East L.A. is colored in shades of brown, gray, and gold. It comes from the patches of vacant land covered with wild grass, wheat, and mustard that are green just briefly in spring before turning gold in summer, then churned into brown again when the city tractors the earth to reduce the fire hazard. It comes from the smallness of the houses and buildings in relation to the broad asphalt streets and from the brown tint of the sky when the smog pools against the hills that are far from the ocean breeze.
There are few trees to break up the monotone of the natural landscape other than palm trees planted years ago by new residents who wanted those sunny Southern Californian icons in their own yards. The palm trees are now impossibly tall, their long trunks neatly trimmed up to the reach of a man unsteadily standing on a ladder with garden shears held above his head. Above that point the trees are cloaked with brown, dead fronds where mice and other opportunistic creatures find homes. Occasionally one of the trees catches fire in the dry heat and burns like a huge torch.
Art got off the freeway onto a broad boulevard lined with small businesses. A pastelería displays thickly frosted traditional wedding cakes with plastic brides and grooms on top; a tuxedo rental shop offers sky blue ruffled shirts buttoned onto molded plastic chests; a trophy shop supplies the local schools with athletic and academic awards; auto repair shops feature an impressive array of specialties. Small food stands with hand-lettered signs advertise tacos, burritos, hamburgers, and taquitos. A bar’s flat stucco facade is painted with musical instruments, music notes, and long-haired, big-busted, high-bottomed fantasy women in string bikinis, implying that the bar has exotic dancers. There are none. The owner just likes the pictures.
Business owners attempt to cover the gang placas on their walls with neutral-colored paint, only to have the street gangs repaint them the next night. The spray-painted placas juxtaposed with the shades of neutral block-out paint create unintentional abstract art.
Art’s parents’ house was at the bottom of a hill on a corner, next door to their neighborhood grocery store. Art parked on the street. The house was small and Spanish-style, in creamy white stucco molded into smooth and rough textures, and had a tile roof. The windows and doors were built inside arches. A tall wrought iron fence encircled the house, and a cement path began at the front gate and meandered as best it could across the short distance to the front door. The path was lined with well-tended tree roses in neat, circular beds, blooming showy red, salmon, pink, and violet, releasing their fragrance into the smoggy day. Art’s uncle lived in a sister house across the street.
A sign made out of painted carved wooden letters stood on the roof above the market’s door and announced: SILVA MARKET. The store windows had been boarded up years ago after the era arrived when storefront windows begged to be broken. Hand-lettered signs in black paint on white butcher paper were thumbtacked into the square areas where the windows had been. ORANGES .39/LB. CERVEZA $2.39. TORTILLAS 2 DOZ $1.
They piled out of the car. Barbie in her purple was as incongruous in the surroundings as a splashy orchid pinned to a favorite bathrobe. Iris laced her fingers, pushed her hands up over her head, and arched her back, standing on her toes, grunting as she stretched. She brought her hands down and rubbed her belly. “When are we eating?”
“Is food all you think about?” Art asked. “Thought you were too upset to eat.”
“Well, I no longer have a sex life.”
Art pulled open the market’s screen door which jangled a bell fixed to the ceiling. He waited for the women to enter, then released the door, which closed with a slam.
“Artie,” said a boy behind the counter, putting down his comic book. “Your pops said you were stopping by.” He was tall and gangly and wore a short-sleeved, abstract-print cotton shirt tucked into black jeans and enormous, spotlessly white, name-brand athletic shoes with very high tops and very thick soles. The smooth skin of his face lay close against his bones as if every ingested calorie fueled his upward growth, leaving little to flesh out the rest.
Art swung his palm back then forward toward his cousin. “Victor! What up, carnal?”
“I made the J.V. football team, first string.” Victor spoke with extended vowels, an enunciation unique to the barrio.
Art’s speech quickly lapsed into the same cadence. “For reals?”
“For reals.”
Art high-fived Victor over the counter. “Way to go, man!”
“Course, all the coach talks about is how your team made it to the city semifinals and how the quarterback was ‘poetry in motion,’” Victor teased.
“Yeah, poetry in motion until those big black guys from South Central whipped our little Mexican asses.” Art laughed. “Hey, this is my friend Barbie and”—he looked around for Iris and saw her staring into the free-standing ice cream freezer—“that’s Iris.”
“Hi. Everyone’s in back.”
“Let’s go. Hey, Iris!”
Iris was leaning over the freezer bin, holding open its clear plastic lid, studying the open boxes of ice cream bars and Popsicles that were displayed ends up with their lids torn off, the cool rush of frozen air on her face.
Barbie walked over and put her hand on Iris’s arm.
Iris looked up with a start.
Barbie asked her, “You want to stay here or you want to meet Art’s family?”
“I was just flashing back to when I was a kid and I used to walk down to our corner store with my older sister and our dog. I’d have a bunch of sweaty change in my fist and I’d walk back and forth from the toy rack to the freezer. I’d finally decide on ice cream and then we’d walk back up the hill, the ice cream melting and running down my arm, pieces of it falling on the sidewalk, where the dog would lap it up. We’d walk through these vacant fields, and dust would stick to the melted ice cream on my hands and arms. At home, I’d rinse off with the garden hose and take a drink from it. It was like drinking from a waterfall.”
Iris straightened up and let the freezer door slide closed. “It seems like a million years ago. What parents would let their kids walk to the store by themselves in this town today? How did life get so complicated? Ex-wives, other people’s kids…”
“I don’t know, darlin’. I don’t know. But at least you have happy childhood memories. I’d settle for that.” Barbie put her hand around Iris’s waist. “C’mon, sugar.”
Art’s father and uncle were in the back storeroom, peering into the guts of a refrigerator unit. A side panel had been removed and detached parts were arranged on square shop cloths on the floor next to an open red toolbox. Tools and refrigerator parts were comingled. The storeroom walls were lined with cases of canned goods and paper products.
The two men were clearly brothers. They were shorter than Art but had his broad white smile, square jaw, and wide forehead. His father’s hair was wavy, like Art’s, but his uncle’s was kinky and clipped close to his head. Art’s father wore khaki work pants, a sleeveless T-shirt, and black-laced work shoes. His uncle wore a promotional T-shirt printed with a Latin band’s logo, old designer jeans, and worn athletic shoes.
“Barbie and Iris,” Art said, “this is my father, Eduardo, and my uncle, George. Iris and I work together, and Barbie is the woman I wanted you to meet.”
Iris shook hands with both of them. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Silva and Mr. Silva.”
“Please,” George said. “First names.”
Barbie extended her hand to them and held onto George’s hand. “Arturo showed Iris and me the best time at your club. It was so lively.”
“Thank you,” George said. “Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“Art, I’ll call your mother.” Eduardo pushed the screen door over the storeroom’s back entrance open with his shoulder, leaned out, and yelled, “Sylvia, Artie’s here!” He came back inside. “She’s hanging out the laundry. She’ll be right here. Please sit down.”
For seating, there were a couple of beat-up wooden chairs, plastic milk crates, and corrugated boxes of products stacked against the wall. Eduardo turned a crate on end and sat on it. George resumed his position on the floor. Barbie took one of the chairs. Iris perched on a stack of boxes, crossing her legs and holding one knee with both hands.
Art continued standing. “Tió, Barbie owned a restaurant in Atlanta,” he said brightly.
“That’s what you told me.”
“And she’s thinking about going into the nightclub business with me.”
Barbie was more cautious. “Well, I’m exploring the possibilities.”
A woman entered the storeroom. She was small-framed and round, with thick, dark hair cut short and fashionably styled away from her face. She had large eyes with bright whites that contrasted with her sable-colored irises and long, dark eyelashes. They were Art’s eyes. She was wearing an A-line, knee-length cotton skirt and a cardigan sweater that she took off when she came in the storeroom, revealing a short-sleeved blouse and strong arms that were very brown from yard work and from hanging out laundry in the sun.
“Mom.” Art walked to her and kissed her on the cheek.
She put her arms around him, stretching to reach his shoulders. “Mijo, good to see you.”
Art introduced Barbie and Iris.
“Artie’s been telling us how he wants to open his own nightclub,” Eduardo said.
Sylvia put her hand on Art’s arm. “That’s what your uncle told me. But, Arturo, all those years at college. For what? No offense, George, but to open a club?”
Eduardo raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“And your job at McKinney Alitzer. You were so happy when you got that job. I thought you were doing well there.” Sylvia looked at Iris. “Isn’t he?”
“He’s one of the rising stars,” Iris offered.
“See? Why do you get a college degree to own a nightclub? The hours are terrible, the money’s not good. You can see your uncle’s not rich. You’ll have a better life doing what you’re doing. Why a nightclub, Arturo?”
“I know Tió’s not rich, but he’s done as well as he wanted to do, right, Tió?”
George nodded. “Art’s right. How much you’re willing to put into it has a lot to do with it.”
“To make it big, you need to think big.” Art held both hands apart. “That’s what I’m doing. Tió’s talked about opening another club for a long time. He and Barbie have the know-how and cash and I have the energy. I can do it, Mom.”
“I don’t doubt you, mijo. I just don’t know why you want to change careers so soon. You haven’t tried the other thing that long.”
Art shook his head. “Mom, I’ve already hit the ceiling there.”
“The ceiling?” Eduardo said. “What ceiling?”
“The glass ceiling. The thing that’s keeping me from making it to the top. They’re only going to let a Chicano from East L.A. get so far.”
“How do you know? You haven’t done it for very long.” Sylvia looked at Iris. “Is this possible?”
Iris raised her shoulders. “It’s a tough business. It takes time to get established. Art has what it takes to be successful.”
Sylvia pointed at Iris. “See? I’m not so sure if you hit your…ceiling or if you’re just impatient. I know you, Arturo.”
“C’mon, Mom. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’m serious about this. You’re embarrassing me in front of my business associates.”
“I’m sorry, mijo. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. My apologies to you, Barbie and Iris.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Barbie said. “I’m pleased as punch to see that Arturo has so many people who care about him. I understand your concerns about Arturo going into the nightclub business. I owned a restaurant for many years down in Atlanta, and it is a lot of work. But don’t think for a minute that I’m absolutely convinced that Arturo’s club is the place for my money. I’m just hearing Arturo out, like y’all are.”
Art’s father turned to George who had been sitting quietly on the floor with his legs crossed. “What do you think, Jorge?”
George stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his hands. “I think that if this is what Art really wants to do, we ought to at least think about it.”
Art clapped his hands together.
Sylvia glowered at her brother-in-law.
George continued, “Next week, I’m going to Mexico. I’ll be gone for about a week. Art, maybe you, Barbie, and I can talk when I get back. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” Art said. “Barbie?”
“Be happy to get together with y’all after you get back.”
“Great!” Art said. “All I want is for you to take a serious look at this. Doesn’t mean we’re going to do anything.” He leaned over to shake his uncle’s hand, then shook his father’s hand. He hugged his mother.
“Have you eaten?” Sylvia asked. “Would you and your friends like to stay for dinner?”
“Thanks, Mom, but I’m taking them for burritos at Manuel’s, then I’m going to show them around the neighborhood.”
Barbie and Iris stood. Art put his arm around Barbie’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. Barbie quickly freed herself from his grasp and walked to the storeroom door.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you, George, when you return from your trip. ‘Bye, y’all.” She slipped back inside the store.
Iris and Art bid their good-byes and followed Barbie.
Art’s father made sure the storeroom door was closed, then he returned to his seat on the crate.
His wife looked down at him solemnly with her arms crossed over her chest.
“If it’s what he really wants to do, we should support him, Sylvia.”
“I agree,” George said.
“He’s dating the one in the purple?” Sylvia asked. “This Barbie person?”
Eduardo shrugged. “He gave her a kiss on the cheek. So what?”
“And did you see how she moved away from him? She didn’t want us to know that he’s with her. Why?”
“Maybe she’s shy.”
“That woman is not shy. Arturo can get anyone he wants. Why is he with her? She’s too old for him. I know why she’d want to be with him, but why is he with her?”
“He’s a young man. He sees things you don’t, if you know what I mean, Sylvia,” George said.
“She has money. Is that why? I don’t like how he’s acting. Why does he think he has to be rich tomorrow? We didn’t raise him like that.”
“He’s young,” Eduardo said. “When you’re young, you want everything now. Sylvia, you can’t always protect him. He’s got to learn things himself, the hard way.”
“But I don’t think he should pay for it with the family’s money.”
George rolled forward onto his haunches and began sorting through the refrigerator parts on the floor. “Don’t worry, Sylvia. I’m not going to give him money unless I think it’s a good deal.”
“When you find a good deal, let me know.” Sylvia opened the storeroom’s back screen door and walked out.