X Marks The Exit

My uncle Javier would always form an "X" by crossing his forearms in front of his face whenever anyone was about to photograph him.  He usually preferred that his image not be captured on film.  As I was growing up, I often wondered why he avoided cameras.

Javier always wore a white shirt with French cuffs and a black tuxedo.  His trademark set of cufflinks were made of polished silver and each had an "X" etched into its surface.  He never stepped outside into the daylight without dark sunglasses.  He was a bartender who took his job seriously.  He was also a serious drinker.

I saw my uncle drunk on only one occasion, during a family party in 1959, when he played the role of a bartender during the making of an impromptu 8mm film.  He didn't make an "X" on that occasion but did lift his forearm to raise the martini glass during a series of many imagined movie sequences.

During the 60s he worked at Marty's bar on Whittier boulevard in Boyle Heights and would often stop by to visit my mother.  There were times when his other brothers and sisters were there and the conversations would become so loud that I would laugh aloud because the stories that were told at such an elevated decibel took on a different level of meaning.  His high-pitched voice often had a tone of infused tragedy.

When I was 11 years old, I would go to visit my Perez relatives.  Most lived within walking distance.  I would visit Javier in the single room cinder block structure, behind my aunt Amparo's house, where he would live during the periods when he wasn't getting along with his longtime girlfriend/co-drinker, Lucy.   The room was furnished with a roll-away bed, a small table, a straight-back wooden chair, a small sink with hot/cold faucets, and a toilet in the far corner of the room.  The room was decorated with numerous large bronze trophies that had been awarded to him over the years for excellence in ballroom dancing.  Many editions of the Reader's Digest formed a row on the floor against the lengthiest stretch of wall. There were no windows. The room was illuminated by a single industrial 500 watt light bulb suspended by a thick black extension cord.  Atop the small table were placed various bottles of scotch, whiskey, vodka, and gin. He would wear the dark sunglasses in the room to eliminate the blinding glare of the glowing tungsten burst of light.

JP:     

So, Junior, you have to improve your mind.  You have to read.  I read everyday.  

HG:   

I hate school but I'm still improving my mind.  I read comic books all the time.  Thanks to Superman, Green Lantern, and Aquaman, I speak English better than most of my teachers.

JP:     

You have to respect your teachers or they won't respect you.

HG:    

Fear is better, uncle.

JP:      

You have to be careful on the streets.  They will put you in jail or kill you if you don't behave yourself.

HG:    

I'm learning a few good tricks uncle.  I can break open any lock and I can convince people to shoot themselves instead of me.

JP:     

You're reading too many comic books.

During a wonderful sunny day in the Spring of 1969, I ditched school and stayed home so that I could watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers on TV.  At noon, Javier dropped by to visit my mother but she had gone shopping with my aunt Amparo and would not be returning for several hours.   He had two black eyes with bruises that extended beyond the frames of his dark sunglasses.  

JP:     

The sonofabitch tried to kill me.  He pulled the trigger but it  wouldn't shoot.  He put the gun to my head but I wouldn't beg for my life.

HG:   

Who did this to you? 

JP:      

It doesn't matter.  I was in the bar mixing a Manhattan when he punches his girlfriend in the face like if she was a man.   She went down and was out.  He looks at me and tells me that it's none of my business.  I mind my own business anyway.

HG:    Where is he?

JP:      

It doesn't matter.  Just then, he decides to rob everyone in the bar.  I'm  taking money out of the cash register when he puts the gun to my head but it doesn't shoot.  He say he's going to kill me but says he'll spare my life if I beg.  But I don't say anything and so he beats the hell out of me with the gun.

HG:    

Well, what happened?  How did you get away?

JP:       

It doesn't matter.  But he didn't see my friend coming at him.

HG:     

What friend?

JP:      

This friend.

Javier pulled a roll of quarters out of his pocket and formed a fist.

HG:      

You hit him?

JP:        

About a hundred times to the temple and the face. Come with me and I'll show him to you.

I followed Javier into the alley that served as a short cut to the bar's parking lot.  He led me behind a brick wall where crates and boxes were stored.  I wasn't surprised to see the man unconscious and flat on his back on the asphalt. Only a few teeth were left in his mouth but there wasn't much blood.

JP:       

Don't worry he's not dead.  Let him wake up when he's had enough sleep.  I don't think he'll ever hit another woman.

HG:     

Where's the gun?

JP:        

I gave it to his girlfriend.

In 1971, Javier developed a streak of white hair that stretched from his hairline to the back of his head.  He made a striking visual impression and would evoke a sense of mystery.  He had returned to live with Lucy on Michigan avenue and was no longer allowed to return to the cinder block hideaway.  It was during this period of time that my aunt Amparo had become very ill.  Her husband, Eddie, abused the situation of having a bed-ridden wife and took the opportunity to transform the small building into his own private clubhouse where he would play accordion for all of his friends and dance each night away.  He would claim that the trophies in the room had been won by him.

I never saw Javier in the company of friends or his relatives whenever I would encounter him on the streets of East L.A.   He was always alone.

I eventually found out why Javier didn't like to be photographed.  It appears that he had a nightmarish experience in the early 1950s when he suffered a nervous breakdown after being jilted by his wife/dancing partner.  He was in near mental collapse when he was picked up by an L.A. County ambulance crew and transported directly to California State Norwalk Mental Facility.  He was given a "quickie" diagnosis and was subjected to numerous rounds of electroshock therapy before being tossed back into society.  He had experienced flashes of light and felt that his soul was being peeled away layer by layer as the "juice" flowed through him.  Each round of "therapy" was preceded and followed by a photographic session to document his "progress".

By 1973, Javier was living in the cheapest daily-rate hotels of downtown Los Angeles.  He would still dress in formal attire but was working less and less as his drinking problem advanced.  He would sometimes make telephone calls in the middle of the night.

Ring......Ring......Ring......

HG:     

Hello.

JP:       

I love you.  I love everybody.  Tell them that I love them all.

Click!

He visited my mother one day and gave her his favorite pair of cufflinks telling her that he didn't need them because he was no longer going to be a bartender.  My mother offered him pan dulce.  He ate the bread and walked out the door.  

Several days later, a hotel manager found him in a pool of his own blood .  The manager kept Javier's tuxedo as partial payment against a few days rent. 

Javier was placed in ICU at Los Angeles County/USC Hospital where the disastrous effects of cirrhosis of the liver took him to a new level of pain.

At 3 a.m. that night, I was driving my '66 VW Bug through Lincoln Heights after having spent fruitless hours at Kabuki's Nightclub.  I was familiar with the layout of the Hospital because I had worked there in various minor positions during the previous year.  I parked the car in the M.D. parking lot and walked up a rear flight of stairs until I was at the bedside of Javier.  He was moaning and would scream whenever he would vomit massive amounts of blood and particles of flesh.

HG:     

I'm sorry you have to go through this, uncle.

JP:       

Junior, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  I used to be the best dancer and now I can't even sit up.

HG:     

What can I do for you?

JP:       

Nothing.  I remember when I was a little boy in El Paso.  I always wanted to dance with the pretty ladies.  What happened?

HG:     

I was dancing earlier tonight and nothing happened.

JP:       

Qué la chingada!  Nothing happened.  Nothing happened.

Javier continued to scream and vomit for several hours until he fell asleep.  I sat in a chair next to his bed until sunrise and was shocked by the intense sickening yellow that colored his complexion.  I left at 7 a.m. when my mother arrived to comfort him.

Within a week, I was among other relatives who were present at Javier's burial at Odd Fellows Cemetery.  Everyone placed a handful of earth upon his coffin and walked away in tears or silence.  The entire extended family was saddened by his death and also by the fact that other family members had recently died or were near death.

My uncle, Rodolfo Perez, walked up to me as he tugged at the tips of his long mustache.

RP:     

Harry, your mother said that Javier told you some secrets at the hospital.  What did he say?

HG:     

He said it was the worst thing that ever happened to him.

RP:      

Damn right it was.   My brother is dead but I'm still alive.  Soy vivo.  I'll be the last to go.  Death won't get me.  

HG:     

Death won't get us anywhere.  

©2000
Harry Gamboa Jr.