for me here much longer anyway.”
“Why?”
“How long can you carry a salary for someone who isn’t doing very much?”
“You let me worry about that, Manolo. I know we haven’t had much for you to do yet. But that’s temporary. We’re planning to
expand our routes. Your job is safe.”
Mano rubbed his face, trying to mask his relief. He’d listen to these crazy ideas if it meant a chance to protect his family.
After all, Jo seemed to mean well—the drivers certainly believed that. Besides, attending a rally didn’t mean you supported
the cause. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go,” he said finally.
“I’m very glad to hear that,” Jo said, leaning closer. “I’ll be driving with Ramon to save parking space. Do you want a ride?”
“Thanks, but I think it’d be best… for family reasons, if I walked, ma’am.” The thought of Rosa seeing him get into Jo’s car
made him uneasy.
“I understand,” she said, nodding. “There’s something else, though. This ‘ma’am’ thing is starting to get very old. Would
you mind calling me Jo?”
“Sure… Jo,” he said, almost whispering her name. “Most people call me Mano.”
She reached out and shook his hand firmly. “It’s a deal, Mano,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I think you may be surprised
by what you hear at the rally.”
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:
Month 2, Day 22
Intellectuals are the prime ingredient of social ferment. Their ideas are the yeast that raises the masses into rebellion.
—José Antonio Marcha, 1979
Translated by J. M. Herrera
I don’t understand why you have to go to this rally,” Rosa said, bringing her husband an espresso. She’d risen at 6 a.m. to
prepare Mano’s breakfast, making this Saturday morning feel like a workday.
Mano reached distractedly for the small cup. “I gave Jo my word.”
“It doesn’t seem right, Mano. A boss shouldn’t force her politics on you.”
“That’s not what Jo is doing.”
“No? Then what do you call it?” she asked, buttering slices of toast.
“She wants to make sure I’m OK with the things she believes.”
Rosa looked up suspiciously. “Why is it so important to her what you think?”
“Because she doesn’t want me to quit my job,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Do you?”
Without answering, Rosa placed the toast in front of him and retreated to their bedroom. Mano finished his breakfast alone
and quietly left the apartment. The walk to Salazar Park would take a good part of the morning.
Turning west on Whittier, Mano saw fresh evidence of rioting. The blackened husk of a warehouse was surrounded by piles of
ashes still soggy from the fire department’s hoses.
Such a waste
, he thought, walking past the burned-out building. Destroying businesses was no way to bring jobs to the barrios. Yet he
had to admit his own feelings were no less confused. He was troubled by Jo’s ideas but wanted desperately to keep his job.
These conflicting thoughts swirled in his head as he paced steadily toward the rally.
It was almost noon when he reached Salazar Park. Although a gray sky threatened rain, the crowd was nearly shoulder to shoulder.
Above the sea of bodies on the scruffy grass, he saw a large banner behind the makeshift grandstand.
RALLY FOR JUSTICIA
Unity. Community. Strength.
A couple dozen Anglos with professionally lettered signs supporting the rally stood near the large media contingent ringing
the platform. The rest of the crowd appeared to be Eslos—Chicanos from the barrios of East Los Angeles.
As he walked toward the grandstand, Mano spotted several bands of young men in sports jerseys, many in the 49er uniforms of
the 19th Street Gang, as well as the UNLV gear worn by their bitter rivals, the Pachucos. Ordinarily, this would have meant
heavy trouble, but for some reason, the vatos seemed content to coexist today.
Deployed in a ragged line along the west edge of the park were over a hundred LAPD officers in
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