I met Dez Martinez on my first trip to South America, in Sangritos to be exact. Almost a decade ago. That´s back when I had Hemingway dreams wrapped in brightly colored hopes : Dreams of being a writer. Anyway, I did what most native English speakers do when they want to travel the world without dipping into their trust fund or nest egg that is: teach English. A pursuit which inexorably led me to one of Sangrito´s many language academies peppered across
town. I did the standard one week teacher training crash course with the usual lot of ex-pats, renegades, ex-stus (exchange students), FullBees , CIA , fluent latinos, etc.
First day intros sound like something out of an AA meeting :
- Hi, I´m Wes Chambers, I´m from Sacramento.
- Hey , Lisa Scheiber , Chicago
- Sup ! Roy Herbowitz, New Yawk.
- Hi everybody, I´m Dez Martinez
Our lead teacher jumps in :
- Where you from...Dez is it ?
Dez rubs his chin in thought
- I don´t know...
Spontaneous chuckles break out. “ Good answer “ I thought.
- OK, alright , settle down people ...Dez ?
Dez looks up at the instructor. Smile slowly fading to a worried look on his face.
- I don´t know ma´am.
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He told me that at some point during his 15 hour flight he recieved an illumination of some kind that seems to have changed him. A memory locked deep in his mind had sprung like a trapped spider. In his reveries 32 years after the trip it seems to have come as a gift, as little toy. A silver colored die cast DC-9. A toy plane from the grungy little duty-free at Bolima International back in ´75. That´s what got him going.
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“Aqui tiene hijo”
Dad gently leaves silver colored DC- 9 on seat tray. Die cast Matchbox through little cellophane window on box. Mom slips Dad 5 dollars. Silently mouths the word “gracias”.
The plane was being vaccumed. Everyone had gotten off except us. She didn´t care , too tired to deboard. CP Air wouldn´t mind or even blame her for not getting off the plane. After all it was only Bolima International.
“Puta que ciudad mas horrible. Bolima la horrible.” Mumbles my father as he sits down with a fresh copy of The Mercurial. “ Ese vocabulario, Desiderio...”. She sighs. 25 and already tired. 5 hour flight from Santiago to Lima. Only 9 more to go.
“ Did you call your mother ?“ she asks. Her voice low. Almost a growl as she flips through a magazine.
“ Busy, we´ll call from Los Angeles ” . Buries himself in newsprint.
I open the little box. Shiny new airplane. Tiny plastic propellers. I hold it up against the window. It glistens magically in the South American sun.
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Well, I really dont know how it happened or why for that matter. So I guess I´ll start from the beginning and maybe we´ll find out something together. Turns out my Dad was one of ´em guitar playing party crooners in the 70s. Tan skinned , chops, dark wavy hair, a regular latin- Elvis. My mom , a Beatles fan and the closest anyone in her neighborhood would ever come to “Bardot”, fell head over heels. But Elvis got scared. His teddy bear tuned into a momma and that just ain´t awlright, y´know ?
Mom had a nervous breakdown. Dad ran away to his mother´s “fundo” or ranch. Mom´s brothers went after him with pitchforks, knives and guns. 5 months of intense negotiations ensued. “Peace in our time” was hollered. I would be born into a regular family. I would have a proper “apellido”. I wouldn´t be a “huacho” after all. But as my father would so eloquently remind me one day : “No free lunches son.”
But let´s not get ahead of ourselves.
I was born into turmoil you could say. Not only was there a civil war at home. There was also one in the city. Sangritos : 1975. People were plotting. Plotters, that´s what people like to do : Plot. Plot maddly against their enemies. Relatives. Friends. Much loved Sangritos soap operas are instructionals for young kids on how to engage in plotting a vengance.
Getting payback. I was even plotted against in the womb, “she must have an abortion”, “Fuckin kid, my life is ruined!!!!”, “that child cannot see the light of day”, “I know a good physician, discreet. Y´know darling” , “my son cannot marry that GIRL. She´s trash!!!!”. My father was from a long line of Army men you see ? Military men of military honor. You had to marry the right girl to have access. Una chica “bien”.
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“Welcome to Clearwater folks”
The officer at customs smiled tipping her cowboy hat. Of course I didn´t understand a thing. I was jet lagged , hungry and in a bad mood. A miniature alcoholic nursing a bender. Mom and Dad looked around the exit after clearing customs. Waving from the far side of the small terminal were Maria and Roland. Our Clearwater connection.
“Oh my lord!!! And who is this darling little boy ? “
“Desiderio”
“And how old is Desiderio ?”
Put up 3 fingers.
“Welcome to Clearwater Desiderio”
“Hi little buddy” butts in Rolando ,ruffling my hair.
They all start chatting. I start looking around. It was a beautiful spring morning in Clearwater. I walked up to the fence. On the other side were the jets, all lined up like giant toys, shiny die-cast metal on the burning tarmac. With a thunderous roar I see a silver 737 speeding down the run way, lifting its nose and being whisked off into the air. I reach into my pocket and take out my own mini version. Looks beautiful against the blue Clearwater sky.
I chase down the jet.
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“ Desi-deros”
“ No iz De-si-de-rio”
“ Dezi-darias”
“ Why don´t we try a shorter name ? Make things easier for the boy”
The Community Daycare secretary gently put her pen down, waiting for an answer. She kindly looked at me and my Mom. Then she asked Maria
“its perfrectly OK. Most newcomers decide on new, simpler names. It makes the transition easier for the kids”
My mother looked at her and at aunt Maria.
“Desideros”
“Ay pero no será mejor otro nombre. Para hacerle las cosas un poco mas faciles”
“ Dez !“
“ Nice name! “
“ New name for a new country, new beginning”
“ Dez Martinez”
Daycare. Work was across the city for mom and dad which meant from dark to dark.
Get up still dark outside, go to bed dark again. The mercilessness of a Clearwater winter
slapped me hard. One of the worst blizzards ever, had hit the city and it was almost inpossible to cut through that thick curtain of snow . seemed like a wall at times. I stepped out onto the street holding my mom´s hand tight. Trudging, step by step crunching snow under our feet. I had never experienced something like this. Has any 3 year old ? Wrapped tight in my jacket The bus was not just a means for transport anymore, it was salvation from the arctic blast. The doors opened and it was like stepping full on into a warm summer embrace, found our seat. 6 am, not too many people on board,
“Its getting cold out there , eh ? “
Mom looks at bus driver. A courtesy smile. Mom looks around, just us on the bus. She´d been told about these “cowboy” types, these “vaqueros”.
“Do you have a schedule ma´am ?”
Takes one from the schedule rack.
“In this weather every second counts”
Mom nods in agreement though neither of us had any idea what the bus driver was talking about. I turned to look out the window. The dawn was breaking over countless
Suburban homes covered in snow, lined up neatly as far as the eye could see.
It was a confortable snow suit, a little large (it was a hand-me-down) but warm. Couldn´t see much through the hood wrapped tightly like a tube looking like a trombone coming out of my shoulders. Radio crackels :
“Its going to be a cold one today in Clearwater. Get this : minus 35 degrees celcius !”
Could have been Chinese for all we cared.
The daycare was a football field away.
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“Too much chocolate young fellow”
The dentist looks up at my Mom.
“He´s due for a filling”
Reaches behind him opens a drawer and pulls out a carboard shoebox.
“Pick one”
Inside , dozens of plastic rings. Confidence rings. I look at Mom. “Saque uno m´hijo” she says encouragingly. So I take one. She looks at the dentist “Cuanto?”. Pointing at her wallet.
Looks at her not understanding what she means “ Oh! How much ? No ma´am. Courtesy of the house”
I was going to like this place.
“Construction work, son ?”
“Yeah dad”
“Son, we didn´t raise you to be hauling around 2X4s.”
“I know dad. It might be hard work but its good pay”
“How´s little Desiderio ? Paula ?”
“They´re fine Dad”
“He started school today. Daycare actually. They call him Dez now”
“ Really”
“ Yeah, listen, is Mom there ? Could you put her on the line ?”
Desiderio could almost feel the warm Sangritos sun through the phone. Gently warming every inch of his parent´s spacious uptown apartment. His room. His records. His books. His bed spread. His soccer penants. The maid was busy in the kitchen prepairing 5 o´clock tea. His dad had probably just finished reading the afternoon paper left it neatly folded on his reading chair. The wide avenues of Sangritos , the girls prancing around in thier mini-skirts. Yeah, those girls ripe for the picking...On streets of forgotten South American town, where unwritten dress codes , spoken accents, inflections, last names were golden keys, keys that could open many doors. Access.
All that was locked away in a dream now. Hard work, discipline. A hard days work for a hard days pay was the law of the land here in Clearwater.
“ Hello ? mamá ? “
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Someone briefly opened a window. A cold breeze shot throught the playroom at the daycare. Hmmmm had never used chocolate fudge or food for that mattter, as paint before. Couldn´t seem to keep the stuff on the page.
“Dez ?”
The teacher ,long blonde straight hair , braided , thick glasses kneeled next to my miniature table. “Dez ? keep the fudge ON the paper dear, not in your mouth”
“Porque ? es comida”
“ Sorry dear ? “
Forgot. Nobody understood me here and the feeling was mutual I´m sure.
As I lifted my hand soaked in fudge to my mouth for the upteenth time she gently redirected it onto the page. Making a big circle. Looking around at all the kids focused on their little masterpieces I thought they didn´t ubderstand. Those kids were missing the boat. Why weren´t they busily finishing off THEIR own bowls of fudge.
“Thaaaat´s right Dez “ taking my hand and dipping it in water to wash off the chocolate.
Hmmmm, what´s going on here. Well, I figured out there and then that if things were sorta weird here, its best I should probably lay low. Which also meant forgetting about closing that window thats´s freezing up the place. But, there was probably a very good reason for that too. So, still feeling the winter chill, I walked over to my teacher. Tugging at her sweater I asked in my best English :
“Señouriita, me pouudriiia pasaaar el chalequitooouu por favour ? “
