Smokey for having yelled at him. But I felt nervous.
"Here's to the Broncos," Pat said, raising his can. "To the Broncos," we all repeated, taking a drink. The beer had a skunky smell and tasted like cardboard. I held my breath and gulped it down. I
don't feel anything,
I thought. We quickly had another round. I guzzled the second can. Suddenly, I began to feel lightheaded and giddy. I laughed at everything my classmates said even though I did not understand everything they were talking about. As time wore on, my giddiness turned to sadness. I started thinking about Tiger Town, a rough neighborhood in Santa Maria, where I had cleaned windows. It had rundown bars and liquor stores that stretched for several blocks on both sides of Main Street. The sidewalks were littered with cigarette butts, crushed cigarette packs, and broken beer bottles. I had to scrub the windows extra hard to loosen the globs of dried spit glued to the glass. Mexican music blasted through the front doors of the bars and a rancid odor filled the air. I liked the music, but the men inside made me sad. Some were
braceros,
temporary farm workers from Mexico, who came to Tiger Town from the local labor camp on Sunday afternoons when work was scarce. They sat at the bar, listening to
ranchera
music playing on the jukebox and drinking beer and staring into the
mirror behind the counter. They were all tar away from their families in Mexico, just as I now felt far away from my family in Santa Maria. I started to cry.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Smokey asked. "You start out as a happy and silly drunk and now you turned into a crying drunk."
The only recollection I have after that is holding on to Smokey and Pat as we walked back to the dorm before our curfew at one o'clock in the morning. I plopped onto my bed, dizzy and sleepy.
That night I dreamed I was washing the front windows of a bar in Tiger Town. In the dream the clear sky suddenly darkens like a black curtain. There is thunder and lightning and torrential rain. My bucket quickly fills with water, overflows, and spills into the entrance of the bar. The water slowly grows and gains strength until it turns into a rapid and forceful stream, carrying me away, encircled by beer bottles and cans, and dumps me into the Santa Maria River. As I struggle to keep my head above the murky water, I spot a woman dressed in white with long, flowing black hair. She glides along the riverbank, reaching out to save me. I desperately try to grab her hand, but she disappears.
I woke up in a cold sweat. For a few seconds I did not know where I was. My heart was pounding and my head felt like it was in a vise. I took four aspirins and crawled back into bed. Then I remembered what had happened the night before and felt ashamed.
Cervantes Hall
In spite of the bad weekend, the following week brought me good news. I received an A on my midterm exam in Spanish Composition and Reading and an A- on my English essay. "Good improvement!" Dr. Quinn wrote below the letter grade. I could hardly contain myself. I ran back to my room, feeling as though I were floating on air. I turned on the radio and listened to rock 'n' roll while I cleaned the room.
"Are you tired of sitting around your
chante,
your
casita,
with nothing to do, and getting bored? Are you arguing with your girlfriend about what lousy movie to see?...Or maybe you're new to the area ... Need some exercise ... Work too much, or maybe just need to hit the social scene in a funky environment?...
Orale pues!
Don't be square. Come to Cervantes Hall in Sunnyvale and do the Watusi. Here is Little Eva with 'The Loco-Motion' to get you in the mood."
It sounded like the place to go. I jotted down the name and address on a scrap of paper, stuck it in my shirt pocket, and continued straightening our room.
"Here's 'Are You Lonesome Tonight?' by Elvis Presley. If you are a loner, come to Cervantes Hall tonight and you'll get rid of your blues, man. I guarantee it!"
I had become a fan of
"Here's to the Broncos," Pat said, raising his can. "To the Broncos," we all repeated, taking a drink. The beer had a skunky smell and tasted like cardboard. I held my breath and gulped it down. I
don't feel anything,
I thought. We quickly had another round. I guzzled the second can. Suddenly, I began to feel lightheaded and giddy. I laughed at everything my classmates said even though I did not understand everything they were talking about. As time wore on, my giddiness turned to sadness. I started thinking about Tiger Town, a rough neighborhood in Santa Maria, where I had cleaned windows. It had rundown bars and liquor stores that stretched for several blocks on both sides of Main Street. The sidewalks were littered with cigarette butts, crushed cigarette packs, and broken beer bottles. I had to scrub the windows extra hard to loosen the globs of dried spit glued to the glass. Mexican music blasted through the front doors of the bars and a rancid odor filled the air. I liked the music, but the men inside made me sad. Some were
braceros,
temporary farm workers from Mexico, who came to Tiger Town from the local labor camp on Sunday afternoons when work was scarce. They sat at the bar, listening to
ranchera
music playing on the jukebox and drinking beer and staring into the
mirror behind the counter. They were all tar away from their families in Mexico, just as I now felt far away from my family in Santa Maria. I started to cry.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Smokey asked. "You start out as a happy and silly drunk and now you turned into a crying drunk."
The only recollection I have after that is holding on to Smokey and Pat as we walked back to the dorm before our curfew at one o'clock in the morning. I plopped onto my bed, dizzy and sleepy.
That night I dreamed I was washing the front windows of a bar in Tiger Town. In the dream the clear sky suddenly darkens like a black curtain. There is thunder and lightning and torrential rain. My bucket quickly fills with water, overflows, and spills into the entrance of the bar. The water slowly grows and gains strength until it turns into a rapid and forceful stream, carrying me away, encircled by beer bottles and cans, and dumps me into the Santa Maria River. As I struggle to keep my head above the murky water, I spot a woman dressed in white with long, flowing black hair. She glides along the riverbank, reaching out to save me. I desperately try to grab her hand, but she disappears.
I woke up in a cold sweat. For a few seconds I did not know where I was. My heart was pounding and my head felt like it was in a vise. I took four aspirins and crawled back into bed. Then I remembered what had happened the night before and felt ashamed.
Cervantes Hall
In spite of the bad weekend, the following week brought me good news. I received an A on my midterm exam in Spanish Composition and Reading and an A- on my English essay. "Good improvement!" Dr. Quinn wrote below the letter grade. I could hardly contain myself. I ran back to my room, feeling as though I were floating on air. I turned on the radio and listened to rock 'n' roll while I cleaned the room.
"Are you tired of sitting around your
chante,
your
casita,
with nothing to do, and getting bored? Are you arguing with your girlfriend about what lousy movie to see?...Or maybe you're new to the area ... Need some exercise ... Work too much, or maybe just need to hit the social scene in a funky environment?...
Orale pues!
Don't be square. Come to Cervantes Hall in Sunnyvale and do the Watusi. Here is Little Eva with 'The Loco-Motion' to get you in the mood."
It sounded like the place to go. I jotted down the name and address on a scrap of paper, stuck it in my shirt pocket, and continued straightening our room.
"Here's 'Are You Lonesome Tonight?' by Elvis Presley. If you are a loner, come to Cervantes Hall tonight and you'll get rid of your blues, man. I guarantee it!"
I had become a fan of
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