Gumball Machines: Sketches of Los Angeles

 Gumball Machines

by Armando Ortiz

Odracir wasn’t your common comedian, living a simple life of books, music and food, he spent most of his mornings, afternoons and evenings doing just that. He considered himself an artist, but not your usual run of the mill artist, no he thought that what he did was unique and more enigmatic of what a real artist did. After graduating university, and spending some time working in the corporate world he discovered that the competition and cut throat environment didn’t suit his easy going nature, and in fact to some extent had corrupted the easiness with a bit of cynicism. He decided to quit his job, and go out onto the world alone, free. All he had was his freedom and a clever mind to make a living on this earth.

The money he made hadn’t really dented the personality that he’d developed growing up. He’d lived in various parts of Los Angeles, mostly living in studio apartments with his parents and younger brother, so when he’d been offered his first employment contract he was shocked at the amount of money he’d be making, which was double of what his father made a year. He kept living with his parents for some time and then ended up moving to a studio across the hall from where they lived. Most of the money he made was spent in sending his parents to Central America on vacation and sending them to Mexico to visit some of the famous sites there. All along he also got into the business of buying gumball machines. He found this particular type of business very intriguing, and required some work, but not much. He’d started off with two gumball machines that he’d bought at a thrift store along Pico boulevard. The old looking machine brought back child memories that he’d long forgotten, of the simple and fun days, where all one needed was ten cents to satisfy a sugar craving. 

He’d been on one of his daily walks, and rarely paid attention to what was going on inside all the mom and pop stores that peppered the Bizantine - Latino Quarter of Los Angeles. It was a nice name to a place that was mostly made up of recently arrived Central Americans, and South of the border Southern Mexicans that started to arrive in Los Angeles en masse after the mid-1990s. That day though as he was walking and listening to his music he saw two old gumball machines. They were still that candy red that brought back old memories, but he could see the different layers that reached the gray galvanized steel that covered the gum ball machine. He stopped, squatting down, he could see all the detail on the lever that one turned and the different mechanical pieces that could barely be seen in the small opening that was made available when one slightly turned the handle clockwise. The action itself immediately took him back to when he’d buy candy from the old store on Rampart and Beverly, when his mother would take him to do some grocery shopping. The lever was cold, and the red paint was smooth like a clean ceramic plate. There was a magical aura to the machines, and it only became more intense when he saw the “For Sale” sign attached right up the opening where one got their candy. 

The day he walked into his parents apartment with the gum ball machine everyone was quite taken back. What would they do with a gum ball machine? Pay ten cents to get a ball of gum from that contraption? Yes, that is exactly what Pyraneo thought, the idea was for the gumball machine to act like a quasi piggy bank and after a while he’d use the money from it to buy different candies. In the process of learning how to extract the money from the machines and put the candy inside he saw that the machine components were quite simple and soon realized that he also had a knack at refurbishing them, since all that was required was to place an order for the parts from the company phone number that was inside of the machines.

It wasn’t long before when he got the idea that he could make a steady income with the machines, so he asked the owner of the building where they lived if he could place the gum ball machines outside the building. Of course the owner, knowing that they’d lived in the building for about eight years, and had paid their rent on time ever since moving there, didn’t think twice to give him the ok. He soon discovered that it wasn’t a bad thing, and the profit margin for what was invested was pretty good. Gumballs had an usually long shelf life, and nobody really paid attention to them, except for kids, and as long as they were in a shaded area there was not much to worry about except for the occasional repairs.

He kept working for the company, slowly saving his money, and enjoying his life having nice dinners in cevicherias- he’d take his parents to San Pedro where they ate spicy crayfish and fish tacos. At that time the pair of gum ball machines were pulling in 10 dollars a week, and he was spending about a dollar and a half in gum. He began to look into buying another set of machines and soon discovered that he could buy them used from a factory in Downtown Los Angeles where scrap metal was bought and sold. Soon afterwards the two that he’d started off with had turned into five, and the kids kept buying and buying the ten cent candies. Soon he was asking Laundromat store owners for permission to set up gumball machines, which they duly agreed since there was no harm in having some sell ten cent candies. 

After some time something happened to him. He let the worm of desire and want get the better of him and he began to tinker with the machines trying to figure out ways to limit the amount of candy that was given out. In the process of trying to control the flow of his goods he found that there was a mechanism where the machine would take the money, but it wouldn’t give gum or candy, and it only worked after the second time. This left him wondering. Wondering of the possibilities. What he was making now was 50 dollars a week, but with this unsuspecting error he could make 100. 

He began to tinker with the machines, altering the workings of the first two he’d bought. He hadn’t thought about where the money really was coming from. He only thought about the jump in his profits and comedic scenes that would soon be unfolding under his window, when kids putting their coins inside the machine, expecting to get some sugar coated goodie, would receive a disappointing surprise. He relished the thought and the first day that he used his altered machines, which if you recall, were placed outside the building where he lived, he kept looking outside of his window and peering down to see the first kid that would fall for the trap. 

The first kid to fall for the con was not yet five and had some bugger running down his nose. He wore some brown slacks, and a green shirt that read, Mexico 86. The kid put the coin inside, turned the lever, and expecting for something to roll out cupped his right hand under the exit chamber, but nothing happened. The kid tried turning the lever again, but there was no coin, so it just got stuck. He opened the lid of the exit chamber and with his hand slapped the gumball machine, but the only thing that could be heard were the gumballs rattling sound as they bounced off the glass that contained them. The kid once again opened the old aluminum lid from the round chamber hoping for a gum to freely fall, but nothing happened. He ran around the corner, and a few moments later returned with a new coin. This time the machine did give him some gum and now his pace significantly slowed down, as if content. For weeks no one said anything, which surprised him more than worried making him wonder how many kids lived in the neighborhood. Nevertheless, the day came when he received the first phone call.

MacArthur Park: Betsy and Bella

MacArthur Park: Betsy and Bella

By Armando Ortiz

“Betsy, it’s time to say your prayers and go to sleep,” said Bella. She’d been in the kitchen washing a stack of dirty dishes that had piled up the last few days. Betsy was in the living room reading, directly under a light that emanated from the ceiling. She was engrossed with a Curious George book. Bella walked towards her, wiping her hands with a towel. Her smooth tanned arms shone under the light, as she lightly elbowed Betsy on her arm. A small tiny sanctuary was on the opposite corner. Their niche was directly across the light. Betsy was always under the watchful eye of her mom and Le Virgencita.

The sacred space had the Virgin of Guadalupe as the central figure. They knelt before her and prayed. St Christopher was on the foreground of the Virgin Mary, to the right. Another little statuette was on the left side, that of St Jude. In between these was a candle, a little flower vase and a plaster cast image of Jesus Christ. The Virgin’s eyes always caught Betsy’s attention, since they seemed to be looking down at her, like ancient Buddha eyes. The replica had an aura of love and serenity.

They always followed the routine right before going to sleep. Her mom mostly did the talking. She begged the Virgencita, the beloved virgin, for patience and strength, thanking her for life and having something to eat that day. Following this brief ceremony Bella would tuck Betsy in her own small Hello Kitty bed and kiss her goodnight.

            Mom was always in prayer, a relentless woman of prayer, and earnestly felt that the Virgin was taking care of them. The same part of the couch where her daughter had been studying was now being used by her. Now it was Bella that was directly across from the image of the Lady of Mercy. It was her turn to be under those watchful eyes and commence the two hour study session. She was an autodidact, but simply gave thanks to the heavens above and always brought flowers she’d cut on the way back home from work; yellow daisies, red roses and occasionally magenta baby bottle scrubbers. Bella would stay up a few hours past bed time, studying and reviewing for the Dental Assistant course that she was taking at the local vocational school.

            At the time though, she worked as a housekeeper at one of the old hotels in downtown Los Angeles. She’d been given the job after a neighbor who’d worked there for 15 years had finally found a man and married. The newlywed couple decided to head north and start a new life somewhere in Salem, Oregon. Bella gave thanks to the Virgin for the job, and used some of the money from that first pay check to buy a bouquet of roses, and went to the church she attended and placed them on the altar.

            Life was certainly not easy, especially housekeeping work. She had to clean thirteen rooms in eight hours. She had some help, but it was always frowned upon to call for assistance. Towards the end of the day her back ached from all the bending, leaning and pulling. As soon as she clocked out, the bus would take her back home, where she would pick up her daughter from the next door neighbor, who watched over Betsy for two hours after school. The pain and tiredness was relentless, but she always thanked people and thanked the image that watched over them.

Betsy would have her homework done by the time she was picked up, but she knew that her mom expected nothing but reading and writing at the house. Though it was routine, she found it easy to write in her diary and write on what she’d done that day or write down her dreams and the things that she wanted. She knew that her mom also had a diary, because sometimes her mom would sit on the kitchenette table and write down her own thoughts, her own hopes in a leather bound diary that she’d picked up from a sidewalk peddler.

Her family wasn’t particularly religious, occasionally going to Sunday mass to pray and every so often go to confession. Nevertheless, for Bella, her trip through Mexico a few years back made her a believer. Her hazel eyes had seen people walking on their knees, and crawling towards sanctuaries where the Virgin was housed. Every house that gave shelter and a plate of food had a little sanctuary that honored the Mother of Jesus. The people she crossed paths with gave her a deep impression, helping her along and showing extreme generosity in opening their homes. A sense of spiritual debt to them and to the image of the Eternal Grandmother would weigh on her for a very long time.

When Betsy thought about her mom, she imagined her writing notes to people, a habit that had been acquired by her as well. She’d sneak notes for her teacher to read after lunch, give friends notes of friendship or make drawings, like two kids playing handball. The person who got the onslaught of notes wasn’t her mom though; instead it was the neighbor Margarita, whose refrigerator was riddled with notes that Bella had given her making it look like a multi-colored bird that’d lived ages ago.

            When they weren’t studying they’d be praying, constantly petitioning the Virgin for grace. If it was not thanking something and looking up to heaven, Betsy found that her mom, practically thanked all kinds of people, all the time. She was grateful to Margarita, the neighbor that watched over her, the vato that stood outside the building all day with his hands in his pocket, shaking hands with strangers, and the lady that sold tamales in the morning. As if the powers that be had set everything up so that she would be grateful for her lot in life.

In the weekends they went to a vocational school for three hours. Betsy would take her journal or a coloring book and get lost in her imagination. Her mom on the other hand, sat, took notes, turned in assignments, and asked the instructor a multitude of questions. Mr. Okpara knew she was a single mother working to get bye, so he’d given her permission to have her daughter in the class. Betsy just sat there working on binders that contained her drawings. At times she’d just sit there and listen to Mr. Okpara’s lecture. He, along with the other instructors saw that Bella was different. She had gumption. She had the heart and commitment of a marathon athlete. She wouldn’t stop, instead just kept going. At bed time Bella would think of her parents back home. She wondered how they were doing. She’d left her home at sixteen and had taken the trip north a few years back. They would receive money from her at least once every two months.

Sinchon, Seoul: Figaro

Figaro

By Armando Ortiz

            I listen to the piano keys, the slow tempo of Tchaikovsky emerges from the speakers, and for a moment the wind plays its passing sound of placid branches slightly swaying. I recall Figaro, a clown. She sold balloon sculptures to people in Sinchon- the area to go “play” if you we’re in your twenties and living in Seoul. She once told me that she had studied piano in college and had hoped to become a pianist. She never explained how she became a clown, instead gave me evasive answers or silent pauses. I bumped into her multiple times, and in all those breaks we talked English, my Korean was still basic. She was like a cat that has no owner, and freely visits you at night, crouching and observing for an hour or so. Perhaps once in a while will take some of your left overs that one places on a plate, but quickly leaves as you move your arm to try to make contact with your palm, only the tips of two fingers brush against a few soft hairs.

One day, an American decided to make a pass on her, and for unknown reasons, maybe the placement of the stars and universe, I happened to be passing bye with some of my friends. I saw the happy red face that was painted as she ran towards my way with scowl. She grabbed the arm and pulled my body to where the potential opponent was. For a part of a quickly passing second, I saw the reflection of her desperation on the Plexiglas of the convenient store. As I was being pulled she was telling me how he had disrespected her. We ended up arguing for a bit, with brief posturing but he eventually left with his pals disappearing into the passing crowds of people.

I recall another time when I was coming back from the Ewha subway station which is on the hill. It was around half past three in the afternoon, and the weather was pleasant. The leaves on the maple trees that lined the streets were a bright green, not yet fully reaching their late summer darkness. It must have been early in the summer, prior to when the World Cup swooped on to the country. The metro was located midway up a hill, like it is almost everywhere you go in Seoul. She was placidly walking up the slope. Her steps were steady as she moved towards my direction. From afar she looked like Renoir’s The Clown, but with livelier pastels. Approaching, she appeared to be a multi-colored penguin, and with each step placed to the ground looked as if her polished red over-sized boots slapped the ground. We briefly talked. Korea being a mostly homogeneous nation has such a wide ranging conservative standard that there is a tendency to dress conservatively in public, though the young people are a bit more casual in their attire. She was an odd one out- no stylish pumps or purse to carry.

She was not the only odd person in that area, but she certainly was no gutter-punk like the ones you found in Heundae or even a troubled youth that hung out near the play area of Sinchon. She was a clown, with big paddle shoes, like the burger clown back home, and she worked alone. The multicolored clown suit made her look twice her width. She was petite, a clown none the less, and if you were drunk enough she looked like a beach ball from afar.

The only exposed areas were her hands, which I had quickly noticed. She had small palms, but perfect for her size. Her nails were not manicured, but lotion kept them soft. They were swarthy but not as dark as my own, and they still looked young, maybe she was in her mid to late 30s- about ten years older than me.

When she found out that I’d be returning to the states she told me to go to a small shop located near the main avenue that partitioned Sinchon and Heudae.

“Go down that street and there will be store with a green sign, go in and tell them that Figaro sent you.” Maybe what she said was, “come with me to this small shop I want to give you something.”

She gave me a wallet, and inside was a photo of us standing together. Now, I wonder where that wallet is and under what boxes, and piles of papers that photo could be. Figaro, a piano player who sold balloons, that was her name, and before I left Korea, gave me a present.

What might she be doing? Does she still go around making pouncing dogs or splendid flowers out of balloons? Does she talk to the other foreigners that walk down the alleys perusing shops in search of a good maekju spot or a cheap dak-galbi place? 

A Shadow Beyond Midnight: Sketches of Los Angeles

A Shadow Beyond Midnight

by Armando Ortiz

There are times when things get jumbled up and one loses track of chronological time. We reach a point where time becomes a vast plane of unwinding events that seem to flow through us at a speed that is undecipherable to the human mind. At other times mundane tasks take on a life of their own, washing the dishes that have accumulated in the sink, brushing your teeth before and after sleep. Time seems to fly right past us, and the daily grind of repetition seems to become a necessary evil. We all become that boxer that after being knocked down gets up and goes back to that same fighting position. Training most of his life for these battles has made his skills become second nature. Sometimes the fighter ends up prevailing but sometimes he goes down again. For Will, it was supposed to be like any other night, but things transpired so fast that now it is hard to tell what is and isn’t real.

He was down to his last pair of jeans, and needed to get ready for the coming week. Most of the dirty clothes were piled up making a smelly mountain. With arms crossed, he stood beside it and stared at the small mound. Putting the dirty clothes in a sack brought back memories of things he had done the week before, wine that he’d drank, tomato stains from the pasta he’d had with his date, and numerous chili bean stains from the countless lunch breaks that were enjoyed at Tommy Burgers. Bright reds and dirt browns seemed to be the variants of the soiled laundry.

He had decided to do his laundry at the usual time-past midnight. The 24 hour Laundromat down the street would be somewhat empty at night, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the crowds or the eye contacts. Being in a place where many strangers gathered, especially in a public facility, where different characters always came in and out made him a bit uncomfortable. You never knew what would happen in a place like that.

He packed his stuff in the car and returned to his apartment to get some loose change and a bottle of detergent. The golden yellow detergent was hidden in between his plastic file cabinet and his drawer. He got back to his little four door sedan, turned it on, and pulled out of the parking garage. As he drove out of the building and attempted to turn on the radio, someone yelled, “Hey Will!” He stopped the car and rolled down the window to see who was hollering. At a distance he saw the dark silhouette of a heavy set woman walking her dog. He resumed his driving, and the steady metallic riding of the hi-hat beat came from the speakers, “Footsteps in the Dark,” by The Isley Brothers began to play. As the car slowly accelerated, he noticed a rusty substance smeared on the ground a few feet in front of the vehicle.

After making a left at the corner, he noticed that while changing lanes the streaks were still there. The headlights lit a path that was only several feet ahead which added to the confusion as to what was beyond the lights. This particular evening was extraordinarily dark. He turned on the high beams, but the streaks seemed to move further up ahead to where the light merged with the darkness resembling the long shadows that late September sunsets make. The funky slide base of the chords coming from the speaker created a soothing box of safety within. Once again a voice pierced through his thoughts, “Hey Will, look!”

Stopping at an intersection, he saw a crowd of people on the opposite side of the street. For Will, the voices sounded familiar, but he couldn’t make a visual connection with the faces. Then out of nowhere, he heard a voice say, “Looks alive.”

Inhaling deeply into his lungs, he heard himself say, “Keep calm. Relax. Stay focused, and don’t slow down or swerve around the thing.” He tried focusing on the steady bass drum that seemed to beat a bit faster than his heart.

He’d never noticed the neon signs that decorated the streets of Los Angeles by night, but today the lights were magically iridescent purples, shimmering in crimson reds, incandescent yellows, and metallic steel blues. It was as if things were moving slowly and now he had time to see the signs that he’d driven past so many evenings. The night air felt cool and crisp. A voice once again spoke and calmly said, “Breathe in, breathe out. Relax. Get some air.”

He drove a bit further passing some old shops and a couple of residential areas. Reaching an intersection, Will swerved to the left hoping to outwit the thing that was ahead, but it was useless. He once again heard the unknown voice say, “Turn slowly with your arms at an angle. Imagine yourself carrying a heavy log.” Will’s conceptual reality was melting into a dream, and he couldn’t quite tell if the thing that he was following was talking to him or if it was the voice of some other being.

He reached the intersection and the traffic light shone incandescent red. At a stop light, another car pulled up to his left. His vision was becoming a blur and his mind unfocused. The passenger looked at him, and covered their mouth in horror. Their look made him feel dizzy and nauseous, transforming everything around into a dizzying haze. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. He wanted to take another look at the face inside the other car, but thought twice about it. Making eye contact with the wrong person in Los Angeles was always a tricky thing and most of the time opened the gates to a river of curses and threats. “Ah fuck it, take a look again,” he thought. As his eyes opened and turned to see, the traffic light simultaneously lit its green light and the car sped off.

Adjusting the rear view mirror he only saw his own pair of obsidian eyes staring back at him. A cold breeze began crawling up his leg, like an ant that’d just come into a cozy home from the outside. A cold invisible fog kept creeping up his body gathering at his torso. He felt he had cotton balls inside his throat, and the pounding of his heart radiated in all directions. Breathing was becoming abnormal, and the car kept moving to an unknown destination, lights began flashing all around him. For a moment he thought he was lying in the middle of a carnival. He heard childish chatter, and the yells of unseen women, light bulbs seemed to circle all around. Then, out of nowhere, the profile of a deer appeared that made eye contact with Will. Its hazel eyes connected with Will’s volcanic eyes, and for a moment it seemed that both vehicle and wild mammal were on the same lane about to slam into each other. Yet, all that was happening was too overwhelming. The body was now trembling, and a sudden sound of black rubber and asphalt was heard.

The car rolled into the parking lot of the Laundromat, and suddenly a crowd of people emerged. The car wildly came to a screeching stop. There was a bundle of flesh and hair on top of a puddle of red liquid. A frightened human circle absorbed the car. Someone in the crowd yelled, “I think he’s alive!” “Someone clean him up!” There were countless eyes surrounding him, so he closed his eyes. He hated going to the Laundromat. A stranger ran up, and while checking for a heartbeat searched his pockets for a wallet. The hazel eyes now had a sweaty human face that seemed to look at Will with determined emptiness, and as soon his leather pouch was found, took off running like a wild deer, disappearing into the midnight.

“Will wake up! Will! We’re gonna be late!,” he was shaken awake. 

“Wha….wha,” he sat up, “What’s going on!” 

“Dude, you were deep asleep, but we have to go, remember that we need to be in Amboy before noon. So get up and start taking down your tent.”

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eighteen): Dropped

Part 18: Dropped

By Armando Ortiz

It was a new truck. White or yellow, I can’t remember, but it was dropped. No more than a foot above the ground. No music was bumping when it pulled up. But they pulled out some things that pumped hard and fast and made things hot. They were unknowns, but most likely were thugs fighting for turf or simply rivals taking revenge.

We were playing with an inflatable beach ball. It was multi-colored; red, white, and yellow. We were in the front lawn of that duplex. But when that Japanese truck pulled up and stopped- everything paused. It might have been the screeches of the black tire rubbing against the asphalt, grinding to a halt that made us turn and watch the momentary drama unfold. The culprits inside pulled out a long black metal thing whose bullets would be piercing the terracotta wall of the Laundromat opposite to our place. The man, who held the machine, had long puffy black hair and fed the bullets on the left side with his left hand. He looked like a crazy head banger going nuts to the sound of Slayer. In fact the dude looked like he was a black haired version of Hanneman holding that piece that rattled on his hands like a guitar. Bullets were literally raining on the guys hanging out in the parking lot- talk about clouds over one’s shoulder.

The place and everything around us seemed to be on pause or at least to be moving in slow motion. The perpetrator aimed his weapon at two guys that were chatting away outside of their 70s Celica. Once they heard the cracking of the metal and the origins of the fire they dropped to the ground. Their bodies touch the dark ground. One of them reached inside the car pulling out a revolver, but did not shoot, from where he was he saw the color of the truck. Whose driver, by that time had stepped on the gas and disappeared north on Berendo and merging with the lights on Olympic that took them somewhere far, maybe to the beach. The apparent targets got into their car and attempted to trail behind. 

I heard my mom call my name. But we were intrigued, but did not dare cross the street to the other side and look around at the damage that had been caused. A line of bullet holes were left behind as raw evidence to what had happened. One of our neighbors, the oldest of the bunch, found a shell casing. It looked like it might have been a short fat lead pencil from a long time ago, but no, it had held a bullet and now we could use the casings as a more sophisticated form of whistle.

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.

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.