I am not wearing my father’s belt buckle, but tonight I am my father’s son. The historian in me wants to tell you that this knowledge arrived as the song “El Troquero” opened Ray’s sixtieth birthday party. That I looked at my dark maroon long sleeve shirt, gray pants, and black dress shoes and was reminded of the shirt my father bought at Sears when it held prestige among recent migrants; that I was reminded of the pleated dress pants my dad wore; and that sure, my dress shoes weren’t polished by hand, but they were dress shoes and not boots. I want to tell you that unlike my tío and his friends, my movement was minimal; it didn’t mirror the song’s abandon: “Soy troquero y me gusta ser borracho.” (I am a truck driver and I like to be a drunk.) Although I didn’t actually dance the first song; that was just Ray and Dee.
The historian works with traces, not with smoking guns.
The party was at a place called the Manhattan Lounge. It was across the street from Bizarra Capital and close to a historical museum that I should know but don’t. All three sit just below Greenleaf Avenue, a little Mexican-American haven in Whittier, California. An entire street for Mexicans to eat, buy books, browse records, speak in English or Spanish, and do the things people do.
Ray spent most of his teenage years in South El Monte, on a small street behind the Ramada Inn, a few blocks from Whittier Narrows and the 60 Freeway. He moved from his parents’ house to a three bedroom home in Pico Rivera shortly after he got married. In his backyard, the extended family has held baby showers, birthday parties, watched football games, and mourned relatives. It’s the kind of place nephews and nieces randomly visit when they arrive from out of town. My mother, and most of Ray’s siblings, have scattered east. Their movement mirrors the exodus of working class families from El Monte to Pomona, then further east to Corona, Eastvale, Lake Elsinore, and beyond.
*
Like my father, I have a story for the night. I’ll tell it to whoever will listen. Each version a slightly better draft. I shift the emphasis, embellish where appropriate, and gently reduce the academic jargon. I start by telling it to my uncle Jerry and a few of Ray’s friends.
My compa has a ranch with horses in Avocado Heights. Tierra Caliente. He invites us over for Easter; it is part party and part protest. We get to his pad and march down to the park. The Aztec dancers go first, then a four-piece conjunto playing from the back of a truck, then the horses, and then the folks on foot.
When we get to the park, it is packed. Raspados. Aguas frescas. Taqueros. Overpriced balloons and chingaderas for sale. Horses everywhere. Portable bathrooms. Not free, though. You gotta pay for squares of toilet paper. It should all fall apart, but Mexicans find a way.
I go straight for the dude selling michelada mix out of the back of his pickup truck. My wife reminds me that we didn’t bring beer and that the Styrofoam cup only has michelada mix, with slices of mango. She reminds me that no one is selling alcohol.
I pause and wait for someone to smile, to indicate I should listen to my wife. Once someone does, I continue talking:
Do I let these facts stop me? Nah, hell nah. I stay in line. But the line is long and it doesn’t seem to move. It’s got them DMV line vibes. I want to give up, but I’ve already committed ten minutes that I can’t get back. Twenty minutes later, it’s my turn. I order two. My wife loves micheladas.
We walk towards the playground with our cups and it is at this point that I realize I’m an idiot because there is no alcohol for sale in sight.
Then, I hear “Hey, tú eres Guzmán!”
It takes me a bit to realize through the noise that the voice is coming from behind me, from the parking lot. When I turn, I immediately recognize a man who has been friends with Ray for as long as I’ve known my tío. He’s attended both the casual and important family functions. I think he might have even helped Ray build a little porch for our trailer park when my family lived in Goleta in the 1980s.
“I’m Ray’s nephew! Panchita’s second oldest,” I say.
We shake hands and hug each other. Then, he looks at my empty cups and says, “M’ijo, you need beer?” Before I can respond, he snaps open a Tecate and pours the beer into the michelada mix. He hands me another two cans; “for later,” he says. We take a selfie. I send it to Ray.
“Puro Guzmán,” says my uncle Jerry as he slaps me on the back and gestures for us to head to the bar for another drink.
*
I am not drinking a lot tonight, but when the beer on draft is gone, I ask Joey the bartender if he can make an Old Fashioned, something to sip on slowly. Something with a big ole ice in it.
“No bitters,” he offers in disappointment. I ask for a Negroni, but Joey’s response isn’t reassuring: “What goes in it?”
“How about a Manhattan?” I ask.
“I got you,” he assures me.
In all my years living in New York as a Columbia graduate student, I never ordered a Manhattan. When I return to join my uncles with a martini glass, they call me fancy, laugh a bit, and ask me to tell the story about Ray’s friend saving the day. I do. We laugh. They get another drink. I ask for a water.
I’m not so much babysitting my alcohol tonight as I am my emotions. My wife isn’t here. Our sitter got COVID and the party is for adults only. I feel a sadness that aches. Its origins aren’t my proximity to my father but the distance that it heightens. I’m here, he isn’t. If I was with my father’s family, my uncles, in their own way, would remind me of him. Their use of the word “doc” (none of them are doctors) and “oye bro” interchangeable to refer to each other. My father is cooler than one uncle, but not as cool as his youngest brother—his place forever saved between them. His absence is measured by both proximity and distance. Tonight, with my mother’s family, I am my father’s son.
*
It’s likely, though I can’t confirm, that the brothers have occupied opposite corners of the hall. Throughout the night, they are likely aware of each other’s presence, watching from the corners of their eyes and then losing track, maybe even forgetting that the other one is here. When they find each other near the bar, something is said or nothing is said and the shouts and shoving start. At 280 pounds, a former bouncer and truck driver, Jerry holds Ray’s friend back. The security guards approach but are waved off. One brother leaves, then shortly after, the other goes home too.
Ray, Jerry, and the men and women who gather after the pushing and shit-talking aren’t interested in the narrative, in what led to the fight. They don’t need to know its roots. Maybe they know it is a family matter; that some decisions are so hard to make that to evaluate, to determine if it was right or wrong. is to miss the point. No amount of talking or planning will ease the pain. Maybe the crisis is inevitable. Maybe the silence and distance that hasn’t been bridged has finally found a form. Or maybe it’s just something silly and stupid and they’ve had too much to drink.
The party isn’t over, but the hall is more or less empty. Ray, Jerry, and I gather at the bar for one last drink. The band plays the song that opened the night and Ray leaves us to dance with Dee. I chase my Bud Light with some water and think of something to say. I know my father would have dug up some Mexican proverb or saying to mark the occasion. He wouldn’t sing it exactly, but it would have a rhythm to it; he’d slow the words that Jerry didn’t know or whose use wasn’t necessary here. The words would linger in the air. Jerry would ask for clarification. My father would explain, leaving the words to marinate within Jerry on his way back to Texas. I offer an observation as a joke. The exact words are lost to me now, but it is something like, “Breaking up fights instead of starting them.” A fist bump serves as the period mark.
In the morning, my wife asks if I had a good time. I say it was okay. When her face asks for more, I say I missed her and that actually I was a bit sad, but also happy.
