natural beauty it harbors. The LA River Kayak Safari provided excellent instruction and guidance through the trip, making it accessible even for a newbie like myself. Along the way, I received tips on maintaining balance in fast currents and was reminded of the proper way to hold the paddle. As I paddled along the river, there was a profound sense of peace and tranquility, moving with the flow and discovering my rhythm. The gentle sway of the willow trees, and the graceful presence of egrets and herons all contributed to a feeling of harmony and deep satisfaction. Kayaking the LA River was more than an adventure and a safari; it was an opportunity to disconnect from the bustling city life and immerse myself in the natural wonder that our city has to offer. I highly recommend this experience to anyone looking to explore a unique aspect of Los Angeles and immerse themselves in an outdoor adventure and make a connection to our natural environment.

Moon Over the High Desert: Road Trips from Los Angeles

Moon Over the High Desert

By Armando Ortiz

Driving on the Pearblossom Highway, anytime of the year, can be a magical experience, especially during a full moon. It offers a serene and reflective journey with breathtaking views of the Angeles, the San Bernardino and distant Mojave Mountains. Allow me to briefly explain why driving along this road is a worthwhile endeavor, especially during a full moon while heading east.

To begin your journey, you drive up the I-5 from LA and take the 14 north. Once on the 14, you continue until you hit Pearblossom Highway, where you exist and continue driving on for a while. Along this route, you pass by Palmdale, Little Rock and the town of Pearblossom. As you maintain a steady speed of 60 mph, the engine purrs like a cat, and a sense of surrealism washes over you. Thoughts of Victorville and visiting relatives become distant memories. Personally, I often take this road when I visit my relatives or when  there’s a major accident on the I-15 north, necessitating a detour in that direction.

While driving this section, especially in the late afternoon, I recommend playing your favorite tunes and savoring the moment. As the moon begins to rise over the Mojave Mountains, it casts a radiant glow akin to a giant spaceship emerging from the earth, evoking a sense of awe in the surrounding Joshua trees. The moon’s luminous light gradually spreads west, illuminating desert mountains. Its glow paints shadows of Creosote bushes and sagebrush on the ground. The spectacle begins to take place late in the afternoon, just before the sun sinks below the horizon, when the sky transforms into a deep orange hue that rapidly fades westward.

Taking a drive through this frontier, one of the few remaining desert backcountry environments in Los Angeles County, is an experience worth having throughout the year. Residents of LA should make it a point to drive along this highway at least once. Here, you can witness the desert fauna rarely seen in the city. The branches of the high desert trees resemble human arms stretching towards the heavens, frozen in time like statues holding the sky, waiting for the moon’s gentle touch. These trees seem to celebrate and honor the moon’s ascent from the depths of the distant mountain ranges. This yucca plant found here is aptly named, symbolizing the time Joshua kept the moon in place while raising his arms towards the sky in prayer.

Heading east on Highway 18, you’ll notice the dark silhouettes of giant yucca trees seemingly guiding the moon across the sky, moving it branch by branch, like miniature arms moving a white sphere. It’s as if they were directing it towards the Angeles Forest, where it descends below a sea of blinking lights that adorn the western slopes and coastline. The diverse desert bushes appear to dance in celebration to a rhythm known only to the wind and moon.

Frequent drives along this desert highway reveal subtle changes in the landscape. Life is a constant process of change and transformation, and the high desert exemplifies this truth. These changes become especially apparent during daylight hours. You might happen to see CalTrans widening a section of the highway or a house suddenly appearing where yucca trees once stood. A dirt road may now cut through the dry wash that flows during Spring. Construction crews seem to emerge out of thin air to complete the construction of a stoplight. Occasionally, you may spot crows soaring above, chasing after discarded hamburger wrappers. 

This land, once being mostly sagebrush, chaparral and desert plants just a few decades, years, or months ago, now appears devoid of life. Vast acreage is cleared as if a giant wooden block had been placed and later removed, leaving behind perfectly squared corners and open spaces. Sometimes, you come across makeshift communities of city squatters who have been pushed to the fringes of the city and into the high desert, their motorhome enclaves resembling wagon forts from a  bygone era.

As you continue your drive, the majestic Angeles Forest mountains, a constant backdrop to the city of Los Angeles, continue to fill their role. Here, the landscape takes on a juxtaposed nature. In the city, these mountains face south, but on this captivating drive, they face north. Aside from Palmdale, Little Rock or Pearblossom, there are no prominent cities or urban areas as you drive south. The homes that dot the mountainside seem to disappear into the chaparral during the middle of the day, blending seamlessly with the natural surroundings. At night, scattered yellow lights give the impression of Christmas decorations scattered across the land, occasionally accompanied by long robotic arms glowing- usually gravel companies working on their pits. Further along your drive, these lights indicate the presence of Valyermo and Phelan, towns nestled closer to the mountain range.  

Driving through this highway is a year around adventure, with each season offering its own unique character and feel. Winter unveils mesmerizing lights adorning the local ski resorts, flickering through the night as they create artificial snow. During the day, after a major storm, the mountains don a thick blanket of snow which can be seen for miles. The northern face, receiving the least amount of sunlight, combined with the absence of air pollution, presents truly spectacular mountain views. Spring, too, can be quite special too, with gentle brush strokes orange, purple, lavender, yellow, and white sweeping across the high desert landscape. As you roll down your window, the air feels cool and clean. In a good rainy season, millions of vibrant orange poppies dance with the wind as you traverse the 14 north. Later in the season, stoic Joshua trees, along with other yucca plants, proudly display their white stems holding delicate white pods containing seeds, while bushes bloom in shades of yellow and white. In the distance, the Angeles mountains still boast their snowy crowns.

Summer and Autumn transform the drive along this highway into a dreamlike experience. Despite the hot and dry weather, there is much to relish. If you drive in the opposite direction, you’ll get treated to dramatic sunsets behind the Tehachapi Mountains. Sunrises are equally captivating, with hues of yellow, orange, purple and blue blending seamlessly across the sky. The wind during this time serves as a reminder of why the resilient desert fauna that has withstood the test of time. It’s also the perfect opportunity to pull over and admire the stars on a clear night or to quench your thirst with a refreshing blueberry smoothie from Charlie Brown Farms in Little Rock. During this period, the yucca plants release their seeds to the ground, and other desert plants fill the desert air with a fragrant aroma. This desert environment also experiences  its fair share of monsoon weather, and late summer flash floods serve as a reminder of nature's unpredictable power.

For an exploratory detour, you can take the 138 and connect to highway 2 on the San Bernardino side. By making a right turn on Sheep Creek Rd, you’ll have the opportunity to traverse the mountain crest, winding through the backbone of the range and reenter Los Angeles through La Canada. Alternatively, you can continue on Highway 18, passing Adelanto and venturing into Victorville. Here, you can find a place to have lunch or continue on your road adventure by joining Interstate 15 and heading south towards Hesperia. As you descend along the highway, winding your way down El Cajon Pass, glimpses of urban life gradually emerge through the city lights of San Bernardino and Riverside county, along the connecting nodes of the I-215, I-10, and Highway 60.

In Southern California, where car ownership is prevalent, day trips are a common pastime. Traveling north past the mountains can create special memories, and provide a relaxing and reflective experience. The drive also allows you to appreciate the remaining wilderness that exists just an hour away from where we live. It serves as a reminder that this ecological region is a desert environment, and the unique flora and fauna should be appreciated and respected. Even after a summer rain, you can catch the lingering scent of sagebrush and native plants in the humid air. A journey along this highway becomes a rediscovery and a discovery of something special, connecting us with nature and ourselves.

Guarding Los Angeles: Short Story

 

Guarding Los Angeles

By Armando Ortiz

He entered the room complaining, “The problem with Los Angeles is the fact that what represents Los Angeles is not really spoken about.” Timur was a bit startled, both as a surprise and as if being awakened by a dream after spending a steady 20 minutes on the novel he was reading. 

“Today I was reading a magazine that United Airlines supplies on its flights, and there was an article about Los Angeles, and it just bothered me so much!” complained Juan as he looked down to the ground. The other guard, Timur, was packing his things to clock out and inquired, “huh, what are you talking about?” 

“There was nothing meaningful about it,” he continued to ramble, “The first two paragraphs were dedicated to the ethnic communities in Los Angeles making and taking root. Yet, as soon as that was done it began to talk about spending three nice fulfilling days in Los Angeles, but most of the places were for shopping,” he paused as he placed his duffle bag on the table and began to take out the tie. “None of the days included a walk down Olvera street or a meal in Little Tokyo, Chinatown, Little Armenia, nor Little Ethiopia. Why?,” he stood erect and looked out the window deep in thought. “Is only the fact that Los Angeles is one of the most cosmopolitan centers in the world enough to satisfy a tourist? What about the person who has lived all his life here in Los Angeles? I think not.” 

He turned to look at the Timur who was already packed and holding the clipboard. He kept going with his speech,  “Los Angeles is more, at least to me, than Beverly Hills and Santa Monica Beaches. I mean give me a fucken break. What happened to visiting places that actually set the trends, where people are eking out a living, eating and wearing what their hard-earned money get them?”

Timur placed the board on the desk and turned around, “well, feel lucky to be living where you were born.” Tim took a deep breath to look at Juan, “There isn’t a Little Ulaanbaatar here in LA, and I am constantly being mistaken for an Asian.” 

Juan stopped and thought about what Timur was saying. “People only know two things about Mongolia, Genghis Khan and Mongolian barbecue which really isn’t. They don’t know of our history, our wrestling, our religion, our inclusiveness, we are just some former bearded savages that were tamed by the Chinese or Russians.” He grabbed his bag, moving out of the chair, and sat placing the bag on his knees. He stared at Juan who was listening.

Juan restarted, “Although I love this place, I feel a detachment. I feel like I don’t belong here, but how can that be? I grew up going to the Griffith Park Observatory, and going to the LA Zoo, but now it seems that these things are becoming less and less accessible, and yet places like Chinatown or Grand Central Market that were once overlooked are now trafficked by new faces and fatter pockets.” 

Timur listened to him intently, he too got lost in the ramble and began to think of going to the countryside in the summers, and eating stew in the winters. He took another deep breath, and replied, “Somehow I feel like you are describing my current situation. You know what I try to remind myself is that I am where I am and I will be the best of whatever opportunity comes my way.”  

Juan resumed with his river of complaints, “It seems like more material silicon is being applauded and praised than what Los Angeles really stands for. I refuse to see Los Angeles only for its entertainment and high life. There are more working class people living in Los Angeles than those with money, and the worst thing is that our leaders do not seem to point this out, and so I will write about the city that raised me and took part in my upbringing. 

Timur searched his chest pocket for a cigarette, but remembered the smoking policy and let go of the cigarette and adjusted his seat. “You might be right, Subotai, another one of our great generals, who people don't know about once spoke about appearances. How at a distance a little army could resemble a great army, yet a huge army could look like a single warrior walking the step.” 

“What do you mean by that,” enquired Juan. 

“Things aren’t what they seem to be in reality or on paper,” he paused. “Before moving here I thought I’d be living in a neighborhood where only white Americans live, but when I came here I came to live in a community that’s called Little Tel Aviv, but my neighbors are mostly Mexican or I think they are, and Ethiopian or I think they are. We thought that the streets were clean and that all people ate hamburgers, but that wasn’t the case. In short, my friend, I was disappointed, I too was fooled, and every day people show me their foolishness.”

MacArthur Park: Santos Explores the Neighborhood

 MacArthur Park: Santos Explores the Neighborhood

By Armando Ortiz

Santos returned home in the evening and was unusually chatty. He kept talking about all sorts of things. Bella had already cooked for the three of them. It had been a long time since he’d had yucca frita with chicharon, fried cassava with fried pork, a common staple back in many Central American countries. This was a comforting reminder that now he was with family. He ate his dinner and kept talking about his adventure earlier that day. Bella ate her food and listened to everything he animatedly said. As she took a bite of the crispy end of the pork bit that she had in her hand, her eyes turned to Betsy, who sat listening to her uncle’s story. Santos just kept talking and talking about how good the food was, savoring every bit of curtido and pork. Only once did mention getting his papers. 

“This is the best chicharon I’ve had since I left home, you really nailed the flavors of mom! Mmm, mmm, so good,” he said with a satisfied face.

“Y la mica?,”she finally interjected. 

He paused for a moment, licked his fingers, reached for the paper roll, tore a paper towel and wiped his hands. He dug into his right pocket and pulled out his green card. He was no longer Santos, instead he was Raymundo Toledo. 

Every morning everyone seemed to wake up after Bella took a shower, soon afterward Betsy would go into the bath, where mom would scrub her down. Then it was Santos, who would wake up last. He seemed to relish the extra hour from when Bella awoke. He knew he’d have to cook his own breakfast. He’d been in LA two weeks and had yet to find a job. He’d tell Bella that he was going out and meeting with old friends who worked in factories, hotels and other odd places. Once he was outside, he’d just disappear and merge with the crowds of people and the midday traffic, everything being flooded by that bright Southern California light. He’d come back home late in the evenings around the time when the city noise toned down for a bit and you could hear the buses pull up and leave.

Santos couldn’t believe that he’d made it to LA. He’d gone back and met up with Jose a couple of times who took him to have a giant burger at a place that was on 3rd street near Union Ave. Jose loved many things. He loved smoking his money on weed. One of his other loves was eating burgers. He also loved watching the high school girls that streamed bye in the afternoon, trying to get their number. After eating and talking to some girls they’d just walk around and see the movement of people and cars. All the cars would just swish on by and he’d just stare and imagine himself driving down Alvarado Street. 

Back home inside the brick building his sister would ask him how his job searching was going and he’d say that it was a struggle finding a job. What he really was doing was hanging out with his friend. Jose worked on the streets trying to get passersby to buy miccas, social security, identification cards and weed. MacArthur Park was the mecca for such transactions and the demand was endless. Every day people from different parts of Latin America, Europe and Asia came to this area only to buy fake papers.Santos didn’t feel right about what was happening and although he liked watching the hustle and bustle he knew that he had to try to get something legitimate.

One day as he was walking along 9th street on his way home, when he saw a sign that read, se necesita ayuda, help wanted. There was someone across the street washing some barrels with a hose. The water drained onto the side of the street and slowly moved towards Bonnie Brae St. He entered the building and inquired about the sign posted outside. The woman behind the counter had permed hair with curls, she said that the site was a popsicle factory and that work started at 3am and ended by 12 noon or you went in at 1pm and clocked out at 10pm. The factory made popsicles at night, and by the time all the popsicles of the day were done and  gone, the factory had to be cleaned up. There were two positions available: mixer or cleaner. Mixer started at 3am, while the cleaning job started at 1PM and ended in the evening.

They engaged in small talk. She was from El Salvador and had been in LA for almost two years. She was taking classes at Evans Adult School, attending night school taking English courses to improve her English skills and also to hopefully get a GED.

 “Your chances of getting a better job improve if you have a little paper that says you completed this much education.” She used her hand as if she actually held the frame of the certificate in her palms and said, “with a certificate you can make more money, and with money life gets easier.” 

“I’ll think about which position best suits me. I’ll return tomorrow with an answer,” he told her as he looked around in the office. The office was decorated by different colorful posters advertising their popsicles that were either water or milk based. One of the posters had LA PRINCESA written across in cursive. For a moment he got lost in thought and remembered eating helados, popsicles, with his grandparents when they’d take a trip to the capital city to visit relatives or to take care of official business like requesting a birth certificate or identification..

 “Here, take a card,” she said as she handed him a business card with the factory’s phone number from the stack that was laid out on the counter of her desk. He returned to where he was, and responded, “I live around the corner not far from here, I think getting here is faster than trying to find change to make the call,” he said shyly with a smile. “I’ll take one, just in case,” as he took the card he saw La Princesa on the upper left hand corner of the card. It was a dark red logo.

She smiled and replied, “I know how it is, that was me not so long ago. Bueno, buena suerte con todo y lo miró pronto aquí.” 

“Thanks,” he said. 

He turned around, and stepped out of the office and on to the flood of light. A couple of cars hummed on bye. His eyes squinted on the way out, but the sun’s rays were quickly soothed by a cool breeze coming from the west. He walked towards Alvarado St, he turned to see the building and noticed the factory logo again, La Princesa, he kept his stride and once he got there turned north, and continued walking towards the park. Things were looking good.

MacArthur Park: Santos

MacArthur Park: Santos 

By Armando Ortiz

Santos had recently arrived in Los Angeles. He’d taken the train to the U.S., the one they call La Bestia, and spent a few months wandering around Mexico to get to the US. Bella, his sister, found it odd that along the way he’d been stranded by several coyotes. Usually a coyote committed themselves to taking the person the whole way till they reached a destination where a known business associate would complete the trip for them. His journey had been different though, because after he managed to get to Guadalajara, he apparently got stranded, and turned up in Mexico DF a few months later. In between he’d call his loving sister and beg for money. Bella didn’t have much, but would figure things out, like find a cleaning gig in West Los Angeles or help clean the Laundromat that was two blocks away from her house on 3rd street. Every ounce of sweat that came out of that 5 foot figure was worth more than gold to her, since it was the family that was being helped. 

For Santos, it seemed that Bella had made it in the U.S., since every time he found himself in a bind he’d just dial the numbers and in a few days money filled both pockets. Santos was escaping Honduras. His parents thought he’d moved out and had been working at a tobacco company, which he had for a while, but he’d really started to gamble, drink and hang out with the wrong crowd. Circumstances made it necessary for him to relocate somewhere far as soon as possible, hence his abrupt decision to head north. It seemed that kind eyes were looking after him from above.   

When he finally arrived in LA he was sent to MacArthur Park to get his papers in order. Any person who had recently crossed the border and needed a fake identification card or green card went to the park to get them- a bazaar of illegal documents for sale. He’d been walking north along Alvarado Blvd. when suddenly he saw his elementary school friend, Jose, who was standing by the corner of the Botica Del Pueblo. He looked different, but his facial features were distinguishable. He wasn’t wearing shorts nor was his old friend barefoot. Instead Nike Cortez protected those running feet, and for some reason his hair was slicked back, like a cow lick. His brown slacks were ironed clean as if a black pinstripe ran along the front and back of his legs. 

“Jose, is that you? It’s me Santos from La Colonia Ceiba. We used to play ball.” Jose at first gave him a dirty look, a chiseled looking profile made of stone turned into astonishment, which as if elastic transformed into a smile of familiarity. 

“Santos, wassup foo, wachu doin around here?” 

“You know, work,” replied Santos in Spanish. 

Bella was familiar with the area, since she’d occasionally go buy toiletries at El Piojito, but she never really stuck around the area since she was too busy with work. She had given Santos a piece of paper with a small map that she had drawn. Santos knew he was near. Only a few more blocks to go before reaching the place his sister said reliable green cards were sold. He showed the sketch to Jose telling him he was sent to that location. Jose looked at the paper and spat on the ground and his face had suddenly become wrinkled - his cold stare returned. 

“Who the fuck sent you there, ese?,” inquired Jose, with a hard nod to the skies while keeping eye contact. 

“My sister said that’s where she got her papers,” replied Santos. 

“Well your sister is wrong ese. No seas bayunco, si tienes pedo ponte listo cabron” Jose sounded angry. 

“Calmado, calmado,” said Santos, slightly raising his arms and showing Jose his palms. “Mira loco, I just got here and all I am trying to do is get my papers to get a job. If you can help me with that then I’ll be grateful.” 

“How much you got foo?,” he was asked. 

“Pues, this is what my sister gave me. She said it was enough get a mica,” he replied. 

“Aver,” there was a moment of pause before his voice broke through the sound of passing cars, “esos cabrones te estan robaaando. I sell papers much cheaper than that, vente conmigo,” he swung his arm forward signaling Santos to follow him. Like a blind man following another blind man, Santos followed disappearing, into the alleys that were barren under the noon sun. 

To be continued…

El Dorado: Sketches of Los Angeles

El Dorado: Sketches of Los Angeles

By Armando Ortiz

They rushed towards the park knowing very well that there would be kids with their parents everywhere. They unloaded their carts from the pickup truck, and as soon as fat rubber tires touched the ground they began pushing towards the direction where Pan Pacific Park was located, as if all roads lead to that place. For these paleteros all sidewalks led to the park, it was their Rome, their source of income, where the circus was, and the money flowed into their pockets, while their popsicles left their carts at equal pace. 

They all pushed their carts at an ever increasing speed. Some hadn’t walked a full block from where they had started and tiny little sweat droplets were beginning to form on their forehead, perfect popsicle weather. Equivel couldn’t pick up their pace because he’d been assigned the cart that had other items besides popsicles, like automated bubble makers, bags of potato chips, water guns and sand box toys. His, and others’ ill fated attempts at pushing the cart faster only made their mobile store shake and rattle, while the wheels began to feebly turn unevenly. The others, though, were able to make a beeline to the park, because their wheels were like those of a small all-terrain vehicle. The weight of the cart and aggressive tire pattern were perfect for sidewalks and green parks.

Raul and Diburcio were the ones ahead of everyone else, which meant that they’d be the first ones inside the park and would get to hustle the prime areas where the real money was made. Nevertheless, there was one area that was deemed “El Dorado.” El Dorado means the gold nugget, but it could also mean the fried one, and with this weather they’d be cooking themselves by the time noon hit. This tiny little spot was called that because of the amount of kids that gravitated to the playground and the total number of adults that kept their eagle eyes on them. 

There one could find single moms taking their sons and daughters to the park, nannies that had recently arrived to the US, and came from countries like Mongolia, Mexico, Cambodia and El Salvador. There were the old grandmothers strolling around with their kid’s kids, and the dads that didn’t have anything else to do but take their children to the park to run around and let the sun exhaust all the energy from their child’s bodies. 

This wasn’t the only thing that made this particular spot into prime paletero real estate, no there was more, beside the playground there was a baseball field that had people playing baseball, practicing Frisbee and kicking soccer balls. People were always there and they always seemed to be tired and sweaty, which made a nice cold popsicle an alluring and refreshing snack. 

All five paleteros had to make it to the park and get to their tiered spots. Esquivel, pushing the cart with all the other goodies couldn’t help but reflect on the day he’d have, walking around the park and honking his horn, all while the blazing sun was out. He took a deep breath and accepted that the heat would be tough, but with the rays it was a good chance he too would sell out. Diburcio and Raul were half a block away from the park and at points their short bodies seemed to stretch beyond the limits and make their legs give leap-like steps. They were young and their early years of working alongside their parents on the maize fields had built them up a bit.

As they came to the last stretch before entering the park both had to turn their carts on the corner. Diburcio had taken the lead and had managed to cross the intersection, while Raul instead of waiting for the green light to turn on decided to make a left on his side of the street and push the cart with more leverage in order to catch up and surpass Diburcio. They were like deer running towards an unknown destination, two tugboats pushing their goods to port where all the people would soon swamp them like flies and take all the popsicles away. They both wanted to reach the spot and claim it as their own. Of course, to think that today was the only time that this happened was to think that in Los Angeles the sun came out once a month. No, this was a daily occurance, and a daily challenge, but they all took it with good stride, because all the paleteros knew each other. 

Parks in the Los Angeles area is where the popsicle market was always, always hot. It only rains about a month out of the year and the rest of the time it is nice and sunny. Even in the middle of winter, their customer base would change and you’d have people from the Midwest or East Asia proudly buy popsicles and state that the cold of L.A. was child’s play compared to their lands of origin. To the paleteros money making was their aim they’d all come from the same small town somewhere in Mexico or Central America and they gladly sold to anyone.

Raul and Diburcio were cousins, but both were very competitive when it came to sports and meeting women, but when it came to making a day’s wages they were cut throat with each other. Raul had finally caught up with Diburcio, but he was still across the street. They were pushing their carts at a similar pace, they were neck to neck, the scene was beginning to resemble a horse race, but in this race the photo finish would not tell who the winner was, no, who ever managed to roll his cart down the hill and onto the playground would win, and competition amongst human beings, like horse races, sometimes included cheating or chance circumstances. 

Raul knew he had to cross the street and start heading to the park soon, so he knew that despite his precarious lead he would have to push the cart much harder and much faster than he already was doing. Diburcio on the other hand seemed to relish the challenge, and let Raul pass him, and began to slowly let Raul get ahead of him. Hopefully he’d get exhausted pushing the cart by the time he got to the park, or he’d trip over the protruding root of a tree. 

The entrance to the park was next to the public library. The library was also a decent spot to have a popsicle cart, but it wasn’t as exciting. Most people that walked into the building stayed there longer than expected. They all guessed it was because of the air conditioner that kept the library at a cool 68 degrees in the middle of summer. Both their goals were to be the first to reach “El Dorado,” and to spend a few hours there and sell everything inside the cart and then go catch a soccer game at the other side of the park where there was a barren soccer field. The field had a rotating order of use, children’s teams practicing, grown up leagues from the community, and recently arrived folk from down south that played against each other.

Raul got far ahead of Diburcio, managing to cross the street, and go through the entrance and straight to “El Dorado.” But before doing that he needed to go down hill while keeping his 75 pound cart steady. He pushed the cart across the parking lot and kept adding speed to his pace, finally reaching the giant oak tree that was the marker where the down hill began. They both paused for a moment to adjust their baseball caps, Diburcio’s was blue with the logo of Barcelona’s yellow, gold and red embroidered on while Raul’s was off white and had MFC stamped on for Real Madrid.

He couldn’t help laughing and looking back as he reached the oak tree, he saw Diburcio sweaty, pushing his own cart, and with a smirk on his face. He began his descent to the playground. Pushing now became holding and keeping steady the cart. He soon realized that keeping the cart steady was difficult, but he thought he’d manage, and besides he had all the momentum on his shoulders, the Virgin Mary was on his side. Today would be the day he’d get to relax two hours before the truck came bye and whisked them away to their homes.  

The cart kept going faster, and his legs began to leap, and at times he felt that he’d missed a step and was being led by the cart itself. He was reaching the base of the playground and there was only a few more meters of descent before claiming his territory. He’d been so busy looking at the spot where he was going to be posted that he failed to see that the cart was heading towards an empty water bottle. When he finally refocused his eyes to what was in front of him, he immediately feared that the bottle was unopened. He tried to move the cart a bit towards the left by pushing the right side, but then he remembered that that was a bad idea, and instead he was supposed to slightly pull the left side of the handless and let the cart move to the left, but it was too late, in his attempt to avoid the bottle he forced the cart to uncontrollably shake, like a car misfiring on its last mile, and the next thing that happened was all but too comedic.

The cart began to shake, and after the front wheel hit the bottle it flipped over and rolled a few times, popsicles of all the flavors that children and adult alike enjoy, flew everywhere, like kids splashing into the water, everything flew like candies flying out of a pinata after the biggest kid in line strikes it right in the center. There were strawberry, walnut, rice pudding popsicles, choco pies, push-ups, water based popsicles, and all the dry ice flying everywhere. Raul tripped, landing on the grass and rolled down the hill a bit before stopping and managed to get a look at what was happening.  The cart kept flipping, spreading its goodies everywhere.

People that were busy doing their own thing immediately turned to see what was happening. The bells of the cart, along with the cart itself made a thumping and brass jingling sound as it kept rolling towards the bottom of the hill. The kids immediately thought about running towards the popsicles lying on the grass, but were held back by their parents. Those that were walking or laying on the grass sunbathing kept staring at what was happening. In a matter of seconds the popsicle cart rolling down the hill caught everyone's attention, all eyes were on the cart that had finally made it to “El Dorado.”