Crossing Over
I
knew my father before I knew me.
It’s
been thirty-seven years since I saw him last.
Loneliness
caused his last unannounced visit.
It
must be why he’s here,
standing
tall as a Spanish monument
in my
dorm room in Madrid
at the Chaminade.
The
last time he was so tall, I was small
trying
to match footsteps as we walked to town.
It
was like seeing Don Quixote
dropping
in unannounced at my college quonset hut
looking
for food and shelter,
my thin
cushion Goodwill couch, his knights bed.
It’s
summer in Madrid. Dad is wearing his tan overcoat,
leather
gloves, and a felt hat usually worn in winter.
The
night is dark and he invites me to a movie.
He
loves John Wayne, but I remember Rooster Cogburn’s
death,
the
same summer Dustin Hoffman was The Graduate, and died
in arms
of the Midnight Cowboy.
I
saw those movies alone and spent time in Dad’s room
feeding
ice, telling stories about places I’d been,
working
with juvenile delinquents, and his new grandchildren.
I
took a pistol from his briefcase.
His
blue eyes had tears of regrets and fear
as his
head turned away. He never spoke about
pain.
I
suggest we take the Metro, but he insists on driving.
In
front of the dorm is his old black ’49 Packard,
the
biggest car in Madrid.
Built
like a tank, its steering wheel wouldn’t turn
until
the wheels were rolling. My shoulder still hurts
from
the James Dean steering knob I once installed.
We
drove to alley wide streets in La Latina
with
women smoking cigarettes pushing baby carts,
old men
carrying two days of groceries.
Dad
turns into a flood of people and curry aromas,
honking
his horn like Hemmingway
running
bulls in Lapaloma.
The
scene changes as we cross Van Buren,
the red
light district of Phoenix, where women
strut
in spike high heels elevating their ass, as if in heat.
Dad
has never been to where I’ve lived forty years.
Only
his Chrysler station wagon made the trip.
I
traded it for my first house, a real fix-up.
He
drives onto an empty sidewalk as I lean out the window
to see
the Packard clear the mote of a curb drop.
We
turn down an alleyway, an old movie shortcut
fading
into a rough western desert, camouflaged
by
weeds, trash, and broken trees.
The
bunk houses are demolished, as if by a tornado.
Only
foundations remain with scattered debris.
Dad
maneuvers a small wash and turns
on a
wagon trial to an abandoned house,
announcing we’ll walk to the theater.
As
I attempt to exit, the old Packard doors creak
like a
rusty coffin never opened.
Under
a tree, Dad plants size 12 boots 3 feet apart.
Like
a gunman at high noon, ready to draw,
he
strikes a match on the tree, lights his Pall Mall
in the darkness.
I
tell him I would like for us to take a trip together,
remembering my first smoke of a sneaked cigarette from his pack,
passing
out, and falling down the basement steps.
He’s
possessed by other thoughts,
not
interested in vacations.
Usually,
I would talk until he surprises me with divine words.
I
suggest it’s time to do something he would enjoy,
like a
fishing trip he always wanted to take.
He
reminds me Mother sold his boat.
The
conversation ends as a blue and white jet passenger plane
floats
over treetops close enough to see passengers.
I
grab Dad by his coat; pull him behind the abandoned house.
A
loud explosion sends thick black smoke rolling down the alley.
Without
thought, I run to the crash site thinking,
I
should have said something to Dad before running away
to that
huge hole in a brick wall of a large warehouse,
the
historic type being converted to trendy lofts.
Upon
entering, I see a small redheaded girl crying,
her
blue and white dress on fire. She must
be about five,
the age
I was trying to walk in Dad’s footsteps.
I
rush to her and use my hands to put out her fire.
She
is crying frightfully,
but not
about her dress or pain.
I
pick her up. Her beauty startles me.
Her
subtle freckles are faint jewels.
Her
tears create a sad mask of soot.
Dad
is partial to redheads. Mother calls
them jezebels.
She
is crying repeating I’m sorry. I carry
her to safety,
telling her to not cry, telling her it wasn’t her
fault.
I hand her to an emergency
worker, and begin worrying
about having run away from Dad without saying a word.
I was torn about going back
to him,
or staying to help rescue others.
Immigrant
In Phoenix construction business,
illegal Mexican workers
are often referred to as amigos. (friend)
This is a story about Pablo, my
amigo.
Standing on decorative rock,
street side of Home
Depot,
my amigo points
callous fingers
at his chest,
layered in shirts,
wearing rock torn shoes,
hands camouflaged
concrete white,
eyes hungry for work.
My pickup power window opens.
"Concrete?"
"Si¢."
"Block walls?"
"Si¢."
I flash six fingers. He holds up eight.
"You rapido Gonzales?"
He smiles. "Si¢, yo trabajo rapido."
The contract's
sealed.
My door locks click and in he climbs,
tucking swollen hands
under his folded arms.
"Amigo, you have number?"
Shrugging his shoulders, he replies, “No comprendo."
I raise my voice over freeway chaos.
"Social
Security numero?"
His doubting eyes wet in fear, his
shoulders collapsed.
I look at him. "What's your name? Como te llama?”
His eyes
catch mine. "Si¢. Pablo."
"Pablo, you hablar English?"
Shaking head left and right,
thumb and index finger
touching, he mumbles, "Pequeno."
I smile. "Mas dinero; you hablar English."
He sits in silence as we race
through cold sunrise.
I think about his struggle to cross
the desert border
where death waits
for those who
falter.
He must had run through exploding dust
as desert winds
assaulted eyes and throat,
his sweat, a thin
mud coat on coyote's run, fleeing
poverty to hope... de
pobreza a esperanza.
My tires roar
on concrete as the
radio plays Xmas music.
Pablo stares far away.
I
catch tears wiped
with harden hands.
He
points to radio, "Navidad...
No mirado mi familia en siete annos.”
His
tears bead on woolen sleeves
como perlas en mi pasto.