Harsh Realities
Winnemucca 1961
The mountain where I would spend many long and lonely days and nights staring at a pair of fluorescent green 12 inch Range Height Indicators (RHI), is aptly named “Winnemucca Mountain”. Located just south of the small town of Winnemucca it stands six thousand seven hundred forty-two feet above sea level, or one thousand nine hundred-nineteen feet in local prominence. A winding paved road was cut into its side to allow vehicular access to its crest where a lone AN/FPS-6 Long Range Height Finder Radar, encased in an off-white plasticized bubble, nodded vertically at twenty to thirty cycles per minute scanning the pale blue sky for any large high-speed airborne objects. The treacherous ride up from the base to the radar building took forty-five minutes.
In 1961, Winnemucca’s population was just a few over five thousand people; most of them were employed by local mining companies and the various casinos, restaurants and hotels sprinkled around town. The name Winnemucca, loosely translated, means “one moccasin”, and was named after a local 19th century Paiute Indian chief, whose daughter, Sarah Winnemucca, was an advocate for education and fair treatment of the Paiute and Shoshone tribes in the area through the late 1800’s. She also worked as an interpreter, scout and messenger for the U.S. Army during the Bannock War of 1878. To my detriment, most (if not all) of the Native Americans I ran into during my eighteen month military tour there were either destitute and/or alcoholics; living anonymously and homeless on the outer fringes of the small town.
Winnemucca also boasted a thriving group of Basque immigrants whose ancestors had worked as sheepherders in the mid-19th century. Their descendants, no longer having any sheep to herd, were now employed as dealers or croupiers. The more prosperous of them ran their own tailor or shoe shops, or as in the case of one Basque with whom I eventually came to know very well, owned a thriving Chevron gasoline station in the center of town. In honor of their heritage, the town, to this day still hosts an annual “Basque Festival”.
As I eventually discovered, Winnemucca also had a flourishing brothel district called, “The Line”. It was thusly named because of how the five small wood framed buildings, just outside the city limits, were arranged. Two were across the street from each other and one was on the far end of the block—the five forming a horseshoe pattern. Although I never met a local who actually admitted to visiting The Line, the five houses somehow generated enough business to remain very profitable for all concerned. It was said that whoever had the sexual stamina and a fat enough wallet to visit all five whore houses during one evening’s outing, could rightfully boast that he’d “walked The Line”.
The girls working there, imported from larger cities such as San Francisco, Las Vegas, Lake Tahoe and Reno, were prohibited by law from leaving the geographical boundary of The Line and entering the city limits on foot. The law stated that to conduct any personal business which would require them to enter the city limits they would have to be transported by vehicle from whatever house they were assigned to, straight to their destination and back. So whenever one of them needed to go, let’s say, to the doctor for her monthly state mandated STD exam, she’d have to call for a local taxi that would then take her directly to the doctor’s office. The driver was then required to wait, meter running, until the girl’s appointment was concluded. She would then walk the shortest route from the doctor’s office door to that of the taxi whose driver would then promptly and directly deliver her back to her assigned house and her waiting madam. The same procedure applied to any trip, necessitated for any reason, which required one of the girls to enter the city limits.
This nonsensical “exercise” was deemed by the city’s administration as acceptable in meeting the letter of the law as set forth by the city council: assuring the town’s small population that the whores working The Line would never actually walk the streets of Winnemucca.
Curiously, because the girls made their trips into town on weekdays and during the day (they were mostly busy at night and on weekends) it was always easy to spot one when she was in town. While most of the female population in Winnemucca wore jeans, plain skirts or dresses, the working girls made sure to be dressed to the nines when they came into town. Typically wearing heavy makeup, professionally coiffed hair, and outrageously expensive skin tight pants, they would exit the cab, survey the pedestrian traffic with nose high looks of disdain, and prance—pencil thin stiletto heels clicking loudly—into whatever building they were headed for. Teenaged girls would giggle, fingertips covering their lips, housewives would glare, and dungaree clad men would avert their gaze—suddenly finding something of great interest imbedded in the toes of their boots. For a few seconds the Nevada’s dry ambient air would ripple and waft with the scent of fine French perfume as the working girl sashayed by.
One Saturday afternoon, a few days after I had arrived, I was making another useless trip to the tiny post office to check for mail I knew wouldn’t be there. While blowing the dust out of my mail slot an airman, whom I’d seen briefly around the barracks, popped in. His name was Michael, a tall wiry black from Chicago, who was assigned to the base’s motor pool.
He was one of the very few low ranking airmen at the AFS that actually owned a car. I’d heard gossip in the barracks that he’d bought the 1948 Chevrolet fast back at the local junkyard and had it towed onto the base—parking it behind the motor pool building. During his spare time (which he had a lot of) he’d fixed it up, using some parts that were actually supposed to go towards repairing the two squadron pickups and the half-dozen, or so, Korean War vintage jeeps.
“I’m a damn good mechanic,” he told me a couple of months after we’d met, “so I just jerry-rigged the military junk and ordered the parts for my car. The idiots at Stead (Air Force Base in Reno) actually think we have a 1948 Chevy in the motor pool.”
As I turned to walk away Michael glided into the mailroom.
“Hey!” he said casually as he visually checked his slot.
“Hi.” I answered.
He looked me over, probably wondering about the clothes I was wearing. It was the same outfit I’d bought a few weeks earlier at Keesler.
“So you’re the new guy, right? The new scope dope.” He grinned widely, the smile easing my initial tension upon hearing the derogatory term that I’d learned to hate in tech school.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I started to walk by him hoping that the chow hall was open for noon chow.
“Wait,” he said, “where you headed?”
“Oh, the chow hall. If they’re not open for chow yet, I guess I’ll wait.”
“Chow? On Saturday? Man, you are a rookie. They’ll just be serving some leftover shit because just about everyone’s downtown at a movie, or at the Star, or all cuddled up with a girlfriend. You serious?”
“Yeah, I am. I have to eat there because I haven’t gotten paid yet and…well, I don’t have any money. I’ll just wait and eat whatever they have. It’s OK.”
“Look, I’m headed downtown to play a little blackjack at the Star. Why don’t you come along? I’ll show you the hotspots.” There was that big toothy grin again.
“Shit, I don’t have any money to buy food, and you think I’m gonna go gambling?”
“Aw Christ, man. You can just watch me. If I do well, which by the way I always do, then you can ride the bets with me. I’ll front you some chips to get you rolling.”
OK, now I was really confused.
“You…want me to ride with you? In your car?”
His grin grew even wider. “Well, yeah. That’s how we’ll get downtown. But then at the table you’ll…you know…ride with me!” Get it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Brother, where you from?”
“Houston.”
“Texas? Shit, they don’t have casinos there do they? You ever play cards? Blackjack, poker, pinochle?”
“No.”
“OK, now for sure you gonna go with me. You gonna bring me luck ‘cause you a table virgin. That’s the best kind of luck, you know.”
No, I didn’t know.
“OK”, I said, now a bit frustrated, “I’m hungry and I need to eat noon chow. Besides, I told you I don’t have any money!”
“Man! You are one dense motherfucker! Look Mr. Houston, let’s go get my car, Screaming Betty is what I call her, and I’ll show you around town first. We’ll go to the drive-in hamburger stand and get us a Coke and a burger first—I’ll buy, OK? They got some cute little white chicks working there that I know you’ll like.”
“My name’s Frank and I have a girlfriend back home.”
Michael had started to walk towards the door but he stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder at me. “OK, Mr. Frank, I’m Michael! Bring your funny looking ass along and let’s have us some fun today. And, oh by the way…you in Winnemucca now…by yourself…so fuck your hometown girlfriend!”
With that he turned and off he went in the direction of the motor pool; me, following a few feet behind. His car was parked behind the motor pool building under a piece of sheet metal that Michael had bolted to the backside of the tin building, forming a makeshift carport. In a few minutes we were off the station and on the narrow two-lane highway headed into town.
As we approached the town’s main street we suddenly found ourselves in a line of bumper-to-bumper traffic. At first I thought we’d run into a funeral procession, but as the light changed the speed of the traffic increased tremendously—right up to the next red light where everyone came to a screeching halt.
“Stupid fucking townies!” Michael spit out.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, these stupid shits do this every weekend. Since there’s nothing to do around here for the teens, they get in their cars, or their daddy’s car, most likely that, and drive east and west on highway 40, city limit to city limit, over and over again.” (Highway 40, running east and west through Winnemucca was named “Main Street” within the city limits).
“And they do this for how long?” I asked curiously.
“From around noon until it gets dark!” He said, gunning the wheezing Chevy engine impatiently.
Another stop light or two and we turned off on a small side street where halfway down the block sat a little drive-in hamburger stand where we pulled in and I enjoyed my first non-military meal in several months.
The Star
It was dark and noisy. But, a funny kind of dark, and a funny kind of noisy.
Michael parked his car behind the building and we walked in the bright afternoon sun around the west side of the casino. Turning right at the corner we walked through the large open glass doors and into a seemingly never-ending glut of twinkling lights, ringing chimes and bells, and the occasional guttural yell—“JACKPOT”—followed immediately by screams and whoops of sheer delirium.
Because of the bright sunshine outside and the sudden darkness I encountered as I crossed the Star’s threshold, I was having trouble making things out. I looked down to make sure I didn’t trip on something and was shocked to see that the floor was covered in a deep reddish purple carpet with what seemed to be gold threading sewn into patterns that mimicked exploding yellow stars. The whole place mounted a complete assault on all my senses, all at once.
I felt myself losing my balance and as I instinctively reached out with my hand to steady myself I hit Michael on the back.
“Whoa, partner! You OK?” he said and he turned quickly and grabbed my wrist.
I looked up and in that strange sensory overloaded environment saw that above Michael’s shoulders his head had all but disappeared, save for his eyes and teeth…and they were glowing a strangely fluorescent purple. It was otherworldly and extremely confusing.
“Uh, I need to sit down. Things are a little weird.” I looked down at my hands and my nails were glowing.
“Cool it man,” Michael said as he guided me towards a tall stool at the end of a row of glittering slot machines. “That’s just the ultra-violet lights they put in the ceiling. See?”
I looked up as he bared his teeth and bulged his eyes out. He looked grotesque.
“Yeah,” I said, looking away but feeling a bit better, “I’m OK now, it was just a passing thing.”
Michael turned and started to walk towards a row of four green-felt-topped tables on the left, behind each was a dealer wearing a white shirt, black bow-tie and black vest and pants. Over each table were a series of semi-circular bright spotlights, focused on, and washing brightly over the table and dealer. A few players were sitting on the tall high-backed chairs concentrating intently on the cards in their hands or the ones in front of the dealer. I saw Michael pull up a chair at the third table and he waved me over.
***
The Star was actually The New Star Broiler & Casino, and it was by no means the only casino in Winnemucca; but it was the glitziest. It was either owned or run by a bigger than life character named Joe Mackie. Well over six feet tall with a head the size of a melon and blond hair to match (think Donald Trump) he seemed bigger than life as he swaggered to and fro, holding court with gamblers, hostesses, or anyone else who may have attracted his attention.
He wore the finest western cut suits, complete with Stetson hat, flashy belt buckle, and gleaming cowboy boots. He could be on the other side of the casino talking on the phone and everyone in the place could hear every word of his conversation. Yes, he was that loud.
If he happened to recognize you as a regular he’d come over, drape his humongous arm over your shoulder, and tell you just how much he appreciated your business. Then he’d usually yell for one of the wandering hostesses to bring you a drink of your choice—on the house, of course—then guide you over to whatever your choice of game was.
“You look lucky today pal! Just make sure you don’t clean me out!!” His voice booming around the room, with him throwing his head back guffawing insanely. To my knowledge no one ever did clean him out. After one of these encounters your ears would still be ringing thirty minutes later.
The place was divided into three parts: casino, casual dining room, and fancy dining room. Because of my fragile financial condition the entire time I lived in Winnemucca I never ate at either dining room, but I did visit the casino fairly often. Off to one side away from the real moneymakers, the crap and the blackjack tables, was a stage where second or third-rate entertainers would be booked on weekends. Although there was no admission to watch the entertainment, you were expected to keep buying drinks from the ever-circulating hostesses if you chose to sit at a table.
***
I spent the afternoon watching Michael play blackjack. Since I’d never even come close to a deck of cards I had no idea what the object of the game was when he first started playing. However, it didn’t take me long to figure it out.
Michael was one of those people who had a knack for gambling. It was almost magical to watch as he drew just enough cards to either make twenty-one or come close enough so that the dealer busted. He knew when it was to his advantage to split his pairs, when to double down, or when to make an insurance bet on the dealer’s card. Although he lost hands occasionally, his original five-dollar bet had ballooned up to around twenty-five dollars over the span of about an hour. After losing two successive hands he called it quits.
Sliding his chair back, he gathered up his chips with one hand and slid a one-dollar chip back to the dealer.
“OK Frank, now that I have a little operating capital let’s go get a drink where real men drink and the booze ain’t watered down.”
After cashing his chips at the cashier’s window he turned, showing me his take, and said, “Not bad. My sawbuck just grew to almost twenty bucks. That was easy, right?”
I had to agree that it sure did look easy, and I couldn’t wait to get my first paycheck and plunk down a fiver on the Star’s green felt blackjack table and walk away with three more an hour later.
We walked out into the bright sunshine and crossed the street. Kitty-corner to the Star was a small building whose whole first floor housed the bar we were headed for. As we walked in I was reminded of the many saloons I’d seen in western movies. All it lacked was a pair of swinging doors.
The building looked to be at least a hundred years old and the bar not much younger. There were about a dozen backless four-legged stools, and standing behind the bar, wiping glasses just like the movie bartenders did in all the movies was a potbellied codger looking to be about sixty years old.
His thin white hair was done in a comb-over barely covering a shiny pink scalp. What he lacked in head hair he made up in muttonchops. Thick and gnarly, they grew down to his lower jaw and were in dire need of a good trimming. Big red suspenders hiding behind a stained gray apron were apparently holding up worn khaki pants cuffed over soiled once-white Converse All Stars.
As we pulled up our stools he brought up a nasty looking dishcloth and began to wipe the bar in front of us in large circular motions.
“Hey Mike, how ya doing?” He asked, peering over once useful reading specks perched on the end of his nose.
“OK, Sid. What’s new?”
“Oh, you know—same old shit, different day.”
Michael put his arm around me and said, “Sid, this here’s my friend Frank. He’s new, from Houston.”
Sid put the dirty dishcloth down, pushed his spectacles a notch up his nose and wrinkled his brow.
“Well fuck, Mike!” Sid said as I started to extend my right hand for a shake. “You know we don’t serve fucking Indians here! Goddammit, you need to get his ass outta here right now before I get in trouble.”
I quickly withdrew my hand and looked over at Michael who seemed to be trying to decide if he’d heard Sid correctly.
“Indian?” Michael mumbled, “He ain’t no Indian Sid. He just got here from Houston. He works up at the radar station with me.”
“I don’t care if he’s Jesus Incarnate from bum-fuck Egypt, he’s Indian as far as I’m concerned so he can’t drink here!” He stepped back slightly bent down and reached under the bar—all the while keeping his faded gray eyes focused directly on me.
I slid halfway off the barstool and managed to croak, “Sir, I’m not an Indian, I’m in the Air Force.”
Sid stopped reaching for whatever he was reaching for under the bar, looked up at me and said, “What? You got some kinda ID that says you ain’t Indian? Now that would be rich!”
I quickly reached into my hip pocket to get my wallet; my sudden moves making Sid reach hurriedly under the bar again.
“Look,” I said, a bit shaken now, “I’ve got an Air Force ID that proves I’m in the service, and it has my name on it. I promise it’s not an Indian name.” I pulled my ID out and tried to hand it to Sid.
“Just put it down on the bar!”
Michael was shaking his head slowly, “Jesus, Sid, you are one crazy motherfucker. Look, I’m telling you he ain’t Indian.”
Sid picked up my ID and pulled it close to his spectacles. After a few seconds he looked over the top of the card, “Shit boy, you ain’t even old enough to drink! Says here you were born in ’42…that would make you, hell not even nineteen yet.”
“That’s right sir.” That was all I could think of saying.
“And you swear you ain’t Indian, right?”
“Right!”
“Well shit, with that slick black hair and dark skin, what was I supposed to think?” He glanced over to Michael as he handed my ID back. “And you Mike, no telling what kinda shit you trying to pull anyway. Don’t trust you nigger.”
With that I sort of froze, but Michael seemed to take it right in stride. “Hell Sid, if I wanted to pull a fast one on you I could do it in a heartbeat. You’re kind of a dumb cracker anyway.”
Now I was really getting uncomfortable.
Sid pooched out his belly and slapped it with both hands. “You’re just jealous because I’m better looking than you and on top of that get a whole lot more pussy without even trying!”
Michael let out a whoop and slapped me hard on the back. “He’s one crazy old fucker, ain’t he? Ugly too!”
I nodded my head and eased back up on the stool.
“So Sid? You gonna serve us some whiskey or what? Me’n Frank are thirsty after sitting at the blackjack table over at the Star and me fleecin’m for a couple of sawbucks.”
“Sure, what’re you boys drinking?”
(It wasn’t lost on me that a few minutes ago I was ready to be thrown out on my ear because Sid thought I was Indian; yet, after learning that I was underage, he was OK with serving me liquor.)
Michael pointed behind Sid and said, “My regular…with a water chaser.” He turned to me and asked, “How ‘bout you? What’s your poison? I’m buying!”
So here now I was in a bit of a quandary. First, since I’d never drank any type of alcohol I didn’t have a clue what to ask for. A few names flashed through my mind: Four Roses, Schlitz, Gordon’s, and Smirnoff. But except for Schlitz and Four Roses, I had no idea what type of liquor they were associated with; and neither did I see any bottles on the shelf with any of those names. So, I punted.
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Right!” Michael said. “Set’em up Sid.”
Unfortunately for me his “regular” happened to be Jack Daniels whiskey straight with a water chaser.
After Sid poured two shot glasses full and set a pitcher of water next to two empty glasses, Michael turned to me, raised his shot glass and said, “Down the hatch!”
I don’t believe the whiskey made any stops between the glass and his stomach. He slammed the glass down, and shaking his head vigorously while squeezing his eyes tightly, grabbed the water filled tumbler and took two huge swallows.
I was still holding my shot glass wondering if I could just sip off a little bit at a time when he put the water glass down, took a deep breath and said, “OK, let’s hear about that girlfriend back home!”
Amparo
Prior to my graduating from Jeff Davis High School, and well before I decided to join the Air Force, my parents had begun to visit some of the smaller council churches located in outlying rural areas. My father, hoping to be promoted into a pastor’s position of his own, reasoned that the better known he was within the Council the better his chances of being promoted would be. Hitchcock, El Campo, Rosenberg, and Sugar Land were a just a few of the small towns just outside of the Greater Houston city limits in which the Latin American Council of Christian Churches (LACCC) maintained small churches.
These outposts were extremely small and usually pastored by either very young, or very old, licensed ministers. Their congregations usually consisted of mostly uneducated Mexican American (or Mexican) farm or ranch workers who toiled the days away working rich cotton or sugar cane fields, or managing and caring for livestock. Most of the wives provided domestic labor as cooks, maids or nannies to the families of the Anglo homesteaders and landowners.
Because of the long days they were required to work during the week, services at their little churches were limited to Friday evenings, Saturday afternoons, and a morning and evening service on Sundays. Friday evening services would start well after seven o’clock to allow the families time for a bath and dinner after work, and Sunday evening services usually started around five-thirty or six, ending early enough for everyone to be well rested for the new workweek. This arrangement also gave the local pastors the opportunity to augment their meager salary by either working part-time, or by selling the fruits and vegetables that they managed to grow in their little victory gardens on church grounds.
The church in Alvin, Texas, had been one of my father’s most popular destinations until that fateful Saturday when Reverend Villa had publically humiliated Estella and me for allegedly committing the mortal sin of speaking to one another in private. Shortly after that incident we stopped visiting the Alvin church and began splitting our church visits between a very small one in El Campo and a larger one in Galveston.
Both destinations suited me just fine for reasons other than holy worship. In Galveston the pastor’s dark haired daughter Lydia, was drop dead gorgeous; and in El Campo, a cotton sharecropper’s family included a fair-skinned, hazel-eyed beauty named Amparo.
Still smarting from Villa’s cruel and unjust rebuke I was careful to limit any interactions between me and the two girls to very public conversations, usually in full view of other church or family members. Since Lydia also played the piano during services I made sure that my Gibson acoustic accompanied me on every trip to Galveston. A quick conversation about a particular hymn’s chord structure could casually be steered into one with a more personal tone.
Getting semi-private face time with Amparo at the little church in El Campo was a little more difficult. Since she didn’t play any instrument she sat in the congregation always on the same pew with the rest of her family. From my perch on the small stage next to the piano I was careful not to let my gaze linger too long on her during the service, but a few times I did notice, as our eyes met, a slight softening along the edges of her mouth and a soft narrowing of her eyes—her face almost breaking into a shallow smile.
As the weeks went on I came to realize that Lydia was more or less involved with one of their young church members named Gilbert. After services, as I tried to engage her in some inane music-themed conversation, Gilbert would suddenly appear to help her close the piano up and put on its cover. Suddenly I would find myself talking to the back of her head as her attention was riveted entirely on him. I started to get the picture so I slowly began to lose interest.
To my pleasant surprise my situation with Amparo was aided tremendously after a service one Sunday afternoon. While packing up my guitar and small amplifier, my father came over and gruffly announced, “Hurry up Pancho, we’ve been invited to dinner.”
“Oh? Who?” I was curious because I didn’t think we knew anyone there that well.
“Never mind who. Just get your stuff in the car quickly. We’re going to follow Brother Martínez (the pastor). Hurry up!”
The ride there was long and dusty, ending as we pulled off the narrow crushed shell road onto a long winding dirt driveway leading to an old large plantation-style home. Although the ground surrounding the house was covered in patchy and scruffy St. Augustine grass, there was a marked lack of trees, or shrubs—or for that matter, any other type of ground covering. On either side of the house were what looked to be low roofed clapboard barns—their slightly askew yawning doors exposing several different types of rusty large wheeled farm machinery.
As we got out of our car I saw that about a hundred yards behind the house was a literal sea of waist-high white puffed plants swaying gently in the hot afternoon breeze. Cotton.
The sound of high-pitched mirthful laughter caught my attention and I watched as Amparo’s family, waving gleefully, poured out of the front door and onto the large wooden porch.
“Hola hermanos! Bienvenidos! Pasen a nuestra casa!” (Hello brothers! Welcome! Please come into our home).
My brother Ricky, never one to be late for any meal, jumped ahead of my parents and the pastor and with head down started a quick determined march towards the porch.
“¡Oye, Ricardo! Get back here! What’s wrong with you?” My mother admonished.
Ricky pulled up and looked back. “Oh yeah, gotta be cool. More like my big brother, right?” And he crossed his arms waiting for us to catch up.
He fell in step with me a few feet behind my parents. “I wonder what they’ll have for lunch.”
“I don’t know Rick.” And as I looked up I saw Amparo standing just outside the door. She was smiling sweetly and looking directly at me. “And, I really don’t care.”
The house was old, but well maintained and very large. Anytime I saw a house with more than three rooms I thought I was visiting a mansion. The dining room with its high ceiling housed a large white table-clothed table seating ten, with an additional smaller table off to the side with four chairs. Ricky and I stood off away from the main table until Amparo’s mother motioned us to the smaller table set against the wall with three chairs.
My father, Amparo’s father, and a couple of other men I didn’t recognize seated themselves at the large table while the women began shuttling in huge serving platters and bowls full of food. The aroma of fresh cooked flour tortillas, refried beans, and a heavenly looking bowl of arroz con pollo (chicken and rice), brought my already gurgling stomach to full attention. Amparo came out of the kitchen in a swoosh of skirts carrying a large platter of pollo en mole (chicken in chocolate sauce), and gingerly set it down on the table.
As she started back to the kitchen her mother stopped her with a quick, “¡Amparo!”
“¿Sí, mama?”
“Sírveles a los muchachos, por favor.” (Serve the boys please.)
“Sí, mamá.”
And with that she glided over to our small table and took our plates.
“I want one of everything, please—and four tortillas,” my brother ordered.
I gently tapped his ankle with my shoe and gave him a stern look. “Where are your manners, Ricky?”
“I’m hungry!”
“No te fijes,” (Think nothing of it), she said sweetly. “I’ll be right back.”
After a short while she returned with both plates filled to the very edges and set them down in front of us.
“Where’s my tortillas?” My brother asked rudely.
“Ricky!!” I snapped.
“Yes, I’ll get them. I just couldn’t carry them at the same time.” She hurried back into the kitchen and a few seconds later returned with a small platter stacked with at least a dozen fresh tortillas.
She slid the platter onto the center of the table, then to my surprise put her own plate of food, which she’d been carrying in her other hand, down on the empty space between my brother and me. She pulled the chair out and sat down with me on her right and Rick on her left.
I usually was not at a loss for words, but suddenly I found myself wondering what I should say. I scooped a spoonful of beans onto a square of soft tortilla trying to come up with a killer icebreaker comment.
“Um, good beans,” was the best I could come up with.
***
The meal went surprisingly well considering that up to that time we’d pretty much said nothing to each other…ever. Ricky kept his head down eating, so he stayed out of the picture while Amparo and I chatted quietly.
It appeared that she wanted to know a whole lot more about me than she wanted me to know about her. She asked about my school, mostly wanting to know how I could learn anything in a place where fifteen hundred other students were in the same building. She was curious about my guitar playing—wondering how my parents could afford such an expensive guitar. (I quickly set her straight on that issue: telling her how I came to be the recipient of my Gibson.) And, having never lived in a big city, she wanted to know if I had a lot of friends—and did I have to drive long distances to visit them. I assured her that most of my “friends” were to found scattered in the many churches we attended.
Taking advantage of her finally giving some attention to her still full plate, I began to ask her some questions. She was the same age as I was. She had three older brothers, already married and gone off to work and raise their families in South Texas. She apparently came as a very late surprise to her mom and dad, having been born to them in their late forties. They were sharecroppers, her family working the cotton fields with two uncles, and all splitting their share of the profits with the landowner. The house was part of the deal so they didn’t have to pay rent, but would own it outright after working the land for twenty years. They still had a few more years to go for that to happen.
While she was talking, between spoonfuls of chicken and rice, I marveled at her complexion, her fine shoulder length light brown hair, simply brushed back and tied off low with a wide white satin ribbon, and her lively hazel eyes. Her parents, who could’ve easily been her grandparents, were very dark skinned and looked very typically Mexican. The genes dictating her dad’s thick unruly salt and pepper hair, badly cut, and her mom’s tightly braided, mostly white hair, curled like a nest at the top of her head had not been passed on to their beautiful daughter. Their ancient Aztec bloodlines, boldly displayed in their heavy foreheads, dark eyes, and broad noses had also somehow gotten completely sidetracked in the making of their last offspring.
When I asked what she did in her free time she explained that she really had very little. As part of a hard working cotton farming family she was expected to do her share of whatever work needed to be done. Early on, her mother and aunts had insisted that she stay in the house and help do “womanly” duties, but she said that as soon as she was old enough to get her way she started going out with the men to help them work the fields.
At first they made fun of her, hardly taller than the cotton plants themselves, but she persevered and as she grew she proved her worth by bagging almost as much cotton as the most experienced males, and driving the heck out of the farm machinery. Soon, she was expected to don her work clothes and join the men out in the fields as soon as she got home from school.
Of course I knew next to nothing about any kind of farm work and was just vaguely familiar with the phrase “chopping cotton”, but I did know that it was back-breaking work and required many hours outside in all kinds of weather. So while she explained to me how she mastered the one International Harvester combine that they used to harvest the larger of their fields, I was busy trying to figure out how she stayed so pale and kept her skin from being burned to a crisp.
Before I knew it the ladies started clearing the main table and began bringing out platters full of buñuelos (hot deep fried pastry drizzled with honey). Amparo gathered the plates from our small table and disappeared into the kitchen. I was anxious for her to return so we could continue our conversation but she never came back. Later, after downing a couple of hot buñuelos I noticed that my parents had left the main table and had retired outside to the large porch. They were sitting comfortably in a couple of ancient looking rocking chairs sipping tea and talking to Amparo’s father and uncles.
Ricky asked me if he could go into the kitchen to see if there were any leftover pastries.
“No, we’d better to go out to the porch with mom and dad,” I said.
As I passed the open kitchen door I saw Amparo, surrounded by large pots and pans, and buried up to her elbows in hot water and suds. She’d wrapped a huge flowery apron around herself and had tucked her long hair into a white triangular cloth scarf. She briefly looked over her shoulder as I lingered just a bit at the door and, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, gave me a sweet smile.
***
On the long drive home, my brother curled into a tight ball on his side of the back seat napping deeply, mom spun around in her seat and asked, “Well, what did you think?”
“About what?”
“Well, you know…”
“The food was good. And they seem to be a nice family. You know…OK, I guess.”
“No, Pancho,” she said with a hint of exasperation, “I mean, la muchacha…the girl…you know…Amparo!”
Oh God! “I don’t know!”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t you think she was pretty?”
“MOM!” My brother stirred, looked at me through squinty unfocused eyes and farted.
“RICKY! Holy cow! Stop that!”
My mom did her famous lip smacking, reached over and gave me a light left-handed pop on the forehead.
“Oh you,” she spit out her favorite comeback phrase, “leave your brother alone! He’s sleeping and doesn’t know what he’s doing!”
“He always farts when he sleeps mom—it’s disgusting!”
“No! It’s natural. Now tell me about that Amparo girl. What were you two whispering about?”
“Nothing.”
“¿Como puede ser, nothing? You hardly ate anything during lunch. You spent the whole time talking to each other while your brother ate. So, tell me what did she say?”
“Mom, stop it! We were just talking about school and stuff.”
“Aha! Sure! Hmmm! School! Sure, I’ll bet!”
I turned away from her, trying to find something in the passing scenery that I could use to distract her. Just then we were passing the old Santa Fe Railroad yard. I quickly stuck my hand out and while pointing at a large orange diesel locomotive said, in my best ‘oh my God, would you just look at that’ voice, and said: “¡MIRA!”
***
For the next couple of months we began to make almost weekly trips to the church in El Campo. I didn’t mind, although it was a pretty long drive, because Rev. Villa wasn’t there to monitor my time with Amparo. In fact, it almost seemed that both families were almost encouraging our budding relationship.
If we happened to attend a Saturday afternoon service it was a given that afterwards we’d be taking the drive to the farm to have a meal, after which my father, the pastor and Amparo’s father would discuss and dissect the sermon that had closed the service. Finding the conversations extremely boring I would usually step out onto the porch with a glass of tea and enjoy the unencumbered view of the flat countryside until it was time to go.
About three weeks after Amparo and I had first had our conversation I was out on the porch after dinner when I heard the screen door open and close. I expected to see my brother or one of her family members, but instead Amparo strolled out casually looking around for one of the rocking chairs.
“Hi,” she said quietly. “Is it OK if I join you?”
“Oh, sure,” I answered quickly, as I got up from my rocking chair.
“That’s OK, don’t move,” she said, “I’ll pull this other chair over here next to yours.”
She sat down to my right, crossed her legs, and started rocking gently.
“It’s really pretty out here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I like that I can’t see any houses, or for that matter, anything from here, just cotton fields. In my neighborhood you can’t see anything because the houses are so close together.”
She giggled softly and said, “Someday I’d like to see where you live. You know, I’ve never really been to a big city like Houston. It must be nice.”
“Are you kidding me?” I blurted out. “First, we live in a barrio called “El Crisol”. And take it from me; you wouldn’t want to get near it. And as far as Houston’s concerned, well…I have to take a bus—sometimes two—just to get to work—or for that matter anywhere!”
“Oh, that’s right. I wanted to ask you about your job. What is it you do? And do you like it?”
And so, for the next twenty or thirty minutes we chatted pleasantly. We spoke mostly in Spanish, but when we switched occasionally to English I noticed that she had a fairly heavy accent. I assumed Spanish was her language of choice, as I’d never heard any member of her family speak English.
She said she’d graduated from El Campo high school that year and had no plans for college; rather she would just work full time in the fields with her family. Although I’d already made plans to go into the Air Force later that year I made it a point not to mention anything about that, assuming that she’d probably tell her family. Then, of course, it would inevitably get back to mine. So I told her I had no plans for college either, and would probably just continue to work at the eyeglass lab.
Just before we left that evening I had to satisfy my curiosity about one thing.
“Amparo, tell me. You say you work in the fields all the time now that you’re not in school and you mostly drive the combine; but how is it you’re not sunburned?”
“Oh, that!” Beautiful white teeth shone between thin pink lips, and her light brown eyes squeezed almost shut. “Bueno, if you were to come visit when I’m working you would never recognize me. I wear a man’s long sleeve khaki shirt, gloves that come to my elbows, and khaki pants tucked into work boots. I wrap my face and head in a white bandanna with only my eyes exposed, and I wear sunglasses. Y en mi cabeza, (And on my head,) I wear the biggest straw sombrero you’ve ever seen.” The last sentence delivered with a throaty chuckle.
“Wow,” I exclaimed, “I’d love to see you in that get-up!”
“Oh no, Frankie,” she said, covering her lips with two fingers, “no one but mi familia sees me like that. Así es que créeme, (So believe me) no one sees me dressed like that!
As we chatted pleasantly my brother came crashing through the screen door.
“Hey, mom and dad are getting ready to leave and told me to tell you to come in and say goodbye to the family.”
“OK”, I said, a bit reluctantly. Tell them I’m on my way.
He bounded back into the house.
“Well, looks like we’re leaving.” I said, getting up. “It was nice talking to you. I still want to see you in your outfit sometime.”
Amparo laughed as she brushed off the front of her skirt, “Ha, that will never happen!”
On the drive home that afternoon my mother broke the unusual silence in the car.
“Oye Pancho,” She said turning sideways in her seat and pinning me with her large expressive brown eyes, “what were you and that girl talking about out on the porch, huh?”
“I don’t know,” I stalled, a bit irritated by her intrusive question, “stuff, you know.”
“Ha! Stuff, eh? What kind of stuff? Maybe besitos (kisses) stuff, no?”
“Mom! Stop it!”
Ricky sat up from his usual nap-taking fetal position. “Yeah,” he chimed in, “they were talking about kissing stuff, I heard them!”
“Shut up, Ricky! You heard no such thing because it never happened” I growled, now really pissed.
“Mira,” my mom continued, “I saw you and her and how you look at each other. Ah ha, you don’t fool me! You like her…that guera!” (light-skinned female).
At that point my dad decided to chime in with one of his abrasive little sayings:
“Yep, looks to me like maybe there might’ve been a little nigger hiding in the woodpile over there at their house a while back. But in this case it was probably a little gringo in that woodpile—as pale-skinned as that girl came turned out! I’ll tell you, there ain’t no way that dark old man fathered that white little girl!”
I bit my lip as my anger welled up and I wanted to say something really disrespectful at that point, but my father, obviously thrilled with his play on words let out a hoot and began to laugh hysterically slapping his knee as he drove. This got my brother to laughing too and my mother just looked away feigning innocence; and just that quick I decided that any response from me would be useless.
After a few seconds my mother, regaining her composure just slightly, turned to my dad and trying to suppress a giggle said, through pursed lips, “¡Viejo loco!”
***
And so, just like that I found myself in another one of those strange “sort-of” relationships. Although my heart still pined dearly for Estella, as time went on I found myself thinking just a bit less of her and a bit more about Amparo. What made this particular relationship a bit different was that I could sense a gentle push from both families to help us take advantage of the small amount of time we had after church services, and those other times when we visited their home.
Also, our conversations never came close to anything romantic. Since she knew almost nothing about any music outside of the simple hymns that we sung in her church I had no trouble avoiding any talk about rock and roll or its many stars. And even though I was officially prohibited from listening to such sinful drivel I still got to hear plenty of it at home on the little plastic portable radio that I’d bought for myself the year before.
By the time I finally told my parents about my plans to leave for the military, Amparo and I were communicating regularly on the phone and spending a lot of “porch time” at their house. Surprisingly, when I told her about my plans to leave, the Sunday before I told my parents, she didn’t seem fazed and appeared to take the news in stride. I did ask her not to mention anything to her parents or mine, and she promised she would keep it to herself. I honestly believe she must’ve felt some sense of loss, but her personality was such that she almost never outwardly showed any type of emotion. While Estella had been quite a jokester and very emotional, Amparo was quiet, more introspective, and pretty much kept her feelings to herself.
As I finished telling her of my Air Force plans she simply stopped her slow rocking, and staring out onto the distant cotton fields across the narrow dirt road asked softly if I was planning on ever coming back. Not really knowing the answer to that question myself, I just said, “Yes, I think so, but I really don’t know.” Turning to look at me for a few seconds, she simply asked, “OK then, will you write me when you can? I’ll write back, I promise.”
“Sure.” I responded unconsciously—not knowing if I really would. And so, that was that.
***
Already into his third or fourth shot, Michael looked at me curiously.
“So, that’s it? That’s the whole story of your hot girl at home?”
“Well no, not really,” I answered, wondering if I should go on telling someone I didn’t know that well, the rest of the story. “There’s a bit more.”
“Well shit, hombre—what the fuck you waiting for? Drink up and let’s hear it!”
***
During my time away in the military I had thought a lot and finally came to the conclusion that I would no longer be bullied into attending every church service my parents insisted on going to and being the obedient little Frankie that I’d always been. I felt that I was now an adult; capable of making my own decisions and doing those things that I wanted to do. Little did I know that regardless of what I thought about myself at this juncture, I was still not able to totally escape my mother’s wily ways.
When I left Keesler Air Force Base in May of 1961, I spent two weeks military leave at home with my parents before taking that long bus ride to Winnemucca. They had moved to yet another rental house in the Crisol neighborhood—this one just a bit older, but also a bit larger than the one on Leander Street. I mostly used the time to rest up from the rigors of military training and tech school, and of course made a couple of trips with my parents to El Campo.
My parents wanted me to wear my dress Air Force uniform and I objected profusely, telling them that I was on leave. But, after my mother pouted like a little kid I told her I would wear it only once.
Amparo appeared genuinely happy to see me and I thought I saw a tear or two lingering at the corner of her eyes as she shook my hand warmly. Her family seem more awed with my uniform than anything else, and wanted to know what the flight cap that I wore on my head was called. I had to suppress a smile as I wondered what their reaction would be if I told them that we really called that particular head covering a “cunt cap”.
The following Monday after our visit to Amparo’s family, my mother in a strangely out of place good mood, asked me if I was planning on doing anything that day. I told her I was thinking of maybe driving out and catching a movie later on that afternoon, but other than that I had no plans. Since I’d been home my dad had asked his boss if he could use the company pickup so he could leave the car at home for me to use, as I needed. And surprisingly, neither him nor my mother made any objection when I said I was going to movies.
“Good”, she said, “Because I want to go downtown and do a bit of shopping. Wanna take me in the car?”
Now, that whole “do a bit of shopping” comment threw me for a loop. The last time I could remember my mother doing any shopping downtown was when I was nine or ten years old.
“Shopping?” I replied, a bit confused.
“Sure! You know, like we used to do when you were little.”
“Mom, do you even have any money?”
“Well, what do you think? Of course I do. Your daddy left me with a few dollars so I thought it would be fun to go downtown to the Kress Store and look around.”
“Mom, I really don’t want to go to Kress and look around.”
“Mira, see how your are?” She said a bit aggravated. “First you leave to go to the Air Force without saying a word and now you come back and don’t want to spend any time with me!”
“Mom, all I’ve been doing is spending time with you and Dad. It’s not like I have a bunch of friends that I want to visit because thanks to you the only people that I have every had anything to do with before I left was some distant schoolmates and church people.”
“Aw you! You’re so ungrateful! Fine, if you don’t want to take me anywhere I’ll just sit here by myself like I always do! Nadie me quiere como quiera.” (No one loves me anyway).
I suddenly felt a bit of guilt and rethought the idea.
“OK mom, here’s what we’ll do. Let’s drive downtown and I’ll treat you to lunch at Luby’s Cafeteria (I remembered that it was one of her most favorite places). What do you say?”
“Well, if it doesn’t interfere with anything else you want to do.” She said, her petulance now in full bloom.
“Fine, we can leave around one o’clock. I’d offer to take you to an afternoon movie but I know the religion prohibits that.”
“Ha! How do you know I won’t want to go? As long as I ask God for forgiveness afterward I can go anywhere I want.”
“Well, we’ll decide that after we eat lunch.”
We left about an hour later, and I noticed that my mom was dressed like she was going to some party. After she’d been saved and had became a devout church going Holy Roller, she’d given up wearing flashy clothes and hose—instead taking to wearing plain shapeless dresses, no hosiery or makeup, and simple low or mid-heeled black shoes.
She came out of her bedroom in a nice looking black dress, a pair of black patent leather pumps, and hose with a very noticeable black seam up the back of her legs. Shockingly, I noticed a slight reddening on her cheeks and a touch of color on her lips.
“Wow, mom! You look great! Where’ve you been hiding those clothes?”
“Look mister,” she taunted as she twirled around, almost tripping over her heels, “do you think I’ve forgotten how to look good?”
“Mom, we’re just going to eat lunch and maybe go to a movie.”
“Yeah, so? You never know who we may run into downtown! Maybe Gregory Peck is in town, you know?” She wiggled her eyebrows, Groucho Marx style.
“Right mom, right. OK let’s go.”
We came out of Luby’s Cafeteria into the hot downtown Houston afternoon, and I tried to get my bearings as to the direction of the theater.
“Hey mom, is the Majestic to the right here, or is it a block down on Texas Avenue?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She said as she looked around curiously. “But look mijito,” pointing with her left index finger,” there’s a Levitt’s Jewelry store on the corner across the street.”
“A what?”
“Levitt’s Jewelry! You know, they have a lot of nice stuff there. Wanna go see what they have?”
“No, not really. What would I want in there?”
“Well you never know. You might see something that might look good on someone’s finger.”
“Wha…who’s finger?
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe someone really pretty.”
“Mom, I don’t have any money to buy jewelry for anyone. Besides, who would I be buying that kind of stuff for anyway?”
“Aw you silly. Look at the sign on the window.” We’d started to cross the street. “It says they’ll finance anything you buy. See? Let’s just go look in the window.”
As we reached the curb she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me anxiously towards the store.
“Mira! Look at those pretty rings! And see? They’re only a hundred and ninety five dollars! Mira, mira—that one over there—see how pretty that wedding set is?”
I had never in my life shopped for any kind of jewelry and I wasn’t too sure what I was looking at. Yes, the rings were pretty—that is, they were very shiny and well displayed—but I’d never thought anything at all about wedding rings. Hell, I didn’t even know they came in pairs. Neither my mother nor my father had ever worn rings so I was pretty ignorant on the subject.
Before I knew what was happening she’d dragged me into the store and we were standing in front of a large glass display case with an eager salesman pulling ring after ring out of the case for our inspection.
“See mijito? Look at this set! Isn’t it pretty?” She pushed the pair onto her chubby little finger and waved it up and down in front of my eyes. “See? And it’s only….”
“Two fifty-nine, ma’am; but I can let you have it today for two oh-nine.” The round-faced bespeckled salesman said gleefully.
“And,” my mom said, suddenly turning very serious. “Can he get it on credit? He’s a military man, you know. Air Force, so he has a very good job.”
“Oh, that’s for sure. And, for military men we give an extra ten percent off, with eighteen months to pay it off. No problem!” He quickly looked up at my very short hair. “And Air Force to boot! Why my nephew’s in the Air Force. Yes ma’am, we can do the paperwork right now and I’ll even do the deal with no down payment!”
“Oh,” my mom gushed, truly impressed. “See mijito, no down payment and you’ll have eighteen months to pay it off. That’s just about the right time for a nice engagement, don’t you think?”
“Uh…uh, what?” I managed to mumble.
“And who’s the lucky young lady? The salesman asked excitedly.
“Her name is Amparo! My mother quickly answered. “She lives in El Campo and she is very beautiful.”
“My, my. That’s a clever name. Is it foreign?” The salesman asked me as he struggled to pull the rings off my mother’s pinky.
“No, no. It’s just Mexican. It means ‘help’”, my mother added helpfully.
“Uh mom, let’s just wait a minute here. What do you think you’re doing?”
“What Frankie? Don’t you think Amparo deserves something nice like this? After all, you don’t have to give her both of the rings right away. Just the one with the little headstone, see? Then when you decide to get married you give her the other one—the…”
“The band, ma’am, the band.” The salesman injected knowingly. “The plain band is the wedding ring, young man. And, oh yes, she’s going to love both of them.” He said knowingly as he looked at the tiny diamond through a small handheld magnifying glass that he pushed up to his eye.
OK, now I know this all sounds so completely improbable, but I swear, before I knew what was happening I had signed a finance agreement and we were walking out of the jewelry store with the rings in a small beige velvet box that my mom had shoved into her purse. I think I must’ve been in shock because I don’t remember a thing my mom said as we got back into the car and headed home; any thought of going to a movie long forgotten.
When my father came home from work that afternoon my mother couldn’t wait to tell him the great news. I sat in the living room staring unbelievingly at them as they made plans to visit El Campo the following Sunday and participate in the presentation.
“OK boy,” my dad sternly said. “So you’re going to make an honest woman out of her, huh? Good! I’ll make sure the entire family’s there next Sunday when you propose to her.”
Propose? How was I supposed to do that? And, why? Oh, I liked Amparo a lot—and God knows she was very attractive, but did I love her? Well…no, I don’t think I did. I really didn’t know what I felt, except a lot of confusion and maybe a bit of frustration.
Before I knew it, it was Sunday and we were on our way to El Campo.
***
“So let me get this straight.” Michael said. “Your mother made you buy the rings, and then you were taken to this girl’s house for you to propose and to give her an engagement ring. Am I getting this right?”
“Yep.”
“Well shit, Frank, that’s just fucking dumb. So, you’re telling me that you and her are engaged to be married. Hell boy, she ain’t your girlfriend, she’s your goddamned fiancé!”
“Yep.”
I noticed that my glass was somehow now empty, and there was a slight burning in my throat but my tummy felt warm.
“You need another drink.”
“Yep.”
“Hey Sid, you been listening to this shit? Sid shrugged. “This fucker needs more juice, pronto!” Michael turned to me. “OK, I need to hear how all this went down that Sunday.”
***
I don’t recall much about the service that Sunday morning, but I do remember that the small church was uncommonly full. Turned out calls had been made that week and several families related to Amparo’s parents had made a special trip to El Campo that day. I had talked to Amparo on the phone during the week but neither of us mentioned anything about rings, engagements, or cool finance deals. To this day I don’t know if she knew what was about to happen that Sunday.
The event was almost anticlimactic but ultimately very traumatic.
At the end of the Sunday service we drove to Amparo’s house as we had done many times before. What was different was that instead of sitting at a separate table during lunch, Amparo and I were seated next to each other at the center of the large family table. Everyone, especially the women, were all atwitter and the atmosphere was almost electric.
After the meal my mother pulled me away from the dining room and produced the little beige velvet box.
“OK mijo. Put this in your pocket for now. When the table is cleared everyone is going to be out on the porch. That’s when you tell them that you have something to say. When they quiet down make sure Amparo is close to you so you can give her the ring as you ask her to marry you. Can you do that?”
“Mom, I don’t know if I can do this.” I was shaking and I thought my meal was going to come back up. “And why am I doing this anyway?”
“Because you love her and you want to marry her! Silly! Now don’t screw this up because it’ll make me and your daddy look bad. We’ve already told everyone what’s going to happen, so you must do it! You hear me? Don’t you dare disappoint us again! We’ve done everything for you your whole life and now it’s time for you to pay us back. You need to marry her and give us lots of babies. She is so beautiful so your kids are going to be gorgeous and they’re going to be very ‘gueros’. Just you wait and see. Now, get out there!”
I walked with leaden feet in the direction of the front door, noticing a bit nervously that the table had been cleared and the dishes finished in record time. The house was quiet and empty except for my mother and me. Everyone, including Amparo, was out on the large porch—and they were all very quiet. The velvet box rested very uncomfortably in my right front pocket, bulging slightly as I walked toward the door.
As I opened the screen door everyone looked in my direction. I searched the faces, many of them unknown to me, looking for Amparo. She stood next to her parents. She looked paler than I had ever seen her before. I stood still for a few seconds trying to find the words that I thought I needed to say. I didn’t know what I was doing…and I didn’t know if I really wanted to do any of this. I was scared and the thought of just running somewhere started to creep into my mind.
Just then…from behind me…
“Hermanos!” My father’s voice boomed from behind me and I jumped slightly. He spoke in Spanish.
“My son has made a very important decision and today, in a very few minutes, he is going to ask the beautiful Amparo a very serious question. It is a blessing that we are about to witness two wonderful young people make a decision that will take them on a very long journey for the rest of their lives.”
A flood of ‘amens’ made the rounds on the porch.
He continued, “He’s wanted to do this ever since he saw Amparo, and his mom and I have encouraged him to do the right thing. He came home from the military with no other thought on his mind. So now, if the lucky couple can get together here in front of our families…”
My feet were stuck to the wooden floor. A sharp elbow to the small of my back pushed me forward and I saw Amparo being led toward me by her mother.
“Saca el anillo de la bolsa!” (Take the ring out of your pocket!) My mother’s sharp whisper startled me.
“OK.” I managed to say as I fumbled to dig the velvet box out of my pocket.
As I yanked the box out I looked up and saw that Amparo was looking right into my eyes and crying. Her shoulders were shaking and she looked like a beautiful little broken faced doll. A lump started forming in my throat and I stopped breathing.
Ándale mijo, dile! (Go on son, tell her!) My mother hissed behind me. “Ahora sí, pregúntale! (Yes, ask her now!)
I opened my mouth and suddenly realized that I didn’t know how to speak the words I needed to say in Spanish.
“Uh, Amparo,” My voice was nothing more than a weak croak.
“Can…you…uh…well…will you…uh…marry me?”
I felt like my soul had been ripped from my body and it sounded as if someone else was doing the talking.
“Sí Frankie, con todo mi corazón.” (Yes Frankie, with all my heart.) Amparo whispered sweetly between soft sobs.
Applause all around as I stood dumbfounded holding the velvet box in my sweating and shaking hand.
“Give her the ring!” My mother hissed.
I jerked at her words and fumbled to open the box. Oh’s and ah’s all around. Amparo reached out and I gently placed the ring… in the palm of her hand.
She looked it at lying there in her hand and smiled through her tears.
“Put it on her finger Pancho!” My mother snapped at me.
“Oh,” I said, and reached for the ring. Before I could reach out Amparo had already taken and placed the ring on her finger. Everyone started clapping. I was now shaking almost uncontrollably.
***
I took a long sip of the burning whiskey, shuddered, and washed it down with the warm water.
“So what happened?” Michael asked excitedly. “Did you kiss her? Did you take her out to the car and get it on with her? Come on man, what happened?”
“You know, I really don’t remember. A lot of people shook my hand, said a lot of things, and I just don’t know what I was doing or what I was thinking.” I was now feeling really warm and a little woozy, but really good.
“Jesus! Well, did you guys get to spend any time together after that?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since, but we did talk on the phone a couple of times before I left. That Sunday was a week before I had to leave to come here.”
“Holy shit! You mean you haven’t see her at all since you gave her the ring?”
“Nope.”
“So, what’s happening now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have the money for a long distance call and they can’t accept collect, so we have to write each other for now.
“So has she written you?”
“Well no. See, since she doesn’t know the mailing address here I have to write her first and give it to her so she can write back.”
“So have you written to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I just really don’t know what to say.”
…To be continued…