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.

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.”

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.

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 - A Drive By Shooting in L.A.

Part 18: Dropped: A Drive By Shooting in L.A.

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 One): Drawings - Central Americans in Los Angeles

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eighteen): Dropped - A Drive By Shooting in L.A.