Sunday

            Hazel met Charlie at Astro’s on Fletcher Drive. He noticed how sick she looked but didn’t say anything. They shared a brief hug and then sat down in a booth. She ordered an extra sweet iced tea; he asked for black coffee. Their conversation meandered until Hazel couldn’t take it anymore. ‘I just can’t…’ she interrupted, then stopped. ‘You know? I’m not ready.’

‘I know,’ Charlie said. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

She glared up at him. ‘It’s not yours to think about.’

‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.’

Hazel zipped up her hoodie and brought her arms together. She rocked back and forth in her seat, humming discordantly. Charlie tapped a finger on the table. He had a question to ask but didn’t want to. ‘Did you see Henri?’

She pulled her hood over her head and slumped over the table. ‘One last time. I swear, Charlie.’

‘You’ve said that before.’

She held a hand up. ‘I don’t need you pulling that on me, okay?’ 

‘Pulling what?’

‘That concerned dad shit. I don’t need it.’

‘Right.’ He finished his coffee and asked for a refill. ‘Why didn’t you ask him to drive you?’

Hazel didn’t answer. She crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on them. ‘Because I trust you,’ she said. Charlie spun a creamer cup on the table. 

‘If you wanna bail, I understand,’ she said.

‘I made a promise to you.’

‘But I’d understand.’

‘When’s the appointment again?’

‘This Sunday, one PM.’

‘I’ll be there.’

She snorted back her runny nose. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

At close to noon on Sunday, Charlie drove down Riverside Drive and pulled up to Hazel’s house on Newell Street. It was a weathered bungalow in a dilapidated court. He texted her that he was outside and parked. 

Hazel came out very heavily dressed. She got into his car. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Cold. Do you mind turning on the heater?’

He turned it on and lowered his window. They drove to Glendale. ‘How long has it been?’ he asked. 

‘How long?’ 

‘Since you last used.’

She flashed a brief smile, ‘About four days. Last time was the day before we met up. I told you one last time.’

They arrived at the clinic and checked in, waiting a half hour before the nurse came to escort Hazel. Charlie stayed behind, leafing through old magazines. He quickly became bored.

An hour later, the nurse rolled Hazel out in a wheelchair. She was barely conscious. The nurse smiled gently, ‘She’s alright. There were no problems. Be sure to allow her plenty of bed rest.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Charlie pulled the car up to the front of the clinic and helped ease Hazel inside. He drove without worrying about the heater.

Charlie helped Hazel leave the car and led her back to her house. The living room was a mess. Food rotted on the coffee table. Empty liquor bottles were strewn about on the floor. The kitchen was filthy. Hazel’s father was snoring loudly in the back of the bungalow. He guided her to her bedroom, crushing burnt tin foil underfoot, and eased her into bed. ‘Thanks,’ she said, shivering.

‘Yeah.’

Hazel lay on her back, her sleepy eyes on Charlie. She smiled tiredly, ‘It wasn’t yours. Don’t worry about it.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You’re a liar, Charlie.’

He turned to leave, closing the door behind him. When he got to his car, Charlie swore that today would be the last time he’d ever speak to Hazel. Just like all the other times he promised himself.

Burbank Boulevard

                Kay and Ally went to a show at the Spot Friday night. Kay promised she had a hookup to get them in. Ally had doubts. Why would anyone let a couple of high school girls into the prime underground club in NoHo? But she didn’t interrogate Kay. 

Kay had the address written down on a Post-It stuck on the steering wheel of her car but vaguely knew that it was on Burbank Boulevard. The building numbers on that block were hard to see, especially at night. They drove down the street three times, trying to find the Spot. Finally, Kay said, like, fuck it, and parked on a random street in a sketchy neighborhood, and they started looking on foot. They eventually found the Spot.

It was a bizarre carnival fever dream of a building, with strange nightmarish multicolored murals painted on the facade, a large anatomical head for a ticket booth, surrounded by a wooden fence painted like a tarot deck. No one was in the head, so Kay started slamming her fist on the fence, screaming. A strange white man opened a gate near Kay and Ally. He looked like a hipster clown with face tattoos and dyed hair spikes.  

‘You here for the show?’ he asked. 

‘Yeah,’ Kay said.

‘Ten-dollar cover.’

‘Isay said we’d be covered.’

‘You Katherine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Come on in.’

The gate led to the large patio. It looked like a Day-Glo freak show, with large turn-of-the-century sideshow advertisements billowing in the nocturnal SoCal breeze and circus accouterments arraigned in every space. People were smoking on benches or picnic tables near a large blazing fire pit. ‘Yo, Kay!’ someone screamed.

She turned around and smiled, ‘Hey, Isay!’ 

They ran to each other and hugged. Isay was older, in his mid-twenties, kind of short, handsome. But there was something wrong about his face, something untrustworthy about it. Ally wondered how they knew each other. Kay brought him to her. ‘Is this your friend?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, this is Ally.’

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said before bringing her hand to his lips. 

‘Yeah,’ Ally said uncomfortably.

‘So, you wanna see the inside?’ Isay asked. Kay responded enthusiastically. Ally wanted to leave.

The inside of the Spot was dark and packed. A colorfully lighted-up stage decorated like something out of Peewee’s Playhouse dominated one side, where a band was hammering away sonically. The crowd was pogoing to the music. Ally lost track of Kay and squeezed through the crowd to look for her. Kay was in the back of the space talking to Isay. He gave her a Dixie cup. Something inside Ally wanted to slap it out of her hand. But she drank from it and looked fine. 

Another band came on stage after the first one and started playing. They weren’t as good, though. The faces of the crowd shined from the stage’s different color lights. They looked insane. The crowd charged hard towards the stage during the second song, dragging Ally with them. She started to panic. A hand reached out and grabbed her own, pulling her away. Isay stood beside her. He smiled, ‘Gotta watch out for these people. They’re animals.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, out of breath.

‘Let’s go outside. It’s more peaceful.’

They stepped out to the patio. There were a few people around, smoking. Ally found Kay lying on a bench near the fire pit. She sat down near her. Kay looked off. ‘You okay?’ Ally asked.

‘Yeah, Ally, I’m alright,’ she slurred, her breath sickly sweet with whiskey.

‘Jesus fuck, Kay!’

‘It’s okay,’ Isay said. He took out a large flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, and drank a healthy pull. He exhaled roughly and hooted, ‘Now that’s the good shit right here!’ He looked at Ally, waving the flask at her. ‘Want a taste?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Come on, Ally,’ Kay muttered, her eyes closed. ‘Take a sip.’

‘Yeah, come on, Ally,’ Isay said. ‘You trust Kay, yeah? How close’re you two?’

‘Like sisters,’ Ally said. 

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. And Kay trusts me. She knows I wouldn’t lead her astray. We’re family.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, Ally,’ Kay said, pointing an unbalanced finger towards the sky, ‘we’re cousins, practically helped raise me. I trust him.’

‘Yeah, man!’ he said. He offered the flask again.

Ally held it in her hand and took a sip. The liquor burned in her throat harshly. She coughed, almost to the point of choking. 

Isay laughed, ‘You have to take it gentler. Gotta savor it.’

He showed her. Ally felt a warm, loving, tingling sensation with every sip. Kay sat up on her bench and took the flask from Ally, drinking her fill. Isay laughed maniacally and joined them. They kept drinking until the flask was drained. The world was spinning in a happy dance. The warmth of the fire was beautiful against the cool evening wind. 

It was nearly dawn when Ally woke up in the backseat of a stranger’s car. She panicked, screamed, and thrashed around. ‘Hey, hey!’ cried the driver. He was very angry. It took Ally a moment to recognize Kay’s older brother, Mike. She looked at the passenger seat. Kay was lying supine in it, snoring. 

‘You two are in so much fuckin’ trouble,’ Mike said. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Ally slurred. 

‘Yeah. Whatever. You can deal with your folks when I drop you off.’

‘Where’s Isay?’

‘Probably still bleedin’ on the street curb.’

‘What?’

Mike sighed, flicked on a turn signal, and made a left. He looked at Ally through the rearview mirror, ‘You can’t trust Isay, Ally. You just can’t. He’s bad news when he’s around little girls.’

‘I’m not a little girl,’ Ally said. 

‘Right, you’re not. Sorry. Regardless, he’s no good to be around.’

‘Aren’t you two cousins?’

‘Yeah. That doesn’t mean I can let him do whatever he fuckin’ wants to do. Someone has to stop him.’

‘What happened, Mike?’

He was quiet for a moment, concentrating on the drive down San Fernando Boulevard. He clicked his tongue, ‘My homeboy Jimbi called me sayin’ that Isay was being inappropriate with you.’

‘Jimbi?’

‘You’ve met him. He’s the white boy with the painted spikes and face tattoos.’

‘Oh…’

‘Yeah. Anyway, he was keepin’ an eye on you and Kay. When you were passin’ out, Isay started draggin’ you someplace. Jimbi went up to stop him. Isay was denyin’ everything, then was confrontational. He didn’t know that Jimbi got his black belt at Twin Towers. Isay got curb-stomped to hell and gone.’

‘And Jimbi called you?’

‘Yup. He didn’t want you and Kay there when someone called the cops.’

‘Did someone call them?’

‘It would’ve been a matter of time, Ally. No hipster likes violence at their club, you know?’

The pale, false light of dawn died away as the golden sun crested in the east. Mike made a turn and entered Glassell Park, pulling onto Avenue Thirty-two, and parked in front of Ally’s house. Ally stared at the house and felt terribly sick. ‘Can you come with me, Mike?’ she asked. 

He chuckled, ‘I think I’ve helped you enough, Ally. My hands are still full with this one.’ He pointed his thumb towards Kay. 

‘Right.’

‘Look, just go in there with your head high. You fucked up; now you face the consequences. But don’t let that define you. That’s what being an adult should be all about, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘See ya around, Ally.’

Ally got out of the car and wobbled towards her house. She imagined what her parents were going to say, how her mom was going to chastise her loudly and viciously while beseeching la madre y el nino, how her father was going to tack on punishment on top of punishment until he felt satisfied that justice for the transgression against his authority was reached, how she herself was probably going to explode, as she always had, towards her parents’ overreactions and instigate another miniature cold war with them. Eventually, Ally and her parents will forgive each other after some time, as they have always done.

Day of the Dead

Alfonso Summers-Real finished his courses at a bartending school in Koreatown, passing his final exam of making eight cocktails in under four minutes and earning himself a sense of satisfaction and a printed-out diploma. Now, he needed a job. Luckily, the school had a few recommendations. The staff introduced him to the restaurant La Casita de Los Amigos on Hyperion Avenue.

The next day, Alfonso submitted his application at the restaurant and had a short interview. ‘You look good. You can start tomorrow,’ the interviewer said, never taking her eyes off the application.

‘Thank you for the opportunity,’ Alfonso said.

‘Five o’clock. Report to Ramirez.’

At precisely five the next day, Alfonso reported to Ramirez, the head bartender. He was a heavy-set man with a bullfrog face framed by thick glasses and sparse silver hair combed to the side. His philosophy of tending bar was conservative, never one to participate in or tolerate experimentation. 

Alfonso was a quick student. He learned how to use the antique cash register with a faded “Kennedy/Johnson” sticker on its side, how to stock the back bar and well, and where to get ice and limes. Most importantly, he learned how to split the tips. There was a hierarchy to obey. Ramirez gets a higher percentage; Kyle, the senior barman, receives the second highest; and Alfonso. He realized how low his station was on the first night. 

Alfonso was trusted to run the bar by himself a month into the job. His first night was slow. The restaurant was nearly empty. Standing around doing nothing was discouraging, yet he cleaned the bar top several times throughout the night. The back bar was neat and orderly; the well stocked. There was one thing he could do, but he didn’t want to. Alfonso reluctantly brought out a bucket of limes and placed it near three empty mason jars and a cutting board. He began cutting lime wedges, ensuring his fingers were clear of the blade.

Music played overhead. He recognized some of the ranchera tunes. Though not his favorite genre, he enjoyed listening to the music as he worked.

The music stopped. An eerie stillness permeated the bar. Then, out of nowhere, a single note hung in the air. A dirge-like orchestral intro of horns and strings began, building into a blistering crescendo. The violins played a straining staccato; the horns kept a mournful undercurrent, followed by timpani. A woman’s voice came powerfully over the accompaniment. Alfonso couldn’t understand the lyrics, but he made out a name: Fernando. By the song's end, the vocalist repeated it softly at first, then a long-sustained wailing vibrato. When it was over, he allowed himself to breathe. 

Saturday night was busy. A popular neighborhood drag show was taking place in the event space in the restaurant’s basement, bringing in a large crowd. The raucous patrons rushed to order their drinks before the beginning of the show. Alfonso was preparing three mojitos, a cocktail he especially hated. When he completed the task, he rang them up, collected tips, and watched as the crowd disappeared below.

‘Be ready for intermission,’ Kyle said to him.

‘Intermission?’

‘Yup. Every time. Beginning, intermission, and end.’

When the night was over, Ramirez took off early, leaving Kyle and Alfonso alone to close the bar. Alfonso had no independent impression of Kyle, as most of the time, they individually worked with Ramirez or all together. He found Kyle enjoyable to be around. He was a talker and a talented storyteller, spinning one amusing tale after another as they took down the back bar bottles and packed up the well.

‘So, how do you like the place, Al?’ Kyle asked as he removed the bar’s rubber mats. 

Alfonso was elbow-deep in the wash stations, ‘Like it so far. It’s a good place to work.’

‘Yeah, a good place.’ Kyle yawned, ‘What do you think of Ramirez?’

The question surprised him. Alfonso felt that he was being led into a trap. ‘Can’t say much. I mean, he seems nice enough. Treats me pretty decent.’

‘Yeah, he’s a decent guy. Tough motherfucker though.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Nobody told you? Ramirez shot a guy dead down in ol’ Meh-he-co like thirty years ago.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah, man. Why do you think he always looks so glum? He knows what it takes to take a life.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘This place likes to talk, Al. We all like to talk.’

Gossip is the lifeblood of La Casita de Los Amigos. All members of the staff enjoy gathering together in their cliques to talk. Everyone knows what Mary-Elise and Rodrigo do on their breaks or how Jess and Gloria broke up. Who’s the drunk, or who’s the bulimic. The only ones spared the idle talk are Rosa Maldonado and Alfonso. Their relationship was so platonic it was disappointingly sweet.

Whenever they are working a shift, they make sure to have a meal break together. They always order the same plates. Rosa gets the fish tacos and Alfonso the nacho platter from the appetizer menu. These were the times they could be themselves and relax from the hectic monotony of service.

During a meal one day, the Fernando song began. Alfonso stopped talking to Rosa to listen. ‘What’s up?’ she asked. 

‘This song,’ he said without going further.

‘Yeah. What about it?’

‘It’s so haunting.’

‘Yeah, it’s pretty haunting.’ Rosa took a bite of her food. Alfonso was surprised by her casualness. 

‘What?’ she said, sipping her water. 

‘Nothing. It’s just. You brushed the song away so easily.’

‘Dude, I’ve been hearing La Muerte de mi Corazon since I was a little girl.’

‘That’s the name of the song?’

‘You’ve never heard of it?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

She leaned back in the booth, studying Alfonso. ‘It’s a famous Oaxacan song,’ Rosa said. ‘Like, every grandma probably has a record or tape of this song.’

‘My mom’s from Sinaloa, so maybe that’s why I haven’t heard of it.’

‘Every Mexican woman knows this song. It’s in their blood.’

‘What is it about?’

‘You’ve heard the lyrics. They’re pretty clear.’

‘I... don’t speak Spanish,’ he said, ashamed. 

Her eyes were wide. ‘You don’t speak Spanish?’

‘I never learned it.’

‘You mean to tell me you lived in Los Angeles your whole life and you never learned Spanish?’

‘Hey, leave me alone!’

Rosa grinned, ‘I’m joking, man! I’m joking. Alright, the singer, yeah? She’s singing to the ghost of her murdered lover, asking him to come back to her.’

‘I take it his name is Fernando.’

‘Yeah, Fernando.’

La Muerte de mi Corazon continued playing, merging into the ubiquitous sounds of the restaurant until it became indistinguishable. 

Summer turned into autumn. A coolness in the air deadened the obnoxious Southern California heat. The oak trees that lined Hyperion Avenue shed their dried leaves, covering the curbs and sidewalks with dusty, crunchy detritus. Alfonso was home, luxuriating in the blankets of his bed, stretching his legs and back, feeling a pleasurable wave convulsing over him. It was a rare day off for him. He worked seven days straight, including a Halloween party that strained the staff’s collective patience and ability. He profited well in tips, but the work was exhausting. Ramirez gave Kyle and Alfonso staggered days off, making sure his staff rested while one was on duty. 

Alfonso was dozing when his phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Kyle’s number. ‘How’s things?’ he answered. 

‘Hey Al, sorry to spring this on ya, pal, but I got a situation.’

‘What kind of a situation?’

‘One of those ‘do-or-die’ sitches. I kinda need to prepare. Do you mind taking over for me today? I’ll owe ya big.’

Alfonso thought about it. He was extremely disappointed to receive Kyle’s request, as he had his day off, and thought it was unfair that he should sacrifice his day. But Alfonso considered his relationship with Kyle - warm, friendly, and professional - and didn’t want to jeopardize it. ‘Yeah, no problem, man,’ he answered reluctantly. ‘I can head in.’

‘Ah, thanks so much, Al! You don’t know how much this means to me!’

‘You think Ramirez might give me another day off to compensate?’ Alfonos half-joked. 

‘You can ask him on Thursday if you want.’

‘Is he not coming in today?’

‘He never comes in on November first.’

‘That’s weird. He’s never not at the restaurant. The guy’s a machine.’

‘Except for the first and second of November. Then you never see the guy.’

The staff was still preparing to open when Alfonso arrived. He was dazzled when he walked in. Marigolds and sugar skulls were on every table and window. A pleasant smell of sage and copal wafted in the air. An ofrenda stood in the middle of the main dining room. Rosa carried a large bundle of marigolds and placed some flowers in empty spaces. Alfonso approached her, ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. 

‘What are you doing here? Isn’t it your day off?’

‘Kyle needed a favor.’

She clicked her tongue. ‘He’s always needing a favor. But it’s good that you’re here.’ She handed the flowers to him and motioned for him to follow. They went into the main dining room, where she continued to decorate. ‘So, what is going on?’ Alfonso asked again. 

‘It’s the Day of the Dead,’ Rosa said. ‘We’re getting ready.’

‘Day of the Dead?’

She looked at him strangely. ‘You’ve never heard of it?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘God! You’re such a coconut, aren’t you?’ He smiled embarrassingly and handed her another handful of flowers. She smiled back brightly, ‘Thank you,’ she said. 

Finished with decorating, Alfonso and Rosa stood in front of the dining room, looking around. The cool rays of the sun filtered through the windows, brightening the beautiful, vibrant hues of the decor. Alfonso went to the ofrenda. A framed black and white photograph of a young, handsome couple sat in the middle, surrounded by candles and fragrant bundles. He admired them. Rosa went to him, ‘First time seeing them?’ she asked. 

‘Yeah. Who are they?’

She pointed to the woman, ‘Dona Marcia. She opened this restaurant.’

‘No kidding?’

‘Yup. She took the last of her money and started this place. Thirty years later, it’s still around.’

‘Isn’t that dream?’

‘Well, I guess. I think Dona Maricia wanted to be remembered more for her music.’

Alfonso turned to Rosa, ‘Dona Marcia was a musician?’

‘Hmmm. She was a singer. You know her famous song.’

He thought for a moment, the realization burning his brain. ‘La Muerte de mi Corazón,’ he said. 

‘That’s the one,’ Rosa said. 

He pointed to the man in the photograph, ‘That must be Fernando then.’

‘Don Fernando, the man who launched a million sighs.’

‘Whatever happened to him? You know, Rosie?’

She tapped him on his arm, ‘No one knows, Al. That’s part of the mystery, I guess.’

The entrance door opened loudly. A rush of air came in. Someone called, ‘Hey, you guys open?’ Rosa turned in their direction, ‘We are, come on in!’

Alfonso went to the bar to set up while Rosa seated the guest. She started the playlist as she went to the kitchen for tortilla chips and salsa. La Muerte de mi Corazón was the first song.