Published Fall/Winter 2007
 
Tío Chu
by Michael Sarabia | ns 69
Every Mexican family got at least one member who looks exactly like Saddam Hussein. My family's got two—me and my Tío Chu. I'm the 1980s version while my tío's fashioned in the height-of-power, mother-of-all chingasos 1992 style. Today's my tío's seventy-fifth, and all his brothers, the old ones Tolú and Chente and the really old ones Mundito and Curly (and their wives-my-aunts, kids, grandkids), as well as half of Maravilla, are throwing him a barbeque today down at Marrano Beach.
This is my father's side of the family; darker, shorter and poorer than my mother's whiter, supposedly direct-from-Spain bunch, (who wouldn't show up even if they was invited) and I haven't seen any of them since my father's funeral six months ago.
I really didn't want to go, but when Tía Mary phoned last week pleading, "Please mijo, PLEASE... your tío really wants you there," I mocked her back and said, "Reeley tía reeley?" To which she immediately changed her tone, threatening, "Cabrón you better be there all-the-things-I-done-for-you-since-you-was-a-butt-ugly-mocoso..."
"Okay I'll be there tía, I'll—"
"—hijo-de-la-CHEEN-gada…"
"Tía I'm going. I'm going."
Silence fell, then in her sweetest, tiniest voice tía said, "Okay 'jito. I'll see you there. Say hi to your mom for me. Byee."
The truth is I'm not looking forward to going because of all my uncles in the world, Tío Chu reminds me most of my dad. I hope they don't bring him up, mention his name or the way he died, because I really don't want to drive home shit-faced shivering one more time again.
- - - - -
I'm rolling up on the beach now (it's not really a beach, just a dying offshoot of a dying San Gabriel River), and I got my Toyota packed with all kinds of contributions for today's pleito. Un shitload of bud—drinkable as well as smokable—a slab of asada, toys to keep the kids out of our hairs, a fifth of everything for my uncles, and a gallon of Belize rum that hopefully will also keep mis tías out of our hairs for the rest of the day.
I got my tío a gift as well—a huge book called The Five Civilized Tribes of the Iroquois. Tío Chu loves that kind of stuff and he claims to be part Comanche, except when I tell him to show me which part, he always gets pissed then later tries to charlie horse my chest, or throw un patada to my huevos.
I pull to a stop and notice Tío Chu's not here yet, then remember that he's always gotta make some kind of big ass Hollywood entrance no matter if it's a wedding, or a funeral, or his own goddamn birthday. I get out my car and yell at the kids to come help, moving carefully to say hello to my uncles. Their massive hugs and scratchy kisses nearly bring me to seizure and I am suddenly saddened by just how tough the years have been bearing down on mi familia. They've lived without complaint, at the mercy of things beyond their control and they've accepted their lives as but minute pieces to one of God's grander, more important designs.
"Don't gripe," Tío Chu would always say, "the only people who might give a shit can't do nothing about it anyways."
Not a one of my uncles ever got past the sixth grade, or read anything beyond those bits of Bible the Church portions out at Sunday Mass. Long division and triple-digit multiplication must be a mystery to them, and they often wonder aloud why anyone with any sense would waste time confessing to a priest, letting a doctor cut them, or arguing with any woman who ain't got a man around to snake her pipes every now and again. But they love their children and they love their country and each maintains a gaudy candle and incense altar in honor of La Virgen de Guadalupe. Each appreciates a good lie, can still talk smack, and while they firmly believe that all chismosos are born out the ass of Satan himself—they would never, at any rate, turn a good one away.
All my tíos fought in Europe or the South Pacific, and they've worked their entire lives loading and unloading freight trains at LA's central market on Seventh and Alameda. And to a man they'll brag that they still have and love their original sweethearts and that none of their women have ever had to work a day of their lives, or suffer a beating or the rumor of another woman.
Skin very thick and very brown mirrors that of my own, and their oak hands of heat and callous reveal fingers stubbed and finely scarred, the scent of this earth permeating their every move. With voices melodic and rich, my uncles are quick to share a smile with everyone and everything, their luminous eyes of charcoal and almond betraying just a hint of sadness and time, given a soft light or moody sun.
- - - - -
A cop car appears across the river, everyone freezes. Its cherry lights swirl, siren sounds and a harsh voice displaces the air.
"Okay lissen up. All you goddamn meskins best pack your trash and git. Go on and leave your women, food and booze, but the rest of you chili-chokers best pronto vacate these here, U-nited-States. Y apurarse, cabrónes!"
Everyone relaxes. It's Tío Chu. He hops out the car and waves to the cop who throws it in reverse and leaves. My tío rolls up his pants and walks into the water. All the kids rush in to bring him down, but he plows straight ahead casting them off as if dusting coat lint. And he's good at seventy-five, head up, eyes bright, and I gotta say, I've never seen the man walking like a tired duck, or bitching, or letting anyone tear him down. Everyone laughs at the sight, the brothers immediately throwing in their two, three, and four cents.
From Tío Tolú comes, "He looks like un turkey flacito with his chicken legs y todo, que no?"
Uncle Chente yells as best he can, "Corale bavoso. Some fish gonna jam your culeto you don't hurry up."
Eighty-three-year-old Mundito promises, "We're gonna throw you un blanket party and beat the shit out of you soon as you get over here," with Tío Curly grabbing his crotch, gesturing, "and I got your pienche happy birthdays right here cabrón."
So Tío Chu makes it over to our side of the river, and his brothers and their wives greet him with more lust than should be extended given their age. My cousins' kid Felo gets the fire going and quickly the air turns mesquite, the smell of toasting onion, bell pepper and garlic immersing the afternoon.
Discretely mixing their short powerhouse cocktails, mis tías take a separate table and start their gin game, popping dice every now and then to see who does the refills. My uncles seat themselves in a line descending from eldest to youngest. They kick off their shoes and smile at the river, eyes dancing, sun at their back. Tío Curly offers a toast to his brother.
"Here's to m' baby brother Chu," he says, cup in the air, "Congratulations mijito, you're now officially, older than shit."
Drinks thrown back, refilled, another toast, this one from Tío Tolú.
"Gotta raise our glasses también brothers, to the rest of the familia not here; El Viejo y La Tata, m'brothers Little Neal, Red Bird, and Nandito Brown. And la baby Nena, too."
Drinks disappear, refilled again.
Tío Chu lights a cigarette, then begins his well-worn story that I could recite word-for-word.
"Did I ever tell youse about the time I saw Little Neal when we was pullin' out of the Canal back in '43? Our unit was getting on the same transport they just got off of. I saw him and waved but I don't think he saw me. I got a place on the starboard bow, you know, so's not to get the seasick, and there on the bulkhead I saw where my brother K-barred, 'Lil Neal de Tejas, Con Safos."
My uncles smile at the mention, not so much of Little Neal, but of their beloved Texas. I never met my uncle Neal—I was born right after the war. They said when his platoon got hit, the fire was so intense every last man was vaporized and all they could find later on were tiny pieces of metal, hair and bone matted together like some new animal. They couldn't find his dog tags so they listed him MIA 'til '55 when they finally declared the whole unit KIA. The government then sent La Tata $500 and she bought him an empty grave in the Mexican part of Rose Hills cemetery. She put a marble headstone, but couldn't afford the carving, so all it's got to this day is a sticker of a pink angel placed just above his name, rank, and serial number. Once a year his brothers spend the day there, pouring beer over his grave, cleaning off weeds, telling stories.
"Y pobre Red Bird," Chente says, shaking his head. "Niño never got out of the third grade that fire truck hit him so bad it broked him up like a dirt rock."
Red Bird, nicknamed for his shocking, rumor-drenched hair, freckles, and face, died in Ranger, Texas after venturing out to the highway to wave at the hook-n-ladder roaring by. He never saw the second truck as it peaked over the hill and crushed him to death.
My uncles talk a quiet moment about their only sister Nena and how she could drink any border Mexican, Indian, or Oakie under any table, day or night. She parlayed her beauty and youth into a life of doing whatever she felt like doing and in her last years refused all contact with any family. She died at a Tucson VA, her first husband's benefits allowing her the small dignity of a clean-sheet deathbed and some morphine and ice water.
A couple of hours pass with the talk ranging from the Dodgers to the price of milk to the death of this friend, or that enemy, or someone they wish they didn't know. Finally the food is ready and mis tías take a break from their game to help serve. The kids get out of the water steaming and starving, and youngsters start appearing from all directions complaining they want food.
Bowls of mustard potato salad, tortillas de mano, and perfect black-brown frijoles are passed around and the whole thing is topped off with enough meat to feed half of Africa. My uncles put down the liquor and pour their favorite soft drink, Big Red strawberry soda, into their brightly colored, ice filled tumblers. The meal raises to a fever pitch, then suddenly slows like an engine dropping into second gear.
A double pan, whip cream cake is carried out pharaoh-style on a mini stretcher. Featuring a football field with a lone player, the cake reflects Tío Chu's love of the game, his claim to be the only Mexican who could outrun Jim Brown and O. J. Simpson put together. Seventy-five red, white, and blue candles are arranged in a crooked "USA" while the kids throw elbows for best positions. My tíos Tolú and Chente bring out the guitars and lead us in a slow, growling rendition of Las Mañanitas followed by an up-tempo, "Happy Birthdays to You." An overstuffed Mickey Mouse piñata goes up and the brothers immediately bribe a quick grandson or hyper nephew to dive for the candy and share the booty on a fifty-fifty split.
After the candy disappears, my godson Johnny Boy Montez and his latest girlfriend, La Chicha de Pacoima (or some shit like that), harmonize on Tío Chu's favorite song of courtship, Sabor a Mi. All my uncles are on their feet, wives in arms, and they dance very slowly, very close, lips lightly touching ears, hands caressing and stroking in a slow, circular manner. Their song lasts forever but not long enough, and everyone claps and whistles as they reluctantly break apart and settle back into their seats.
The descent of light and heat comes quickly after that. The sun, in its final minutes, floats behind us now, out of sight, heat dribbling softly away. And the younger families begin packing up their fussing babies, toddlers, and little guys into their vans and cars. Tomorrow's work, they say with a shrug, my uncles shaking their heads in understanding replying with a wave of their arms, that's okay mijitos, go home and get the kids ready for school. We'll see you next time.
Before long it's only me and my uncles and aunts, mis tías still at their card game, now guided by several oil lanterns. My uncles move closer to the fire, shoes and jackets back on, hats over ears, blankets covering legs, sweet bread, strong coffee and cigarettes perfuming into one.
Clouds of blackbirds stagger endlessly over our heads, noiselessly streaming for sanctuaries along Legg Lake. Mosquitoes spin about—nobody pays them no mind—and a field owl stretches her lungs in anticipation of a night of hunting. The stream, silent all day, kicks up a steady wind, the scent of reed and wild bush passing in and through us. Crickets and frogs begin their sad songs and in the distance the rumble of the Pomona freeway eases off into one steady hum.
Tío Chu moves next to me, cigarette burning softly, lines on his face glowing from pale orange to blue-red with each breath in, each breath out. He takes my hands into his.
"You know mijo, of everyone, I miss Nandito Brown the most."
This is what I feared. Them talking about my dad.
"He was my best-best friend, a good son and a loyal brother."
Tío Chu stands and pulls his shirt up to show everybody his smooth brown chest.
"You see this," he points to his heart. "Nandito Brown gave it to me the night I got back from San Quentin."
The tattoo, once a red-daggered blue heart, has since melted into an indecipherable purple splotch. Tío Chu walks up and down the line, giving everyone a good look and my uncles nod as if seeing the tattoo and hearing the story for the first time.
"That's where that bulldagger guard tried to stab me in my heart," he says, "and when I got back alls I wanted was blood. But Nandito Brown told me to forget it and he covered up my scar and turned it into something beautiful."
Tío Chu tucks his shirt back in, sits again and puts his arm around me, whispering so that only I should hear.
"I know you're still mad at your dad for suiciding himself," he says. "But you gotta understand the man would not live a life where his brain was gone, where you, me, or your mom would have to clean him like a baby and where people would pity him. When they told him he had that old-timers disease…"
"Alzheimer's," I softly inject, "It's called Alzheimer's, tío."
Tío Chu pauses, shakes his head. "Yeah, like I said, when they told him he had that whatever disease, I knew he would do what he did."
Tío Chu waves his arms at his brothers, who, still smiling, appear to be hearing every word. "We all would have done the same thing."
I look around, loving them, hating these words, realizing their truth.
"But tío," my voice fades into a child's, "He wouldn't see me. Didn't even let me say goodbye, like I was nothing."
"Hell, he didn't call none of us," Tío Chu shrugs. "Look. Your father was a very prideful man, and he wasn't about let his only boy witness him at his worst. He died as man should die, mijo—alone with his sins, his deeds, his god."
My tears, held since before his death, are everywhere now and I crumble and fold and melt. And my uncles rise to take me, to stand me like a man. And we toast my father, his life, death on his own terms and the conquest of heaven.
And Tío Chu, the youngest, the strongest, the poet of them all, tells me that if I "look past the silence within the wind, or the rage of my heart," I will see and be with my father once again.
- - - - -
I drive home with the morning sun, no clouds at my back and promise myself to visit my father at his grave, or on the shore, or in the dreams that are sure to come.
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