Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder Page B

If one seems effeminate, men will feel compromised. I am known in the world of Trio as a man of skill and finesse. I am not associated with any one particular trio, but prefer to work freelance. This marks me as some­thing of an oddity.
    Los Angeles is a maze of class distinctions. I live in the great barrio of East Los Angeles, overlooking Hollenbeck Park. My street is one of large, older homes and one small residence hotel, the Edmund, where I have a room with a balcony. Flower boxes, trees, gardens — a bit bohemian, you may say, but not leftist; that milieu lies further north, in Boyle Heights. There you may find the authors of revolu­tionary political tracts and those of the poorer class of scholars and professors. My district is favored by entertainers. Not celebrities, but those who have regular positions like myself. We are not mariachis! Mariachis are hardly more than street beggars! You will find them congregated in Garibaldi square, on First Street, near the Aliso Flats district, a squalid area. Mariachis are of the mestizo class, specializing in the primitive music of the migrant and the home­sick. I am educated. I read the staff, I know the ostinato, crescendo, obbligato. Trio is refined and elegant.
    The Trio man is a night man. I return home between one and two in the morning, and I arise at noon. It is my custom to have coffee at Graziesa’s Squeeze­ Inn. Graziesa makes my coffee with hot milk, the way I like it. She is just my height, barely five feet tall, but always cheerful. She greets me with a song when I arrive. I tell her, “Graziesa, I will present you at La Bamba. You will be a sensation.” She says the public wouldn’t pay money to see such a short, fat woman, and she had better stick to making tamales and café con leche.
    I read both the Spanish and the English newspapers. I am not limited in my thinking in the usual ways of the musician who cares only for boxing and women. I am interested in everything around me — literature, art, science, politics — but most of all, I love the cinema!
    On this particular Saturday afternoon, I was in a state of intense excitement. The latest film from Mexico City featuring the Diva of Sorrow, La Reina of Shame, Marga Lopez, was opening at the Million Dollar on Broadway. I was first in line. Rain was forecast, so I carried a light overcoat and an umbrella. My clothes are specially tailored by Ramildo of Hollywood — they do not make ready-­to­-wear for a man of my build. “Look as good as you can” is my motto. I took my usual seat in the back row, on the aisle, where visibility is better for me.
    In they came, rushing to their seats. The lights dimmed, a thrilling moment! Suddenly, a ripple of anxiety swept through the crowd. Heads turned, faces peered out, regarding the figure of a portly man standing by the door. I recognized him at once. Alberto Salazar! Salazar dared to show his face in this moment, before this audience, in this theater? Unspeakable! Unacceptable! Alberto Salazar was, in fact, the film critic for La Opinion , the leading Spanish-language newspaper of East Los Angeles, and a scheming, grasping egotist who spent his time pontificating to a retinue of craven sycophants in the cafes and slandering everybody in his newspaper columns. For years, he had nurtured a vendetta against Marga Lopez, trumpeting some flaw in her performance or gloating over some base rumor of scandal in her per­sonal life. To my complete horror, Salazar took his seat in the row in front of me! Directly in front! I was appalled! The last row is essential for me. There, the slope of the floor is such that I may see the entire screen, and now, this hijo de la puta sat there, blocking my view.
    The film began. Well, there was no choice, every seat but one was taken. It was quite impossible, but I tried to follow the story, which seemed to concern itself with the double life of a poor woman of Mexico City who