Introduction
It is the late-1990’s in the frontier town of El Paso, Texas. Our hero, David, bookends his minor victories growing up in the desert border town of El Paso with setbacks and disasters. Despite meaning well, he can’t shake the grip of chaos and turbulence that follow him through various travels and sojourns. David is about to start his journey with a new job at a dental lab while working a split shift loading planes and trucks at an airport shipping company. He is accompanied by a familiar travel partner, misfortune.
***
Almost two million people are sprawled along El Paso/Ciudad Juarez transborder agglomeration of Texas and Mexico; 1.2 million people in Juarez, 600,000 in El Paso, and another 100,000 in Las Cruces, New Mexico. El Paso means “the pass” and is the truncated name of its original, El Paso Del Norte, “The pass to the north.” The city’s original location in 1659 is where Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, is now. The two cities are a stone’s throw from each other, cut up and divided by outside powers while the people were left on their own to adjust to their new realities.
When Texas declared independence in 1836, El Paso was not included within its borders and left it in Nueva Mexico’s (Mexico’s New Mexico) control. In 1845, the United States annexed Texas, and El Paso became a split city through the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo landing El Paso on the US side of The Rio Grande, and Ciudad Juarez in Mexican territory. The Compromise of 1850 added several states to the US and pulled El Paso from New Mexico and finally placed it in Texas. These erratic borders forced people to adjust and readjust to the new circumstances while trying to keep their community intact. Their history lacked identity and agency because they had never had a voice in where they fit in the geopolitical stage. Instead, it had been dictated to them. Bordertown blues disrupts people’s lives and family situations. And still today, you will find those assholes that perceive El Pasoans as non-Texans, non-Americans, or non-Mexicans — depending on what lens they are looking through.
***
The city has distinct “sides” or unofficial districts that extend out from Central El Paso. David is from the “Eastside,” where El Paso expands the most because there is more land to build bigger and better malls. In the wake of that expansion are forgotten neighborhoods; new houses pop up, and old ones become vacant, new schools get built, and old ones get left behind. Central El Paso is home to some of the most interesting architecture in the area and contains a small downtown, historical high schools, immigration law offices, and the University of Texas at El Paso (UTEP).
When David looks south from UTEP’s campus, near the Sun Bowl and over Interstate10, He sees world-class poverty sandblasting Ciudad Juarez. There are 300 sunny clear days a year, allowing their struggle to be seen with the naked eye if you ever dare to look. You’ll see people living in neighborhoods that resemble ancient ruins, dirt roads, and roofless homes. David often thinks to himself, “As man has created both Gods and borders, by the grace of God, go I, being born on this side of the border.”
He sometimes sees people moving around down there. He can never make out faces, it’s too far, but David watches people go about their daily lives. He can only ever watch for a short while, a long glimpse. His thoughts heighten quickly as he sees the violent poverty imposed on people like him. The last time David looked into Juarez, one guy stopped moving and stared back at him. “But I’m miles away, and I have a mountain as a backdrop, he can’t possibly see me, can he?” David and the guy wave at each other in unison. Thinking to himself, “Maybe he just felt like he was being watched. That happens to me all the time. That must be it.”
US Interstate 10 runs right through downtown with exits begging travelers to pull off the highway and spend some money before passing on by. But David knows most travelers are going to continue on their way without stopping. In the rare times as a kid, David would travel to California and hear a common statement from people who learned his family was from El Paso, “Yeah, I have driven through El Paso and kept on driving.” And while growing up, David would be fascinated by all the out-of-state license plates rolling along I-10 without exiting and he would dream, “I hope I will leave this place, someday.”
Chapter 1
I am playing nerf football on the tarmac of The El Paso International Airport just outside Mad Dog Shipping’s warehouse where I work loading and unloading planes and trucks. We have finished cramming boxes and items into cargo containers like 3-D Tetris and then loading them onto trucks with forklifts. It is not a difficult job. It is actually pretty fun with the group of people we have working here. When the crew is humming we can load and unload planes and trucks very quickly. As we are all in the zone moving past each other without uttering a useless word, I often think about how cool we must look from above the warehouse floor, like ants bringing food back to the anthill. We get our shit done quickly, so we have time to goof off.
After we finish early, we sometimes have forklift races during our morning shift because it’s too hot to go outside. Our warehouse is not large, and the races require hairpin turns. So, we usually have a guy hanging off the driver’s opposite side of the forklift to make sure the thing does not tip over. I have never seen anyone tip a lift while racing. I’ve seen a forklift lean over and ride on two wheels, but have only heard about the guys who flipped a forklift and got fired. Fired, and worse, they lost the race.
But this morning shift is a bit different. The clouds have been out all morning, and it is not dangerously hot outside. The El Paso desert fills with heat very early in the day and by 9 a.m. it is hot and oppressive. The tarmac has not been baking in the sun all morning because of the canopy of grey, protective clouds. It’s a rare chance to play nerf during the day as we usually play during our evening shift after we finish unloading planes.
Our nerf game is a 3-on-3, and my team has the ball and a big lead. Raul plays the line and has a big body. He likes to hike the ball to me and push his guy down to the ground to be wide open as a safety valve. Carl plays wide receiver and is overenergized. He plays wide receiver like Tim Hardaway plays basketball, breaking ankles with his UTEP two-step. I throw the ball to a spot, and Carl runs and gets it after shaking free from his coverage. We have this game in the bag, and the clouds are holding up, keeping us cool.
Manny, my boss, is the QB of the other team. He’s a great guy and a friend, but this is war and we are beating his team pretty badly. Yet, it is time to pile on the points with a trick play. I call a wide-receiver pass back to me for a touchdown. I want to humiliate Manny out there.
“Hey, Davi!” Manny shouts at me as my team approaches the line of scrimmage. “You lucky bastard, you’re mopping the shitter tonight if you score again!” He is covering me, and it looks like he wants to blitz. He’s really looking for a defensive play to get his team back in it.
“What the hell!?” I shout back at him and glance to Carl that the trick play is still on. “Leave it all on the tarmac, Manny! Don’t bring work into this. It’s embarrassing for you!” I snap back at him.
“I got the shits too, Davi. I’m gonna leave a steamy one for you!” Manny backs up as he misreads my glance to Carl.
“He’s going to Carl!” Manny shouts directions to his teammates. “I got him. Back me up top! You stay on Raul and don’t get pushed down this time!”
Manny turns his attention back to me, “I dare you to throw it, Davi! I’ll pick it off like Prime-Time.” His body starts to lean toward Carl.
“Holy shit, the blitz is off! Perfect!” I think to myself and try to hide my excitement.
Raul hikes the ball. Manny runs laterally to my right straight for Carl. He’s trying to get in front of Carl’s face for an interception since there is help behind him. Carl takes one step up the field, and Manny adjusts his route to go with him. Then, Carl stops on a dime and turns 180 degrees heading back to the line of scrimmage.
Manny is stumbling to the ground as he tries to follow Carl. That’s another ankle-breaker. At the same time Carl took his first step, I pump-faked a pass to a spot 10 yards up the field, and Manny had no choice but to bite hard and get out of position.
I quickly throw to a spot about three yards behind the line and know that Carl will catch the ball. I turn to run my ass off to get open — it’s a simple out-and-up route. As I run past the big-bodied Raul, I see him jumping up and down for the ball. He is wide open because his guy is on the ground again and still rolling around. I run past him as I turn to look back for the pass.
Carl is waving his arms at me as I become wide open for the pass. “Throw the fucking ball!” I yell as I approach the end zone, but it is difficult to hear as I sprint. I think he is waving me back across the field. “Why?” I start curling to the right to follow his lead, “Throw the goddamned ball!”
Carl throws the ball, leading me more to the right, but Manny is not rushing him anymore. Instead, it looks like he is talking to Carl and pointing at me. The ball flies way over my head. It is way out of bounds and heads toward the open warehouse door, “What the hell is he doing?” I think as I turn to follow its path.
Then I see it out of the corner of my eye! A huge propellor cargo plane was taxing up to our warehouse 20 yards away from me. The pilot is flipping me off and waving me away. “Holy Shit!” I stumble out of breath as I run for clearance. “That was too fucking close.” I laugh to myself. I never heard the plane as blood was pumping in my ears while I was running full speed up the tarmac. Carl and Manny are on the ground laughing and pointing at me.
The game is over. More planes will start arriving now. I pull out a cigarette while heading back to the warehouse, the bunch follow slowly in the same direction. Manny’s team had their heads down as Carl and Raul are talking shit to them. Manny’s wide receiver splits off the group and properly taxis in the plane.
Our morning shift is about to end. The night shift will start at 6 p.m., and we would all usually be back for that, but I am taking the evening shift and the morning shift off because I am starting a new job tomorrow at a dental lab. I’ll keep both jobs for a while to see what works out best. Manny walks up to me just outside the Warehouse door, “You should thank Carl, you lucky bastard.”
“Why? Because he threw the ball safe?” I laugh.
“No, because I offered him a 50 cent raise to throw it at the plane, and he refused.” We start laughing. “That shit was scary. You almost blew this new dental job before you even started!” He laughs.
“Fucking hell, I couldn’t hear a damn thing running around out there.” I laugh, still a little scared but not willing to show it.
“Ah, why die now and fuck up your new job? You can still fuck it up in your own time. Hahahaha! Just messing with you, mang. I’m happy for you.” He lights his cigarette as we hang outside the door.
“Hell, man. I can certainly fuck this up, but that’s why I have not quit this job yet.” We laugh. “We’ll see. It’s only a delivery driver position. Nothing glamorous. This split shift work is not for the long run anyway.” I say. “And hey, if it fits in our split shift, then…”
“Look Davi, I hope the first day goes well tomorrow and that you like the job. So, don’t go out and do anything stupid tonight, cause you gotta rest.” He begins to laugh at his good advice. “I mean, you’re taking the night shift and tomorrow’s morning shift off so you’ll be fresh, but really, Joe wants to bring in his nephew on board. So he’ll be in tonight to take a look…”
“It’s just the first day, Manny. It’ll be fine. What the hell?” I say as Manny becomes very serious. “It could end up as a nothing job, don’t go giving my spot away. I don’t wanna end up with no job…”
“Just the first day? Bullshit!” Manny interrupts, “Everything depends on how things begin, on how things emerge. And what’s this, ‘your spot’ bullshit?” He sighs and shakes his head. “This job is shit. This is a nothing job.” He pauses to take a drag on his cigarette. “Look, do well tomorrow, and remember, don’t screw this up.” He pauses. “You got a new start. Take it.” He pauses again, waiting for me to agree, “Okay?”
“Alright, Alright,” I say to appease him. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m not your dad! My kids won’t be ugly and stupid.“ He chuckles with smoke escaping his nose, “But if you are stupid and you do go out, then bring the beer here right at ten ’cause it’s your turn to buy, pinche puto.” We laugh and finish our smoke to end the morning shift.
***
The phone rings in the kitchen, waking me up from my afternoon nap in the living room of my darkened apartment. The curtains are drawn to keep the desert heat out, but the couch is warm with sleep and is holding me down in comfort, like a big gorilla cradling me. The empty beers on the coffee table are coming into focus as I start to get up, and the phone continues to ring. It takes five rings for me to get another beer and answer it.
“Davi!” Anthony says before I can say hello. “Hey man, whatcha doing?”
“Ugh, just woke up.”
“You ready? Let’s go.” When I met Anthony, I had started skating and was learning new tricks daily. Anthony came from out of state and was the cool kid from somewhere other than El Paso. He was a skater too. We met through mutual skater friends at a skate ditch in Eastside El Paso. He was a smooth skater, landing tricks with grace and style. We were both progressive skaters building off each little trick we learned and taught others. Anthony and I connected quickly because we shared ideas on how to do a new trick. Our progressions would go from truck grinding on a curb to a small wall-ride, to a tall wall-ride, and then a wall-ride and kickflip off the wall, and on and on, learning the small simple tricks to produce the larger complex ones.
We also took that similar mindset in other aspects of being good friends and began to amplify each other’s weaknesses and strengths. We became partners in vice, building one small vice on top of another to see where it leads, or what would happen. We had been doing this for years and can communicate without even talking. But even as beautiful as it all sounds, there was a dark side to it.
We have been very lucky over the years and soon enough our luck might run out. As a result, there are two reactions I get when Anthony calls me. One is the excitement that we will go out day-drinking and seeing where it leads us. Most days, it’s tame and we party all day and night without incident, but other times we narrowly escape death or worse. It’s that uncertainty at the border between euphoria and death that intrigues us the most. Could a drunken misstep land us in fortune or pull us over the edge? The uncertainty is addictive and maddening.
The other reaction I get is a feeling of dread and emptiness. These escapades are exhausting and secured with hubris and contemptible familiarity. These obsessive rituals are amusing and very nerve-wracking to endure every day with any consistency of control. And today of all days, I’d rather be here with this beer and sink back into my safe couch in the darkness of my apartment and wait for tomorrow. Anthony is still on the phone, “Get up, Davi! I’m here at Western Bev. and I’m headed over. I got Jill to give me a bottle for free!” He laughs. Damn, here we go again.
…
The El Paso sun is approaching the horizon bringing a textbook desert sunset along with it. The salmon-colored canopy separates the rest of the blue sky from the gradients of reds and yellows where the sky meets the Franklin Mountains. Another hot day is about to end, and a frigid desert night is getting ready to replace it. Yet the concrete and asphalt still radiate with heat holding the cold of the evening at bay.
We are playing pool at our familiar eastside pool hall, Clicks. The galvanized metal bucket of Shiner Bock on ice has a moat around it, sweating on our wobbly bar table. Anthony and I have tried to corral the moat with piles of napkins in between shots. But the condensation keeps coming, and despite our efforts, the water keeps flowing through the napkins and puddling on the carpet underneath the table.
There were six full beers in the bucket about a half-hour ago. This is our second bucket of the day. All but one bottle is bottoms up. I look around the pool hall, and each table has its own bucket of beer with puddles on the carpet underneath each table. The noisy air conditioner runs on high but is merely a loud placebo pushing around warm air. We still feel the last of the heat cutting through the swamp cooler’s efforts. Fellow pool players feel it too and we are all ready for the cool desert air. Next to us, two players walk around their pool table talking loudly and half hunched over looking for their next shot. They are big fellas with large beer bellies and chalky white handprints all over their western shirts and jeans.
“First, Pete and now Warren Moon?” says one old guy, about 40, with buttons stressing under the pressure of his gut that hangs over his large Jesus belt buckle. They are at the table next to us. “Those people aren’t smart enough to be QBs. They need to stick to running fast and hitting people. That’s how they were bred.” They both look like gymnasts chalking up for the parallel bars before every shot, with handprints on themselves, their beers, and the pool table. “They’re gonna ruin football! I’m not gonna watch anymore.” He continues. “It’s gonna turn into basketball, I’m telling you!” His friend, with a matching beer belly, agrees. “Remember what happened to basketball after Texas Western in ‘66? You’ll see.” They want to be heard by everyone around them. The conversation fluctuates between sports and right-wing politics, and it’s clear they spend a lot of time listening to a.m. talk radio. This rhetoric sounds very familiar.
“Your table looks like shit. Look at all that chalk! It’s probably why you play like shit and talk a lot of shit,” Anthony says with a slight slur directly to the guys and pauses for a reaction. There is none, the two guys just look at each other.
The old guys continue talking louder with never-ending talking points. “And all these spics, who can tell which one is illegal? They should round them up and sort them out,” They say in our direction. They want all of us to know the genius ideas that are drilled into them every day. I recognize those talking points because I’ve heard the same talk shows. My dad listens to those shows and parrots the same talking points every chance he gets, even if the topic is not politics.
This loud language comes from people who are proud of their bigoted views, and these guys have done their homework. I’d score them at about an A- in retention, not bad. It was annoying to listen to as we played, but it wasn’t ruining it for me because I hear it all the time. The clincher is just like my dad, these two fellas are Hispanic people saying horrible things about other Hispanic people let alone the outright racists shit about black people.
If Anthony were sober, he would make fun of them without them realizing it. He’s a quick-minded word-man shooting verbal barbs with pinpoint accuracy, but we are drunk. The free whiskey we had on our way to the pool hall did most of the damage. We pregame because we “want to save money,” but we never save any because we stop drinking only when the money runs out.
It was disappointing to Anthony that the guys did not respond, so he turns to me and says, “Look at their table, man. Ugh, hate that shit!” He waits and looks. No reaction from them. “They need TP to wipe their mouths cuz of all the shit they say.” The old guys ignore him as they try to wipe the chalk off their clothes. It was no use.
“It’s your shot,” I say, trying to move past it.
“I mean…” he finishes his beer and takes the last one in the bucket, and swigs it as he stumbles toward the pool table. “I mean… I dunno.” He looks at the 2-ball. It’s a long rail shot to the corner pocket, but it would never go past the middle pocket, where one cushion sticks out further than the other. If he makes it, he will have a clean shot on the 8-ball.
“Hmmm. Do or die,” he moans to himself as he settles into the shot. His cue stick swims like a salmon as he feathers it. After three aggressive backswings, he jabs the cue ball and hits it pretty good. It heads toward the 2-ball that’s waiting to be hit. We watch the two-ball roll straight, hugging the rail, “How the hell did he hit that so well? The drunk bastard.” My eyes widen in amazement. The 2-ball is rolling past the middle and bounces off the cushion as predicted.
“Shiiit!” The cue ball lines up perfectly for my game-winner. “This table sucks.” He chugs the rest of his beer and declares, “You win. Let’s go.” And turns to walk away.
“Hey fuck you, you gotta watch!” He stops and looks as I sink the 8-ball and then heads to the bar mumbling to himself. I meet Anthony at the bar and return the balls.
“You lose again, Anthony?” The bartender laughs as we settle up.
“When you gonna re-felt these? Your pockets are shit.” He replies, still upset about his shot and the whole day in general.
“When you gonna pay more than fifty cents a game?” the bartender quips back.
I can see by his grin that Anthony has a clever answer, but all he can say is, “Well.. uh.” He’s stammering badly. I leave him to it and head towards the exit.
“I told him… I told him…” he slurs, interrupting himself with laughter as he runs up to me. “I told him, ‘When you drop your fee for mowing my lawn!’” He laughs to himself. I shake my head and thought he could have come up with something better. “…mowing my lawn.” He laughs.
The evening sky has turned a deep blue while people outside are turning into silhouettes. The sunset has reduced itself to just over the horizon and is now only a sliver of orange and yellow. The air seems cool enough, but when we open the door, warm air tries to push us back in.
We walk around the corner from the entrance before parting ways and can smell the dumpsters that have baked in the heat all day. Anthony drove me to the pool hall even though I live less than a mile away, but in El Paso, we drive to our refrigerators. I’m gonna walk home tonight and try to envision how tomorrow will go. It has been on my mind all day, however, I’ve not spent much time thinking about where this might go. Will I eventually do actual work in the lab? I’m not entirely sure what a dental lab even is or what they do? Make teeth — that’s all I know. That, and the fact that it just sounds like a real job.
My girlfriend Marie is happy because we’ll have nights together if I stop working at the airport, but there’s no way to know how this will pan out. One thing is for sure, the huge hole in my day that I filled up with drinking, smoking weed, and playing pool is now gone. I need time to think this through. Manny was right, it all depends on how things emerge. I’ll have a better feel for it after tomorrow.
Anthony stops to light a cigarette. As I lift my head towards him, someone pushes me hard in the chest making me cough out a breath. I didn’t see it or hear it coming. Before I gather what’s going on, my back hits the wall, and I stumble against it tilting and sliding like an unstable ladder. I can’t make out who it is and where they are. My eyes are watering as I catch my breath. “What the fuck!” I yell as I straighten up, wiping white hand-chalk off my shirt.
The two older dudes had noticed us leaving and headed out while we were settling up at the bar. We didn’t see it coming. The guy was squaring up to throw a punch, and I couldn’t do much about it. He caught me on my right temple, but it was not a full hit. His fist bounced off my head and scraped against the limestone rock wall behind me. I found that a little funny and laughed a bit as I shoved him back on his ass. “What the fuck?” I yell at him. My senses were starting to come back to me. “Get up!”
“Fucking spic!” he yells while on the ground.
“You’re Mexican! You fucking dumbass!” I yell at him, ready to fight.
I hear Anthony struggling with his old guy, their feet shuffling along the asphalt with grunts. I turn to look at him and hear a gunshot. My ears are ringing. I see Anthony take a few steps back, clutching his chest, and folding over himself to the ground. The old dude is in a wide stance, like his pool stance, with both hands on the pistol, like an idiot. In no time at all, two more quick shots are fired at Anthony on the ground. The old guy turns to run and his friend gets up to run with him. They disappear into the sea of trucks and glitter under the parking lot lights.
I head straight for Anthony as people are running toward us, “Call the fucking cops! Call 911!” I kneel beside Anthony to see if there is any chance he is alive, but he is motionless. The smell of alcohol and blood is overpowering; there is no pulse. He lays there with no sound and zero movements. His stillness makes him seem not human, like a mannequin.
He’s dead. I close my eyes and turn away from his face that is turning pale. I don’t want to remember his face this way. Gravity pulls his blood all around him like a moat. I hear sirens off in the distance, and people have gathered around us, screaming in Spanish for their lord to save his soul. Since the lord didn’t stop the bullets, maybe he’ll save his soul like some kind of divine make-up call? Who the fuck knows. The sirens are getting closer. I can hear the people gathering around us, but their collective words in English and Spanish, in amazement and condemnation only buzz around like flies and their sound fills the cool air. The sunset is now entirely behind the horizon, the sky has no light left in it, the air is cold, and we are all shadows backdropped by the spinning lights of the ambulance.
***
At Southwestern Hospital in Central El Paso, two nurses finished doing a preliminary exam, taking my vitals, and listening to my explanation of what had happened. They are matter of fact, work quickly and only say what they need to. They finish up and leave the door cracked. “He smells like booze!” They are holding court in the hallway just outside my room. “No wonder he was mixed up in all this.”
All emergencies and trauma patients in El Paso County are directed to this hospital. It was an old bustling building completed in the early 1900s with a brick and terra-cotta facade nestled in the foothills of the Franklin Mountains. Ghosts can be seen and heard on lonely nights in the long hallways. The dead linger around and I wonder if Anthony is here.
“Nothing good happens when you smell like that.” The sound seeps through the crack of the open door. They pause and then start telling the doctor what I told them, gave him my paperwork, and hurried away to the next room. I imagine them in lockstep.
The doctor walks into my room with indifference, “You smell ripe.” He walks up to me. “Getting into trouble, I see.” He is an older white man that doesn’t look me in the eyes but continues to speak through my medical file, “Do you understand English?” He is tall with a heavy frame, fat fingers, and a reddened face hanging over his collar.
“Yes.” My answers are on autopilot.
“You’re not the one that got shot?” he scans the paperwork.
“What? No.” Get the nurses back in here to explain it all over again. “I was punched, as the nurses said.”
“Where were you hit?” he asks, still looking at the medical file.
“My head.” I point to my temple, where the punch landed, and hold it until his round bright red face turns my way. “I’m fine. I just want to leave this place.”
The doctor looks at my head where I had pointed and then examines my whole head, then pauses around the back. His hands rub along the back of my head, and his finger rubs over a painful spot. I jerk forward in surprise. I then feel warm blood running down the back of my neck. “You’re cut back here, and there is dry blood on your neck and shirt. Did you get hit from behind?” he asks, not looking at me but wiping up the blood with his fat fingers.
“No.” It must have been when my head hit the rock wall, but I kept silent, my explanation didn’t matter.
“It’s nothing,” he says, “Just a cut, but the head bleeds like a sieve.” He continues to examine the rest of my head and finds scars from when I was jumped by three assholes in the eastside desert and left for dead. “You’ve had some trouble before, I see,” he says looking over the past wounds. I stay quiet, except for a sigh. “You’ll be fine. You’re alive…” He pauses, and not appearing to apologize he continues, “No pain meds for you. And the police are ready for you now.” Who the fuck asked for pain meds?
Anthony was dead on arrival, which was no surprise. Yet, I am still in shock about the whole thing. It was unbelievable how it escalated like that. In one second the world changes. During this sudden change, my body is glowing with numbness and attacked by exhaustion. All parts and systems are getting ready for a new reality, and that reality is waiting outside the door with the cops. Time to tell the whole thing again, but that’s fine. Each telling of the story becomes a nail, pinning down this memory. The last memory of my past. I don’t want to forget this.
***
It was a long night giving my statement to the police after being cleared from the hospital, and I am still in the interrogation room. The detective, Robert Castro, is a soft-spoken middle-aged Hispanic man dressed well and is very fit. His hair is graying just above his ears and sideburns, but he looks younger than the gray. His hair is slicked back from using a comb and hair gel; you only get those lines from a comb. His Drakar Noir is mixed with Marlboro Reds.
“We’ve picked up the guys that jumped you. Uh, if you are up for it, we would like you to identify them in a line-up. You don’t have to, but it would help me.” He looks caringly into my eyes as if I was going to decline. But I wanted to identify them, “Yeah, let’s do it.”
It is around 3 a.m. as we walk through a low ceilinged, beige-painted cinderblock hallway of the El Paso Police Department. We entered a room with a two-way mirror taking up the top half of the wall opposite the door. The lights in the room were on as we enter, and I look around, concerned about that. “It’s okay. They can’t see you. Having the lights off is for movies. Trust me, they can’t see you.” As I move in front of the mirror, I see six people walk in. I pointed out the assholes before they were in position. “You sure?” I nod. “Very good, David. You did great.” and a cop walked me out of the room.
Robert caught up with me in the hallway. I could hear him running behind me, and I was startled by the sound. “David!” he calls out to me, “Here is my number in case you need anything. We got these guys but might need your help later. Is that okay?” I nod again, still struggling to speak. I take his card and put it in my pants pocket. As I do that, my hand bumps into the lighter, and I instantly thought about saying goodbye to Anthony only a few hours ago, and uncontrollably I burst into tears. The cop who was walking me kept quiet as we approached a police car. I did not care what he thought.
By the time the cop drive me home, it was around 4:30 a.m. I had contemplated calling in sick for my first day on the job but then thought otherwise. It would be understandable, but most likely, I would lose the job if I called in. There are plenty of people out of work in this city ready to take my spot. I had to go in or risk losing it. “Fuck, Manny was right.” I think to myself while imagining him pissed off at me, laughing at me, and maybe, even a little satisfied.
As we approach my neighborhood, I realize that I hadn’t called Marie. Since the first shove outside the pool hall, everything had happened so fast. It was all non-stop after that, and suddenly, I was home. My heart is beating out of my chest. I was angry, horrified, and was suddenly deeply terrified of everything. Who were they to risk doing that out in the open? Were they connected? Were they in a gang? Do they know where we live? Are their friends or family watching us now? Nothing made sense, and my brain struggles to put the pieces together enough to understand — even a little. But, I can’t. Paranoia increases with every breath.
When I open the door, Marie bolts out of the bedroom. “What’s going on, Da-vid!? You start a new job tomorrow! You said you would be home early! What the hell…” Marie yells. I see her beautiful face angry and concerned with blood highlighting her nose and freckles. Her hypnotic green eyes are worried, bloodshot, and relieved that I was home. She could tell something was wrong as if her worse fears had come true. I could no longer hold it in, and I broke down.
For the next few hours, we talked about it over and over until I was able to speak without falling apart. “I don’t understand! Who were these guys?! They could’ve shot you!” she cries. We go over the night countless times until we go silent.
Our silence lets in sounds from the outside. Cars pass by, “Who are they?” I ask myself. I can hear my neighbors walking around upstairs. What the hell are they doing up? Are they connected to the guys and know I’m home? I am worried it could be an attack. I should try to stay awake until it is all clear. “That’s fucking nuts, David.” I chastise myself and breathe rhythmically to get my heartbeat in check. I don’t want to show my new paranoia and possibly share it with Marie. I’m losing my mind, and I don’t think I’m hiding it very well.
***
After getting in a two-hour nap, I drink coffee in the living room while Marie is in the shower. It feels like I have cotton in my ears. I can hear my headache wrap around my head and tied upfront on my forehead. I pop five dry Ibuprofen in my mouth before taking another sip of coffee. It’s been a long time since I have been up this early and still be at home. I am watching people exit from the apartment building to their cars, and it’s worrisome. I don’t recognize anyone. Do these people live here? Or are they watching me? “No, they aren’t watching you!” I can picture Anthony say in my head if he were here, “Why the hell would they be watching you?!” I can imagine him saying. “Relax, mang. No one is out to get you. Those guys were idiots. What gang would have those putos?” I laugh to myself and feel somewhat better. I take another sip of coffee and continue to watch people leave for work. Waiting, with keys in my hand, until the coast is clear to head out.
The major streets in El Paso are peppered with strip malls, used car lots, and fast food joints. Beagle Dental Lab is tucked away in a little strip mall just a block away from a major shopping center called Beagle Mall. It was very confusing, but I had driven here last week before my interview to learn the best route.
My car is parked in the space furthest away from the lab. The A/C is running, and the cassette player is playing “Jane’s Addiction’s Obvious.” It’s 8:45 a.m. and already 90 degrees. I’m early, exhausted, and beginning to sweat through my shirt. “Let’s get this going already,” I say to myself, “I just gotta get through this day. Forget about yesterday, David. Just for today.”
I turn off the car, and out of the corner of my eye I see Anthony moving around and getting comfortable in the passenger seat, “I’ll wait here, Davi. Go in. Make me proud. But, put the radio back on, yeah?” Turning to respond, I only see heat waves rising from the passenger door — the wavy patterns distorting the images outside. I open the car door and get ready to walk up.
The front of the dental lab is made of large glass windows with aluminum finishing from floor to ceiling with the door at the far end. A large awning stretches the length of the building and extends about 10 feet to block the sun. Because of the glass facade, most everything going on inside can be seen from the outside. The lab owner, Mr. Gonzales, is at his bench that sits about three feet taller than all the workbenches on the main floor. He is reading the paper and the article on the front page is about last night’s shooting. “Dammit, I hope they kept my name out of it,” I worry to myself.
Walking closer, I see about four technicians in baby blue smocks hunched over and working at their L-shaped benches. Each has a pile of case pans surrounding them. Their blue smocks cover them from the neck to their knees and match their blue ear-loop face masks while they work away. Their magnified loupes band around their heads and extend over their protective glasses — no time for injuries. If you are injured, you can’t work. Each of them is middle-aged or older and pretend not to see me through the glass door, but their heads bob up as they chirp to each other. A younger guy near the back of the lab, at a large sink area, looks up at me and gives me a nod as if to say, “Sup?” I nod back, “Sup?”
At the front door, I hear conversations in Spanish suddenly hush under the noise of them working. Cold air chills me as I step into the lab and stand in the waiting area that’s the size of a phone booth. I step in, and the front door is to my right. A folding chair is behind me, and there’s a four-foot-tall reception desk to my left. Beyond the reception desk, I see Mr. Gonzales’ bench and the three steps leading up to it. But, right in front of me, the entire lab grabs my attention. I try to take it all in.
I see the main floor with six L-shaped working benches. One of them that I couldn’t see from outside, sits empty. One end of the L-shaped workbenches is either a handpiece or a table lathe with a vacuum unit. A drawer extends out from underneath them to catch debris. Each bench drawer catches different debris, like metal bits and dust, pink acrylic scraps and flecks, or discarded porcelain crowns and porcelain dust.
On the other end of their L-benches is a cleaner side with matching materials in raw form. There are two benches with piles of pink wax, plastic teeth cards, and stone models in brass articulators. Another two benches have green plastic wax and stone models in articulators, and one more has jars of porcelain powder and a glass slab with an artist’s size 8 paintbrush. My mind was exploding with ideas and possibilities. “I am really good with my hands and have a strong creative urge. This could actually be a job where I can create for a living. This could be cool,” I thought.
I smell a mixture of burning wax, acrylic monomer/polymer, and dental lab plaster. The burning wax hits me at the roof of my mouth and nose, the wet acrylic lands in the back of my tongue and ignites the angles of my jaw, the powdered plaster fills the air in my sinuses and the back of my throat.
The air is noisy with the sounds of handpieces and bench lathes grinding plastic, metal, stone. Vacuums bellow loudly but ineffectively as only some of the dust gets sucked in, and much of it hovers around each workbench before dissipating into the air. My ears adjust to the low and deep roar of Bunsen burners reaching three inches to the ceiling, heating up globs of wax on tiny instruments that look like miniature spoons. Tejano music is playing on the radio that sits on a bookshelf along the back wall — Little Joe, I think.
At the far left end of the lab is the vast “U” shaped sink area. The guy who nodded to me is gone from there. There is a plaster model grinder hanging over the sink, a plaster mixing bench with three types of powdered stone on the counter to the left, and there are rows of models, in green rubber molds, on the opposite counter.
Next to the sink area is a hallway that leads to the bathroom and the back door. To the right of the hallway is a large window to an adjacent room. The room has chest-high equipment and a bank of three workbenches along the farthest wall. I could see the guy who nodded to me talking to a guy seated at a bench. The tech lifts up his loupes and turns his chair to look at me. After seeing me, he turns back to his bench. Both exchange a few words and the tech gets back to work. The younger guy quickly goes back to the sink area, popping models out of the rubber molds. The rest of the lab workers don’t look up at me.
Mr. Gonzales sees me and gets up slowly, determined to move his large body. He has a thick head of white hair neatly combed back. He’s clean-shaven with a large smile and light brown eyes. His light skin is tanned from vacations and he stands over six feet tall and carries a belly the size of a beach ball around with him. The front of his smock is riddled with wax stains and dust. He wipes away what he can as he passes in front of his private office and heads toward me. With a large friendly smile, he says, “Hi David, let’s go outside.” I smile back, nod and exit, waiting for him to squeeze through the tight entrance.
He leads me to the parking lot, and we stand in the sun. “You’re early, good, you’re not on Chicano Time.” He says to me. “Why don’t you stand there?” He positions me with my back to the lab while he is facing its glass walls. We are both squinting our eyes, trying to get them adjusted.
“Remember, your job is to pick up and deliver cases to dental offices. Before you deliver cases, you have to bill them correctly. David will show you how.” He pauses, “You’re David too, huh? That’s funny. Are you guys, brothers?” I laugh nervously because that makes no sense to me. Is this a joke?
He continues, “You will only be a delivery driver here. These guys have been with me for years, and I told them their jobs are safe. You won’t take their jobs, got it?” He waits for my reply.
“Yeah, makes sense to me. Good to know,” I say.
“Okay, Let’s go in.”
***
Next, in Chapter 2 The Transition to David’s new reality.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
