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Gato
For
Adriana Maestas
Carlos always says that Roberto should have been
called El Gato instead of Gato because that was
the right way to say someone's name, even a
cat's, but I usually forget and think of the
name we always used. It didn't make any
difference to him at all, that's for sure, and
he even told me once that leaving off the
article was no big deal. "What the diff, little
sis," he would say, whether you called the
L.V.L.'s "Los Vatos Locos" or "Vatos Locos?"
"Another language, dead already. Another time,
another place." He was like that. Nothing was
ever serious unless he stopped and made it that
way.
We were driving to mass, driving past a row of
trees, so it was bright and dark, bright and
dark as we motored through the shadows.
Carmelita was in her car seat, asleep, her head
off to the side at a right angle to her spine.
How do little babies do that, anyway, sleep in
such weird positions? Now Carlos and me have
just had Carmelita's little ear pierced, and I'm
getting used to all the seriousness that goes
with living the straight life. "You choose your
life," says Carlos. "Roberto chose to go on the
crooked path, and so they took him out. No
surprises."
I was probably fourteen when I met Gato. His
real name was Roberto Joaquin Salazar, and it
was my first real party. "Gee," he said,
"fourteen. You too young to be here, hermana mía."
It was then he started calling me Little Sister,
and the name stuck. Later that night was when
some guys tried to get me to smoke crack in one
of the back bedrooms, but Gato heard and put a
stop to it.
At first I was thinking, "Who is this guy? Who
does he think he is?" but it was only later that
I saw that the way he came in, very quietly,
like a cat, to say to his brothers that I was
off-limits was part of who he was. Lots of guys
would've made a big deal about protecting me or
defending my honor, and, to tell the truth,
Carlos is into that. But all Roberto did was
say, "No, hermanos," and that was all there was
to it. And before he left that night he didn't
strut around or act like he owned me. All he
said was, "You take care, Sis. You can invite me
to your quinceñera when the time comes."
That was Gato all over.
He was a big, strong guy, very big for only
being sixteen. Thin moustache, short hair. Very
big muscles, real strong, and did not take shit
from anyone, which was probably a big part of
the problem. He was one for talking tough, as
you might expect, but he was also ashamed of
things that happened, too.
There were other parties later on. Once Omar was
drinking too much and he passed out, so a few of
his homies thought they would play a trick on
him and put lipstick on his face and make him
up. Gato was pretty amused by all this, except
that when Omar woke up he looked in the mirror
and got plenty upset. Gato said, “Hey, don’t
worry about it, man. It’s just a joke,” but Omar
wanted to fight, so they went outside and we
were all standing around. Omar was a great bull
and Gato just let him come on and waited until
he was too tired to fight anymore. The sound of
Omar’s hitting Gato’s guard was a terrible dull
splatting the few times it happened—not at all
like in the movies. At first it was exciting but
then watching them made me feel dizzy. I had to
sit down, but in the end Gato was holding him on
the ground, covering up his face with a pillow
to make him relax until he was able to calm
down. He was whispering to him, “It was only a
dumb joke. Nobody thinks you’re not a man. Let
me let let you up so not to spoil the party.” I
was the only one that could hear what he said to
make him relax.
So even though the fight happened, I knew he
could have a great heart. There were times when
I would talk with Gato and he would smile at how
crazy people were and not seem to be a rough
person at all. He shook his head when talking
about his mother and was so devoted to her that
he moved out when he thought she might be
ashamed of him for what he had done. So he left
her house when he was fifteen, before he even
met me. Not too long after we met he said to me,
“Mi’ija, you have this great future ahead of
yourself. Don’t fuck it up.”
There would be times when we would be driving
around and somebody would say, "Hey, Gato, how
come she no have to sit in the bitch seat?" He
might be real quiet and let the person think
about what he just done said, or he might
answer, "Yo, Lupe, you wouldn't know class if it
came up and bit you on the rear. And that's for
a fact. Little Sister can sit on the front seat
because she is just such a person." He would
smile when he said it, or maybe wink.
Escape was Gato's big thing, and how was I to
know that when he was around me he thought of
just that? He was in the L.V.L.'s, and had been
in trouble with the law before then, but he
wanted me to know that he would get out in a
moment if he could. He did not feel like he had
any other options. Once, later, at another party
after he’d had a few beers, he said to me me,
"Look at me, mi’ija. My life's all fucked up.
I've got tattoos on my neck, on my hands. I
can't never get a job looking like this." And it
was true. Was a man supposed to go and fill out
the job application at MacDonald's or Rite-Aid
and know the whole time what they thought of
him? The guys in the white shirts with the
skinny ties would pretend to cough into their
fists but be laughing at him, knowing that he
would have to lie to say he hadn't been
arrested, practically taking bets over whether
he would feel so desperate that he couldn't tell
the truth. When he was little he didn't want to
grow up to be a gang banger and have to sell
drugs in order to support himself. But by the
time it all came to pass he knew in his heart of
hearts that he would die young. The exact words
he said to me were, “Me or Weasie is going to go
down soon,” so there was no question about
whether he knew things were closing in around
him., so that even if he was with his buddies,
he would throw signs to put himself at risk, not
seeming to care about what might happen.
And if I acted too grown up, he would say,
“Little Sister, you know what they say? 'No hay
ningun mal que por bien no venga.'” Nothing is
so bad that something good does not come of it.
He knew he was supposed to be the bad influence,
so he would tell me to stay in school and not
kick it too hard.
It was on a school night when it happened. I was
home studying for my American History test when
the phone rang. No, that's not right. I had been
studying but had gone to bed when the phone
rang. Even though mama had not liked me seeing
Gato very much, I heard her cry out from down in
the kitchen, saying, "No, no," over and over. I
put on my bathrobe and got up to see what was
up. The yellow glare from the kitchen light made
everything seem fake, like it didn't belong
there, even the corny Sally and Peppy burros in
the middle of the table that mom bought at a
garage sale. This was the place where I'd had
breakfast practically every morning of my life,
but it seemed like someone else’s house. Mama
saw my eyes were not adjusting to the light
right away, and I kind of staggered when I
stepped out of the dark stairway and they didn't
focus. She took me in her arms and held me tight
before she said, "Gato is dead."
Roberto Juaquin Salazar. The paper talked about
him like he was trash. All that had happened, at
least according to his homies, was that they
were at the Taco Time at Southgate when some
guys from the Sky View Locos came in. They
talked some trash but nothing bad had happened.
I don't know why his homies left him there, but
Gato said for them to. He said he could take
care of himself. He said those vatos were
not gonna give him any shit, and they believed
him. I found out the next day how they must've
followed him out. Between a tatoo of a butterfly
and a red rose on his left forearm were the
words "Sureños hasta la muerte," and on the
right it read "Una vida mejor," and all I could
think about for about a week afterward was how
they followed him out. He was hanging with some
Varrio Locos from near there, not his regular
set, and they were young, and did not know or
maybe did not even care what might happen to him
if they left. “Punks, is what they are,” says
Omar. The S.V.L.’s may have waited until he was
halfway out to his car and then busted out the
door after him. You know the clanging sound the
metal bar on the glass door makes when you slam
it open? The Taco Time guy said he didn't know
why those guys had left in such a hurry. Sure.
He didn't want to be out in that parking
lot, that’s for sure. I kept thinking of how
long it must of took them. Was he surrounded out
there, and them slashing at his arm he was using
for protection and then finally one of them
getting him in the gut to bring him down? That
is what they do. Gato himself had probably done
it to some poor guy for his own initiation.
There is no point in trying to make him out to
be some innocent victim, even though it was
murder. Anyone would call it murder. Finally,
they wedged him next to the dark green dumpster
around the corner in the parking lot and stabbed
him through the chest a lot. And why did Gato
have "Una vida mejor" there on his arm if it was
not for his parents who had come north to find a
better life? He was only seventeen. He knew he
would not live to be twenty-five.
The articles in the papers all said that Roberto
had been a member of a gang, and that had been
the reason for his death. The headline said,
"Violent Death Pre-Destined?" and the story went
on and said that he had "cheated death" two
years ago when he was shot in the back and
survived, but that finally death had "caught up
with him." It let on in several places that
Gato's death was somehow less of an injustice,
less of a tragedy because he had been warned.
Did they think he didn't know that he could not
turn back.
In a few minutes Carlos will be home from work.
He has to wear a coat and tie, because it is a
management training program. My hands are
covered with masa. I wrap the tamales in long
corn shucks just like my dad taught me, and then
cut each one. Then I put the extras in the
freezer. The knives the Sky View Locos used on
Gato were much smaller. They used knives that
were only meant to lock open, do a job quickly,
and then be ready for more, the next cut. I know
this because Gato's mama did not let the funeral
home guys dress him up with new clothes, but
made them put on the same ones he'd been
wearing, only they'd been washed. The cuts did
not look very big, but there were lots of them.
Because it had been a cool night in late
September, the long sleeves covered up his
tattoos. And the collar was pulled up to hide
the ones on the side of his neck. Isn’t it
amazing, the things mothers will do? The
thoughts mothers have?
Carmelita is breathing in and out now. I fixed
her hair the way Carlos likes it. A tiny star of
gold light shines from her earlobe. She must be
having the kind of sleep we all dream about. I
know this because her eyelids have turned
purple, and her lips are moving in and out as if
she was nursing my breast, even though she is
fast asleep. In her dreams she has never thought
about how the world will change and what it
might do to her. |
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