Kubes Excerpt from "Grand" 1 Triste The funeral was held in the neighborhood morgue. I think the family wanted anyone to show up so there could be an audience for the show. I sat next to Rogelio. He acknowledged me by looking up and forcing a lazy smile. I used to deliver beer and talapia at his doorstep. The thing that stood out the most for me was that everyone had so much to say about La Chicha. They were even referring to her as "Irma," her given name. The entire room was filled with the overlapped murmurs of how great she was, how much happiness she brought and how she’d be missed. You’d think that pamphlets had been given out at the front door with scripted dialogue and everyone had a part. Even the preacher, who I know for a fact never met La Chicha, spoke gloriously about her. He said she was a great woman, that her death was a loss for the entire planet. "Heaven welcomes her," he said at one point. Everyone cried when he spoke and he seemed to feel good about his performance. She didn’t look right to me. The make up was layered and of an unnatural color, almost peach. I’m sure they tried to make her look pleasantly alive, they failed. I knew her enough to know that all those people talking sweetly about her hated her. In reality, the entire funeral was a masquerade in hypocrisy. No one really wanted her alive. She had become a weight on people’s shoulders, though she never asked to be. Her sisters disliked her drinking habit and neighbors hated the loud fights between her and Rogelio. Rogelio sat at a far corner during the Masquerade, brown bag in his hands. He never looked up and occasionally took a sip from the bag. No one acknowledged his presence because he could not play a role since he had been part of the truth everyone shied away from. When the opportunity to approach the casket came he didn’t bother to get close. He had already seen all there was to see. Not too long ago Rogelio had been in jail facing possible charges for Chicha’s death. First the rumors were that a fight broke out between the two during their usual drunken rage and he had burned her alive. Everyone had something to say about it, and all opinions concluded that he was the type to do such a thing. Eventually the truth came out. Chicha was ill, her liver, and she suffered from body aches. Rogelio massaged her body with rubbing alcohol all the time and one night, after drinking too much, she asked him to massage her. Then, she wanted to smoke, each lit a cigarette, placed it in their mouth. She placed her head on his lap and fell asleep. The entire bedroom caught fire. They were both rushed to the hospital where he was treated for minor burns, but she died three days later. Immediate family that got to visit her said she was swollen beyond recognition. The police found enough evidence to believe Rogelio and he was released. Rogelio knew that Irma’s family wanted to blame him for her death. He knew they would always blame him, like they blamed him about her drinking. Still, quiet and hidden beneath their denial of his presence, he sat. The show went on and eventually the time came to leave. I shook hands with Rogelio; his skin was soft and worn. I felt his veins circulating over the brown bony fingers. "She wanted to be buried next to her mother, in El Salvador," he said. He stood up and left before everyone else. Chicha was cremated. I was already in a somber mood that week. My girlfriend dumped me a few days before the funeral. She had been away most of the summer. Turns out she met a distant, very distant I hoped, cousin who she fell in "love" with. It was very weird, the way it all came down. Right away when I picked her up at the airport I knew something was wrong; she was quiet and not once did she hug me. She was gone for two months so I expected some kind of physical recognition, nothing. I justified her numbness to myself by thinking of jet lag. "How was the flight?" I asked. "Alright," she said in a low voice. "You feeling okay?" "I missed the freeways, you know? I did no driving. None at all." She missed the freeways. At that point I knew something was not right. We had sex that night, actually, I had sex with her. She was stiff, uninterested. When I was done she asked to take out a video from her bag and play it. It was the typical vacation trip stuff. Sights, sounds and images, except till the end of the tape. It was a trip to a local park. The familiar faces were there; her mom, her sister and other family members. The thing about my girlfriend was that she rarely popped up on this particular part. She had always been photogenic and never missed an opportunity to stand in front of the camera. Nearing the end of the tape she moved to the furthest side of the bed. And then it happened: in a far corner of the park, in the background if you will, there she was. Holding and kissing some guy. Clearly she didn’t know she was being taped at the time, but eventually after some kind of review she knew. It was the only way she could tell me. I would’ve preferred a "Dear John" or a speech over the phone. I got dressed, ejected the video from the VCR and broke it. I screamed the clichés pertinent to the occasion, broke porcelain stuff and I left. The next day we spoke on the phone, she wanted to explain and I had a perverse and macabre sense of curiosity about the facts. She told me how the other guy, whatever his name was, reminded her of me. He thought like me, spoke like me and treated her as I did. I almost asked if he kissed like me but I know she would have answered and I really didn’t want that. She told me how confused she was during the whole time, balancing in her mind what was best for her and one night while debating the matter her sister asked, "Who do you like more?" "This one," she said. "Why?" "Because he’s here," was her justification. I lost her because I was not Goddamn there. That angered me, three years of relationship drama tossed aside because she found my spiritual twin and I was not there to stop it. After the funeral I walked by the bars and clubs of the downtown strip, which was a different place during the day. The working people and the homeless toiled around then. During the night it was the younger crowd that trekked through the streets. Holding hands, drunk and laughing, the sight was different from the day. It was time for work and I got to Mr. Ed’s liquor store and as usual Sam Kim, the owner, swept the sidewalk. He didn't even look like an Ed, although he once hired a guy named Ted but he got fired after Sam Kim found him smoking some crack in the storeroom. "You ready to work today Adonis?" Sam Kim said. "Got lots of cleaning in store room." Sam Kim was a nice man, always tried to appear mean and rough though. It was the nature of his business. Everyone tried to steal from him at one point or another, even me, before I worked for him. When he spoke he sharpened his voice and spoke in a monotone way that made him sound generic and unemotional. "I’m always ready to work Sam," I responded. "You know me. As long as you pay, I play." "Very good. Go to back room and unpack the boxes with red marker all over." Sam’s wife was there too. She ran the register in a quiet humble manner. I think she was embarrassed with the language because she always spoke softly, like a whisper. Thank you very much, come again were the only words I ever almost heard her say. I unpacked the boxes and put things in their place. I was able to see the front of the store from where I was and I realized that Sam and his wife rarely spoke to each other, even when they thought they were alone. Their relationship was a quiet one, almost clinical. "Arranged" I thought and the word stunned me. What relationship isn’t an arranged one? All we have to do is get to a point in our lives where we feel lonely enough to choose someone to be with. And who do we choose? Whoever is there. I thought about married and unmarried couples I knew, arranged. No one was ever truly happy, just there, together. All relationships around me were about being there. Sam and his wife had been there, together, since I can remember and they rarely spoke because it didn’t matter to speak. All that mattered was that they were there, together and neither one of them was going anywhere else. When I got home I called Ben to see if he wanted to meet and go to a club, something I hadn’t done for some time. "Ben?" I asked. "What’s up Adonis?" "I feel like going to a club tonight." "Hey, that’s great. I just got off the phone with a buddy of mine and he was raving about this place downtown. We should go." "I’m down." "Yeah, you probably won’t like the music though." "What kind do they play?" "All Spanish." he said, expecting my response. It wasn’t that I didn’t like music in Spanish, I had never been exposed to it that much. It had been a running joke between my friends for some time, until they grew out of it. They used to call me "Whitey" and "Guero." They had always been surrounded by their music. As a child my mother worked two jobs and I was alone most of the time, exposed to mainstream music on the radio and television. Everyone in the community had their own genre: Merengue, Salsa, Rancheras and so on. You could tell who was from where by walking around on Sunday afternoons and hearing the music blasting from their apartments. As for me, I was a Guatemalan that grew up listening to Quiet Riot, Run DMC, L.L. Cool J, Motley Crue and Ozzy. My tastes were scattered everywhere except where they needed to be. "So, is it okay, or do we have to go to another one of your Hip Hop Bullshit Clubs?" Ben asked. "It’s okay. I need something new," I responded. Actually, I wanted something new. I was going to get it too. It was the first time I was gonna go ‘Clubbin’ as a single guy in three years. I felt the difference already. Before, when I’d go out it was as if I was a married man. Most of the time I went dancing with my ex, and if it was just me and my friends I had her in my mind: Should I do this, should I do that, what will she think? You could say I was whipped. "Good Adonis. Just one thing," said Ben. "What’s that?" I responded. "You gotta dress right." "Right? What do you mean?" "No T-shirt and jeans like you do for the other clubs. You gotta look good for this place." "Hey man, I’m not wearing a suit," I said. Suits never went well with me. Anything I had to button to the top of my neck I hated. Suits reminded me of the religious people you meet at the street and they try to convert you. It happened to me when I was twelve. This tall black man cornered me at a parking lot and told me that I had to find Christ or I’d perish in hell. His voice was rough and accusing and it intimidated me. I remember kneeling on the concrete with pieces of asphalt and broken glass pinching my knees and his hand tightly squeezing my head while he yelled some stuff about how I was gonna be saved from that day forth and so on. When it was over I went home, took a shower and placed it in the back of my head. That man wore a black suit. "No stupid. I don’t mean a suit; just a nice button shirt with a collar and nice pants. No T-shirts and no jeans, okay?" said Ben. He was short, dark skinned with prickly hair. He tried to make up for his height, bad breath and over bite by dressing stylish. Sometimes it worked with the women but his temper and vocabulary soon destroyed any attractiveness he could have conjured with the first impression. "Yeah, okay, fine," I responded. "There’s gonna be lots of bitches there tonight. You better get your groove on, cause if you do, you will smell like pussy tomorrow morning." "Yeah, okay, pussy smelling sounds like fun to me," I said. Actually, the thought of doing a woman sounded appealing. I knew it wasn’t going to happen, still, the thought was good. We got to The Grand at ten something. You could faintly hear the music streaming through the cracks. It was a steady beat, faint, but steady. The line was long and it went around the building into an alley. The music was still dripping from the building, but it had an effect. The flashing of the club’s neon lights invaded the alley’s darkness, the word Grand flashed repeatedly. Every time the sign flashed I was able to see the homeless people scattered across the alley. Some slept in cardboard structures and others reclined against the wall. There were about six or seven of them. I walked through that area many times, and I always noticed the homeless people. However, that night something didn’t belong there. The steady beating of drums and torrid trumpets trickling over the image of the disadvantaged created a cold atmosphere. There was a celebration going on inside The Grand and not everyone was invited. The dim melodies taunted me in an eerie manner because eventually I was going to end up on the other side of the building, away from the dirty people. That was a haunting feeling for me. Soon, liking the music or not, I was to become part of an elite party whose only requirement for acceptance was fifteen dollars, clean clothes and a clean face. Not much to ask for, but it was. Simple necessities: a few bucks, new clothes and a shower, became the means of access to a world of enjoyment that not everyone could have the use of. Inside the old building the lighting was bright enough to distinguish shapes and forms but that was it. Only the dance floor, inundated with bodies, had enough lighting to decipher colors and faces. The music was loud and when Ben spoke I could barely hear him, but I could tell he kept using the word "bitches." I followed Ben through around, passing the dance floor up to the bar where a heavy set man wearing a white vest sat surrounded by people. "This is my buddy I was telling you told me to check this place out," Ben muffled to me, "his name is Robles." Ben Tapped the chubby man on the shoulder and I saw his red face. Half turned, still sitting he grabbed Ben and gave him a hug. Ben pulled me closer to the man and introduced us. "This is my Buddy Adonis," Ben said. "Adonis?" Robles said with an alcohol riddled voice, "You suppose to be the best looking man in the world?" "That’s what my mother thought," I said. "What do mothers know any ways, heh?" he said while drowning into a pool of his own laughter. I didn’t like him much but he seemed to know how to have a good time. He had three women, attractive, around him and they laughed at all his jokes. He pointed to the bartender and Ben and I had drinks in front of us, Long Island Ice Tea. I’ve never trusted any one who buys Long Islands for a complete stranger. That drink is a drink for close friends, or people you want to get drunk. I took my drink and began to walk around. Ben stayed talking to Robles. I kept thinking about the lost people outside, isolated from the celebration. I saw men and women dancing, fondling, drinking and enjoying themselves. I wondered if they had noticed the lost ones. I ordered my own drinks and after four, the lost ones were just that for me, lost. I’ve never been a great dancer so I only watched others dance, intimidated by their graceful skills. Even though the dance floor was packed some people managed to maneuver through the crowd with a sense of rhythm. They all knew each other’s moves, like a team. Only people that dance that way with each other for a long time can keep up. But when the songs ended, many walked away from each other like strangers. I saw men asking different women to dance all the time, and no matter who danced with who, they always complemented each other with their comparable movements. Complete strangers communicating like lovers. I could tell some knew each other because of how they greeted. There were clusters of women that danced without men, but any man on the dance floor had to have a woman with him. Crowds of drinkers surrounded the dance floor, admiring and lusting after what they saw. Among those, men whispered things into women’s ears and some would giggle and others would turn around or wander away. There was so much going on at one time, I became an spectator of what I thought to be a ritual. It was fun, the colors on the dance floor, the flashing lights, the molded images of men and women and men with women. The music was dominant with trumpets and drums whose pulsating accentuation dictated the movements, thoughts and instincts of all those contaminated. Everyone inside, whether observing or performing, was infected. I could tell that many men wanted to ask a woman with a blue dress to dance. She was attractive and sat alone. I overheard a couple of friends referring to her. "Go on man, ask her to dance." "No, you ask her." "She’s gonna say no." "Chicken." "Whatever." They were intimidated, her posture erect and proper. Even with the poor lighting her skin was pleasant, soft. She wanted to dance, she wanted to be asked but no one could. Her confidence led me to believe she was a regular. A shadow arrived from the crowd and asked her to dance and they headed for the dance floor. They danced well together, never making eye contact. After a few songs they were no longer dancing together. They were there as partners, but she moved on her own with a rhythm different than his. They danced together, but she was dancing to something else, the same song but different meaning. It bothered him, he tried to hold her hand but she pulled away and continued on her journey. They separated, he left and she continued dancing on her own. She was graceful and her movements were both intense and gentle. She was dancing with a mission. I was drinking with a mission. Long Island after Long Island I kept ordering and drinking and paying. The atmosphere was intoxicating and I wanted to drink. I wanted to celebrate the freedom I felt, which was being manifested by the movements of the woman wearing the blue dress. The saxes and maracas became magically sensual and the entire room spun in my head, not like a hangover tornado, but like an arousing excursion that manipulated the senses; The music, the alcoholic flavor, the smell of perfumes and smoke, sweat on my skin and the impressive woman’s blue dress leading the escape from old memories toward some kind of New Jerusalem where the outside world and its underprivileged drama didn’t exist. I found myself at a balcony where the smokers socialized. The city lights were decorations that enhanced the club’s purpose. Steps lead down from the balcony to a lower lever, a byway where people were having fun under the night sky. I walked down without a reason for doing so, I needed no reason to do anything. It was darker at the bottom and further down the court I realized I was alone. I could hear a voice, a group of voices I thought. It was one voice singing. A man sat with a drink in his hand, it was Rogelio. "Rogelio?" I aksed, "is that you?" He didn’t respond right away, until I got closer he acknowledged me with his lazy smile. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know why he was there. I thought it was some weird way of his to deal with reality. "We were one of the first here when it opened," he said. I didn’t know how to respond. He only knew me from the visits I gave him and Chicha while delivering their goods. "I’m sorry," I responded. I hadn’t said that to him, no one had said that to him. "What time is it?" he asked. Looking at my watch I said, "Two fifty seven." "This place is about to close." I placed my hand on his shoulder, it was fragile. "I’m sorry," I said. He began to sing again, to him I was no longer there and probably never was. I was an element of a real world he wanted no part of. I functioned as a reminder that when he woke up there was a nightmare to live through. Feeling awkward I walked away toward the stairs and in the interior of the club’s musical atmosphere I heard Rogelio’s hymn resonating through: Estoy tan enamorado de la Negra Tomasa que cuando se va de casa triste me pongo.