Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder Page A

Kirby, General Delivery, Spokane, Washington.’
    The manager of the Bundy Theatre at Pico Boulevard and Thirty-fourth Street in Santa Monica stood outside eating a candy bar and watching the traffic. It was Wednesday, a slow night for neighborhood movie­going. The manager was a big man, three hundred pounds easy, from eating candy bars on the job. A Santa Monica city bus pulled up across the street, headed westbound toward the beach, thirty-four blocks away. A solitary rider got out and unlocked the front door at number 3406 West Pico. A sign in the window read “Jazz Man Records.” The manager watched the man enter the store and close the door. “New guy,” he said to himself. “Who the hell cares about records?” Above his head, the marquee lights stuttered on and off, making a buzzing sound like Morse code. God­damn salt air, like I don’t have expenses, he thought, and the thought made him hungry. He turned and walked back inside the theater.
    The new owners at 968 East Thirty-third Street loved the house. It was in perfect shape and priced just right for a young couple. It was after they’d been in the place a little while that the problem arose. Their dog hated the garage. He wouldn’t even go out in the backyard. He stayed in the house and shook and wouldn’t hardly eat. It drove the man crazy. “There’s nothing out there, Jerry,” he told the dog. Jerry whined and shook. Just to prove it to himself, the man got his flashlight and went out to have a look around. When he came back, he was spooked. “Honey, there’s a man in the garage sitting in the big chair. I went up to him, but he was gone. The chair was warm. I don’t know, maybe Jerry’s right after all. What the hell . . . ” The woman watched the man and said nothing. Christ, she thought, I was doing all right in Spokane.

La vida es un sueño
    1950

    A TRIO MAN is a man who stands on a stage, in the spotlight. He plays the requinto, he sings the bolero, and he watches. He watches you, señor, and you, se ñ orita — especially you. He observes the audience, a nocturnal conveyor belt of lovers, haters, and drunks — stretching from the earth to the moon.
    He must have the knowledge, the repertoire of songs that tell the simple stories of life, la historia of every man and woman: romance, religion, and death. He must have the touch, the sense of the crowd, their mood. Happy and gay? The songs must correspond. Borracho and melancholy? Then, there is a desire for the songs of la lucha, the struggle of living.
    Some of us are better than others. Some are even men of wealth and fame from the sale of discos and autographed pictures. That is a rare category, the famous ones of the Mexican silver screen: Trio Los Panchos, Trio Los Tres Reyes. They wear the tailored draped gabardine and smile as the beautiful star glides by: Ninon Sevilla, Maria Felix. But I am not one of these. No, I am somewhere in the middle. I am not conocido, but I am not desconocido. My instrument is old, but the maker was respected. Hernando Aviles of Los Panchos once commented that my tone is acceptable. Los Angeles is not Mexico City, but we have many fine nightclubs and restaurants here. It is enough. One must not aim too high. “ Ya Estoy Con Mi Destino .”
    I choose not to interfere. Sometimes there are disagreements. Over what? An insult on the dance floor, a look of disrespect to the esposa, a dispute over a song lyric? Rough language is used, knives are drawn, that sort of thing. The Trio man never takes sides: “And now, señoras y señores, much í simas gracias a todos, a marvelous new song from the poet laureate of love, the genius of sentiment, El Unico, Agustin Lara! And it is my privilege to announce that the great man is with us in the Club La Bamba, en é sta noche! Viva!” In this way, calm is restored. If one lacks sensitivity, women will lose interest.