La Voz

When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me stories at night. We’d be cruising down Santa Rosa Avenue, and I’d listen to him talk about his dad or the huelgas or his old homeboys. I never used to talk a lot so I was happy to sit my ass down and listen. He didn’t talk a lot either, but on Sunday nights in the summer, he’d go on for hours. We’d cruise in his ’64 Riviera, the one I wasn’t allowed to touch, and he’d just talk. He had his radio tuned in, playing oldies and shit, but all I wanted to listen to were his stories. And I was the only kid in the barrio that got to ride, too. Not even my buddy Jorge was allowed on the street on Sunday nights. My dad treated me like I was older, and since he would tell me his stories, I knew he thought high of me.

I never wanted those nights to end. When we would round the corner near our street, I tried to make everything slow down. I think my dad knew, ‘cause he would let me sit in the car with him for a few minutes in the driveway. The radio would be playing still and the crickets would be chirping but my dad would be quiet for a little bit, and we’d just sit there. You know, until Amá yelled at us to get inside or Chuco or Yoli came running out. But those minutes were like gold, man. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I’ll remember those nights ‘til I die. Sundays were my favorite day of the week, and even if Amá forced me to go to church in the morning, I had the cruise to save me.

This one time, we went riding longer than we normally did, and he started telling me about his mom. She died before I got to meet her, but I seen pictures of her before. She was beautiful, man, and she looked so nice. He told me that she would put tons of red on her cheeks, and when she smiled, she looked like God. I asked him if that’s why he got her tattooed on his arm, but he said no.

I remember looking up at the stars and thinking she could see me. He started talking about her cooking and the way she used to sing, and by the time we got to South Davis Street, he stopped talking. When I looked at him, his eyes were shining. We got to the driveway, but then he went past it. We rode around another block and I think I was scared, ‘cause I never seen him cry before. But before I could even ask if everything was okay, we rounded our street. He told me to go into the house as soon as we parked. We never talked about it, and the next Sunday, things were like normal.

*****

I’d been on my smoke break for about thirty seconds before Ray came over. He always seemed to pop up out of nowhere, knowing exactly who was on break and where. There was some sort of wavelength he was tuned into all the time, and he just followed it. And even though he had a car to paint houses for his uncle, he’d walk all along Mendocino just to talk to everyone he knew.

“Q vo le homie!” He was always smiling.

I blew a puff to the side before shaking his hand. “What’s good, Ray?”

“Dude, those bitches last night,” he said with a whistle. “And those ‘64s, estuvo bien chingón, man! Where were you?” He signaled to the pack in my jeans and I offered him one and a light.

“I was working dude. Same thing every Friday night.” I inhaled for a second. “Was Lupe there?”

He whistled again. “No, man. I thought her fine ass was probably with you…or under you,” he laughed. “You on lunch?”

“Nah, I just got on break. You sound like my mom.”

“I just wanted to see if you got Tacos Chavez in the back. I’m hungry as hell.” He took another puff and studied the cigarette for a moment. “Vamos. That new chick bends over to empty the trash cans every hour.”

“I can’t, man, I get off at four. I’ll see you at Mama Tonya’s.” Ray tried to get mad for a second, but again he smiled.

“Ight, Puppet. But if I get there before you, I’m not saving you shit.” He laughed, and because he had the most infectious laugh in the world, I laughed too.

After he walked out of sight, I went back into the station. I’d been working at KBBF for about three months at that point, joining a program through the Healdsburg Junior College to learn about media. Since radio was booming, I went to learn about broadcasting and help the broadcasters out by organizing the music library and translating what was in the news from English to Spanish. Later, when our producer, Josué Lopez, started to like me and the Bilingual Broadcasting Foundation called for younger Chicano voices, I got my own show Fridays and Saturdays. Francisco, the OG, always had Sunday night cruising time. I was ecstatic.

I sat down, the On-Air sign glaring red. I let the song run through before beginning the news of the day. I always buzzed with energy before the mic.

“Today, my friends, marks the ten-year anniversary of our great victory in Delano alongside our hero Cesar Chavez and our Filipino brothers and sisters. Now, when I think of his struggles and the many others working the fields and the huelgas, I can’t help but feel proud of the people who made living free possible today. We’re all so lucky to live for the Raza. So feel proud, my brown brothers and sisters, and speak loudly. Take the time today to appreciate what you got, whether you got it good or not, and live your life for today. Share that pride and be who you are. Here’s Malo to help you do just that with “Suavecito,” here on KBBF, La Voz.”

Sliding the headphones around my neck, I flipped through the cassettes on the deck to make sure the lineup was okay. I started to think about the tardeada that was going to be at Julliard Park on Sunday night, and I desperately wanted to see Lupe there. She was in the same media program at the JC, but she went to write for the Santa Rosa Tribune. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I considered switching paths to be near her. But the radio had my heart first.

Her dad would usually drop her off at the park just to show off his ’72 Monte Carlo, and when he was distracted and bragging about how he chopped the springs with torches to lower the car, I could pull her aside. I hoped that I wouldn’t get nervous again. Too many times I’d been called a chavala for backing out. It was frustrating to feel like I didn’t deserve her, but there was something about her inattention that drove me crazy. She never made it easy to talk to her, and even after I would fall on my knees, I would get back up and try again.

*****

I was eight when my dad took me to work with him for the first time. I remember him coming home from work always fuckin’ beat, and my mom making dinner so it would be hot when he got home. There would be oil all on his clothes and arms, and his eyes were so red. One day he woke me up hella early, telling me to get up and get dressed. I was pissed ‘cause it was summer vacation and I was supposed to be chillin’. But I didn’t want him to think I was mad at him, so I got dressed and went with him without saying nothing.

I walked out into the kitchen, you know, wiping my eyes and shit ‘cause I was so tired. It was something like five-thirty in the morning. But I went out there, and I saw my dad take out his brown paper bag for lunch. He took out the burrito my mom always made for him, and he cut it in half and put it in another bag with a banana. Then we left for the shop.

I just stood in the corner ‘cause I was a kid and couldn’t do nothing. But I watched my dad work on cars, get underneath them, work with his tools. He looked so cool, and he even let me see what he was doing sometimes. I think my dad was, like, quiet at work or something, ‘cause when he started talking to me in Spanish the other guys looked surprised. I remember them laughing, and I thought they were joking about something. I asked my dad if they could bring their kids so I could laugh with them and show them my toy ranflas. But he just told me to stay away from them.

We ate lunch in the back lot near the dumpsters of the restaurant nearby. I asked if we could eat inside with the rest of the mechanics but he just took a bite out of his half of the burrito. I ate the other half and stayed quiet the rest of the day.

*****

Everyone was jealous of me. My girl was special—she glistened like no other. She rode smooth. She never let me down.

I bought Loquita for $350 from Pancho, and I drove her without a license or insurance. And she was dangerous like that, she liked it. My ’65 Ford Galaxie was cherry, and I rode her with orgullo.

The one downside was that I had to drive Ray every time I was going somewhere he was going too, which usually meant some new jaina from another school sitting in the back. But that Sunday, it was just us two.

“Wanna stop by Lola’s? Get some forties?” He was rolling a joint in the passenger’s side. I didn’t need to yell at him to do it carefully, he knew to respect Loquita.

“Nah, man. I wanna be clear-headed, you know? Not even a hit. If her dad notices, I have to be able to bounce. He’s hella protective.”

You could hear Julliard two blocks before you could even see it. They were already blasting some new funk, booming through the barrio and shaking the windows of the houses. We pulled into the lot, full of cholos and their prized ranflas. Some would gather in groups, place bottles on the ground near their wheels, and see whose hydraulics could bump higher. Others would just chill, drink and smoke. The girls would stand off to the side, hands clad in chola bands and half-empty bottles.

By the time I found a spot to park, I had already spotted Lupe surrounded by her friends. She was shaking her head in laughter and I thought my heart would burst.

“Ight bro, you got this. I’m gonna hit up Miguel and his vatos. If the pinche viejo comes at you, you know what to do.” Ray hopped out before I could even ask if my hair looked okay. I started towards Lupe, hands in pockets. I didn’t want her to see them shaking.

“Jorge! Ey, Jorge!” Some whistles drew my attention to a vacant swath of grass near the DJ’s stage. Josué was standing next to a woman so out of place she might as well have been white. Where every other girl was sporting casual, she looked business-y in heels and a blazer. I walked up to them, and out of good-mannered habit, I pulled my hands from my pockets. “Jorge, I want you to meet Marta Jiménez, executive director of KBBF’s relations. Marta, this is my top kid, Jorge. He casts—”

“Fridays, eight to twelve, Saturdays, twelve to four. Yes, I know you, mijo. How are you?”

“Good, good. Nice to meet you. Look, Josué, I gotta—”

“Marta has some news, Jorge.” His face was indecipherable, but his eyes were like fire. As she shifted the weight on her feet, I began to notice the circles under her eyes, the way her fingers fidgeted with her keys.

“I wanted to tell you guys as soon as I heard. I knew both of you would be here. I hate being the bearer of such bad news, mijo, but the board decided to cut La Voz today.” I looked to Josué who was probably too tired for the news to register completely. It hadn’t really gotten through to me either.

“It wasn’t up to me, I love what you all do. But rock, it’s what’s in now. It’s what sponsors like, what makes money.” She started to hesitate with each sentence. “I hope you understand, I love your activism and your pride. But, it’s not enough to pay for the new cassettes, let alone the rent. I’m so sorry, amor.”

At that point, I stopped listening. She went on longer, but I could see in the distance Lupe talking to some cholo with a lettered cross on his shoulder and scuffed Nikes. She was laughing. He was eyeing her chest. I felt like throwing a brick at his face.

I headed towards Ray in a flaming rage. I didn’t care how I left Marta and her puta Josué. How could they take my voice away from me? Who the fuck puts a price on their own people? My anger yanked him to the side and I told him my life had just ended in two minutes.

“Calm down, bro. I got you.” He offered me his joint, but I just shook my head. “Hey, look, vato. Lupe works for the paper, right?”

“I don’t need this shit right now, Ray. I worked my ass off for that show. I was a part of something cool, man.” I wanted to keep the thrill of spreading my voice forever; I panicked at the thought of losing my first, maybe only, chance.

“No, vato. You’re always reading her interviews and shit.”

“Yeah? What does that have to do with this?”

“Think about it, dude. Interviews. Something new, that can make money. Everybody likes hearing stories.”

I glanced over at Lupe. The dude was gone, and she was looking right at us.

*****

I always wanted Adidas. Even when I was really young, I liked the look. Everyone had them. All the cholos, all the bad ones, wore them with their Dickies. My dad called them morons when we would drive by them, but I thought they were the shit.

When I went to middle school, I told my dad I needed them. He told me the shoes I had were fine. They were cheap but they worked. But I still wanted Adidas. There was this kid I knew who used to steal a lot, like from the liquor stores and stuff. I asked him to help me steal the shoes from the store across Tacos Chavez, and he said he’d do it for five bucks.

So, we went to the store at night, kinda near closing time. He gave me some instructions, but the main one was just to follow him and act chill. When we went in, though, the lady at the counter started looking at us. She had long nails, and I remember hearing her tap them on the phone to let us know she could dial the police or something. But the kid kept going, so I did too. We kept walking up and down the aisles like dumbasses, until he opened up his backpack. She didn’t hear the zipper, ‘cause the door chimed when someone else came in. He stuffed the shoes in the bag and we walked out. We ran home once we made it out, and I gave him the cash and a little extra ‘cause I was so happy.

My dad found the shoes the next day. I don’t even know how he knew, but he looked in my closet where I put them. Since it was a Saturday, he could stay home, which also meant he had time to kick my ass. I got ready to get whooped, but then he sat down on my bed with no belt and no yelling. I was so scared, but he made me sit next to him.

He told me he was sorry he couldn’t afford nice things. He knew life was hard, but he had faith in me, up until that day. He said he was disappointed, that he thought I was better, but he ended up being wrong. I think I was crying, and he told me to save the tears. He wanted me to go back on Monday to return the shoes. Losing five dollars was my own fault.

He didn’t talk to me all day Sunday, and he left for work like usual on Monday, so I didn’t see him. I remember thinking that I could sell the shoes and buy my dad something nice to make up for it. But I never got the chance.

The police reports and newspapers made up all types of shit, that he was illegal and sold drugs to kids, that he deserved it. They never talked about how the mechanics at the shop refused to let him park in the same lot as them, so he always had to park four streets down. They never wrote that the cops were failing at a drug bust on that same street. They never said my dad was shot by those cops for no reason, that all they really wanted was a brown kill for the day. All they said was that he deserved it, being Mexican and illegal and all. Pinche wetback, it was okay if he died.

My dad was the coolest vato alive. He had so many buddies, and he knew everything about anything. Sometimes, I wonder if he would have let me drive the Riviera, or if he would have helped me be a mechanic. I fuckin’ hate that I’ll never know.

But I don’t think he was mad at me, you know, at the end. I don’t think God would take somebody when they’re mad at their kid. I think he was happy, thinking about the lesson I learned and how good I was gonna be after that. I never stole again. I pay for shit with my own money now. I even got his picture tattooed on my arm two months ago. I think he would’ve liked it a lot. He looks like God.

*****

“So what do you think, compa?” I toyed with the bottle of hot sauce on the table outside Mama Tonya’s. A gust of wind blew up the edge of the greasy tablecloth.

“The JC can even get us a grant, make it easier for the time being.” Lupe and I sat across Josué, sharing the free basket of chips and some beers. I could barely look her in the eyes.

She knew about the cut before I even talked to her—some director of the program told her the next day. A few days after the tardeada, emboldened by a few hits and the panic of not having work that weekend, I asked for her at the Tribune. I hid my shaking hands behind a notebook and pen, but I was sure she could hear the pounding of my chest. She was cool, though. She pretended not to notice and got to business.

“I’ll try anything. This is my life, you know, I need to keep it alive.” He sighed heavily, and I realized I hadn’t even thought about how Josué was feeling. La Voz was his baby; he loved our station.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help you keep the station, even expand it if you want. My dad listens to it all the time. He likes what you have to say.” My damn hands got so sweaty, the neck of the bottle almost slipped through my fingers.

“We’ll see, mija. Thank you.” He took another sip. “Do you have people in mind for the interviews?” He looked at me, expectant.

“I wanted to interview some people that lived through the revolutions and the movements, who met Chavez and followed Pancho Villa. But that’ll take some time. And a lot of convincing.”

“We’ve got the stuff for that,” he said, lifting his bottle. Lupe laughed.

“But first, I have a sort of trial run. A young guy.” He raised an eyebrow. “He’s a cool dude, a real storyteller. You’ll like him. He’s got a lot to say.” Josué glanced at his watch.

“Okay, pues, we can get started today, while I still have my shit. Get him in at five. I can set up now.”

*****

Ray, man of the streets, got to the station before I did. Like always, a goofy grin was plastered on his face. “This is sick, vato. I finally get to see where you work!”

“Yeah, easy dude. I’m still on the wire here. Come on, I’ll get you hooked up.”

It took no time for Ray to feel comfortable, especially considering Josué liked him so much. They hit it off while I set up the recorders and the mic. I didn’t prepare any questions, I figured it was best to just let Ray talk.

“Okay, vato. You ready?”

“Always, Puppet.”

I switched on the tape recorder, gave a quick intro, and let him speak.

“When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me stories at night…”

Ariana Licea is a writer and explorer of the sublime, liminal “self.” Her work investigates the nexus of remembrance, humanity, and heart.