Demon Dancer. Alexander Valdez
He was a real piece of shit. If anything was missing or a house had broken into the neighborhood, the first words out of anyone’s mouth was “Ray did it.”
Poor guy could’ve been in the next city, but he still would have been the first person of interest. Ray was a bully and picked on anybody he thought he could put a fright into. I was one of those guys, I don’t know why. Maybe I could’ve whupped him, but I hate to admit being a bit of a pacifist in my youth. I was compassionate and never wanted to hurt another soul. I’d just tell Blackie, and he’d go after them with a vengeance.
Once, in school, I joined the track team and discovered that my survival skills would pay off. I was a fast runner and gained a reputation at the city’s other junior high schools. It was at the first city track meet, where all the junior high schools competed, that I got my first taste of prejudice. All year long I had raced in different school invitationals. I won most meets, but I was normal, so I also lost some.
It was the big city meet, and my race was up. My weight class was the smallest class, and I was a shrimp, so I was good to go. We all lined up to await the starter’s pistol, and boom, we were all off. I won and was being congratulated by everyone, including my school coach.
“Alex, come on up and weigh in for your ribbon,” the track meet director called out.
Making my way up to the scale, smiling and feeling great about the world, I stood upon that scale.
“You are a half pound overweight, son, automatic disqualification.” Number 2 got the blue ribbon. He was a wealthy local doctor’s son from the east side of town.
I was crushed, and I felt a tinge of hate start to build in my mind. My teammates, coach, and other kids from other schools who had come to know me all protested to no avail. I got nothing for being the best at something. I understood what prejudice was about on that day, and that had much to do with the formation of my psyche.
Chapter 17
Freedom of Walking Home
We chose to walk home some days after school; it provided a freedom to explore back alleys and old abandoned buildings. Walking through the downtown area brought back memories of George and Albert and all the fun we had walking those streets. I was wishing that I still had some of that money I used to throw around, but now it was back to being poor with the rest of my crew. Some of my guys had a nickel or two left over from their lunch money, so we would stop at the arcade where I once reigned. Old Doc would give me a free soda for old time’s sake while I sat their talking to him as my guys played the pinball machines.
The next day after school, I walked home with two girls who told me they were going to see Ricky Nelson in his hotel room. He was in town filming Rio Bravo with John Wayne and a host of others. Ricky was staying at the Sands, which was right across the street from the old dance hall. How the girls knew exactly what door to knock on really surprised me. The girls knocked, and Rick’s friend Wally answered the door. I recognized him from the TV show or movies or somewhere, but it was Wally in the flesh.
He called over to Ricky, who came right to the door, no problems. The girls were beyond themselves with giddiness, but Ricky was really laid-back as he signed an autograph for each of us. I asked Wally for his, but he refused, saying, “Ricky’s is the one you want.” That was interesting, I thought. Ricky was actually cool and not stuck up at all. One thing we noticed was that he had really bad acne. That surprised me since on the television, he had a perfect complexion. He was a teenager after all, just like me, so there wasn’t any room to talk. Oh well, I thought, we like his music and his show, so it is satisfying for a starstruck kid.
The old dance hall and the old women back in Hermosillo were starting to plague me. The thoughts of what I had envisioned in Mexico on the day we climbed the hill to the old dance hall really stuck to me. I hadn’t told my dad about my trip to the dance hall, only because he made me promise that I wouldn’t go. Thus, I just couldn’t let him down.
My mother got the lion’s share of my trip’s news as I regaled her with the wonderful time spent with my friends. I had to come clean, though, about burying the car of the mayor’s wife in mud. Mom could always detect when I was spinning something, so I didn’t bother to lie to her. As it turned out, everybody in my family wanted to hear the blow by blow of the incident. They would all laugh and tell me I was the devil’s child. My crew, on the other hand, wanted me to run for president. They thought I deserved the award for mischievousness, and they would laugh hysterically every time the story came up.
I’ve got to say that I wasn’t telling my mom anything she didn’t already know. Stupid me, not thinking that mother’s love to talk on the phone and that she had just done exactly that with George’s mother, Lorenza, back in Mexico. She did tell my mother that in spite of it all, she really loved my visit and that everyone who came in contact with me couldn’t stop talking about me for days after I left.
Even George’s street crew of ne’er-do-wells kept bugging him about when I would be coming back again. I still remember some of them—Roberto Salazar, Sergio Cesena, Cochiberto Mazon, and others. I had made a good old-fashioned impression on them and them on me. I had one of the best trips of my life.
George and I would send letters back and forth to each other, and he would always say hello for guys from his group who always pestered him about when I might be coming back to his house. He was a true friend, and so was Alberto, his tagalong little brother. It was funny because George was introducing his buddies to Jerry Lewis’s movies and American Bandstand and other gringo fare.
I would send him a box of comic books and teen magazines that he would share with the guys. The degree of camaraderie I felt with my new Mexican brothers is hard to describe. Through George and Albert, I was blessed with a new group of kindred spirits, which was an irreplaceable feeling.
Chapter 18
Granny’s House
It became time to go visit my grandmother under pressure from my mother. I loved my nana, but it was a bother for a young guy like me to go see old folks. There was always something to eat, or at the very least a cup of canned apricots, and I felt guilty by not accepting whatever fare they offered. My nana was the epitome of a grandmother—always made up with rouge on the cheeks, a hint of lip color, and her hair made up in a bun just like Norman Bates’s mother in Psycho.
She was very intelligent, but she suffered from an ailment none of her daughters could put a finger on. They would whisper that she was a hypochondriac and that the pills she received from the neighborhood pharmacist were placebos. The pharmacist was in league with my mother and my two aunts; it was a shame that he took her money. She had the last laugh on her evil daughters, though, as it turned out she had a small cancer hidden among the organs that finally came of age and killed her.
My mother and my aunts never lived that down with me. I was always bringing it up when I needed some money or had done something that had a punishment attached. She eventually passed when I was twenty-seven, so I did get ahead of myself here a bit. I got enough Granny years and tapioca pudding when I visited her growing up that I didn’t feel cheated.
When the subject of my trip came up, my nana took on a whole new value, and my need to go visit her increased substantially. I had a million questions that needed answering and somehow feeling deep down that she had the answers.
I told her about the old women I met and that they were from Rayon. She perked up as I continued my story.
She told me she was born in Rayon, but her parents moved a few miles away to a town called Ures when she was about ten years old. That was when she started telling me the stories, the ones she never spoke of to other people, stories that were long forgotten. She had me now, and it was the beginning of a new relationship between us.
My mom was starting to scratch her head whenever I mentioned going to Granny’s house. The brooch that Sergio’s grandmother gave me was well concealed among my things, and nobody had seen it yet. I took it out and went to my nana’s house so I could show it to her and continue my story. My grandfather was the most