me like a thousand glass eyes. One moment he might be a normal man, someone with hopes and desires like anyone else, and the next he wanted to curl into a ball. To lie down and let his body seep into the ground. A moment of rest.
Vaguely aware that José Juan was still standing there, Antonio allowed his eyes to drift across the landscape. Saturday morning in downtown Los Angeles. On Third Street a car zoomed past the vacant lot every minute or so, streaks of waxed metal screaming out a Doppler hello and goodbye as they headed for the bridge that somersaulted gracefully over the Harbor Freeway into the Oz of the Financial District. Antonio sat just a few blocks away, in a checkerboard of rubble-covered lots where weeds poked through crumbling layers of concrete, brick, and asphalt.
â¿Qué te pasa?â José Juan asked, squatting down to look his friend in the eye like a mechanic checking under the chassis.
Antonio turned away.
âYou look like youâre dead,â José Juan said. âAll sad and everything. Say something, talk to me.â He grabbed Antonio by the shoulders and shook him like a doll.
âHey, listen to me. Snap out of it. No te agüites. I hate it when you get like this.â
He hates me when I get like this. Who can blame him? Poor man, to have put up with Antonio for so long. What have I done to deserve such a patient friend? José Juan did not seem to like the Antonio who wanted only to sleep, the friend who seemed to be on the verge of suicide every few weeks.
âGo ahead and suffer then,â José Juan said, standing up and shaking his head. He drifted off toward Third Street.
Antonio was left alone to watch the camp coming to life around him as the sun crested the skyscrapers, filtering through the blue patches in a half-cloudy sky. Here and there he saw white men in nylon jackets and olive drab parkas, and one gangly old man with a long white beard who looked like a caricature of Father Time. The Latino men in the tent next to Antonio and José Juan stepped out into the daylight and rubbed their bloodshot eyes. The Vicki from the night before stood among them, a heroin-pale woman of indeterminate age and angular features.
âAw shit, look where I am,â Vicki said, squinting. When her eyes had adjusted to the light, she saw that Antonio was staring at her and gave him the finger.
Embarrassed, he turned his attention to another encampment, where two black men were hanging clothes on a rope stretched between palm trees. A third man, a long-haired white, started a fire in a circle of rocks, balancing an old barbecue grill over the flames. Soon the scent of pinto beans began to drift toward Antonio, and his stomach growled again. As far as he could tell, the three men lived together in the shelter of milk crates, blankets, and corrugated tin that teetered behind them. The white man sat down on a crate by the fire and ran his fingers through his oily hair, an old instinct toward neatness reasserting itself. He rubbed his palm over the stubble on his face, then stood up and took off his shirt to expose a concave chest, bony and pale. He knelt and poked his head into the shelter, pulled out another shirt, and put it on. He was still stooping as he paced around the fire, as if his body carried the memory of living in that cramped space.
All the people here seemed to have the same vacant expression and hunched posture. They looked like walking question marks.
Refugees. That was the term for people who lived like this, in makeshift tents, on barren ground. This was something new. He did not know that gringos could be refugees.
These gringos donât deserve this.
Years ago, when Antonio lived in Guatemala, he had an electric idea of Los Angeles. It was a place of vibrant promises, with suntanned women in bikinis and men carrying ice chests brimming with beer. It was a city of handsome, fit young people, all with a bounce in their step. Long before
Vaguely aware that José Juan was still standing there, Antonio allowed his eyes to drift across the landscape. Saturday morning in downtown Los Angeles. On Third Street a car zoomed past the vacant lot every minute or so, streaks of waxed metal screaming out a Doppler hello and goodbye as they headed for the bridge that somersaulted gracefully over the Harbor Freeway into the Oz of the Financial District. Antonio sat just a few blocks away, in a checkerboard of rubble-covered lots where weeds poked through crumbling layers of concrete, brick, and asphalt.
â¿Qué te pasa?â José Juan asked, squatting down to look his friend in the eye like a mechanic checking under the chassis.
Antonio turned away.
âYou look like youâre dead,â José Juan said. âAll sad and everything. Say something, talk to me.â He grabbed Antonio by the shoulders and shook him like a doll.
âHey, listen to me. Snap out of it. No te agüites. I hate it when you get like this.â
He hates me when I get like this. Who can blame him? Poor man, to have put up with Antonio for so long. What have I done to deserve such a patient friend? José Juan did not seem to like the Antonio who wanted only to sleep, the friend who seemed to be on the verge of suicide every few weeks.
âGo ahead and suffer then,â José Juan said, standing up and shaking his head. He drifted off toward Third Street.
Antonio was left alone to watch the camp coming to life around him as the sun crested the skyscrapers, filtering through the blue patches in a half-cloudy sky. Here and there he saw white men in nylon jackets and olive drab parkas, and one gangly old man with a long white beard who looked like a caricature of Father Time. The Latino men in the tent next to Antonio and José Juan stepped out into the daylight and rubbed their bloodshot eyes. The Vicki from the night before stood among them, a heroin-pale woman of indeterminate age and angular features.
âAw shit, look where I am,â Vicki said, squinting. When her eyes had adjusted to the light, she saw that Antonio was staring at her and gave him the finger.
Embarrassed, he turned his attention to another encampment, where two black men were hanging clothes on a rope stretched between palm trees. A third man, a long-haired white, started a fire in a circle of rocks, balancing an old barbecue grill over the flames. Soon the scent of pinto beans began to drift toward Antonio, and his stomach growled again. As far as he could tell, the three men lived together in the shelter of milk crates, blankets, and corrugated tin that teetered behind them. The white man sat down on a crate by the fire and ran his fingers through his oily hair, an old instinct toward neatness reasserting itself. He rubbed his palm over the stubble on his face, then stood up and took off his shirt to expose a concave chest, bony and pale. He knelt and poked his head into the shelter, pulled out another shirt, and put it on. He was still stooping as he paced around the fire, as if his body carried the memory of living in that cramped space.
All the people here seemed to have the same vacant expression and hunched posture. They looked like walking question marks.
Refugees. That was the term for people who lived like this, in makeshift tents, on barren ground. This was something new. He did not know that gringos could be refugees.
These gringos donât deserve this.
Years ago, when Antonio lived in Guatemala, he had an electric idea of Los Angeles. It was a place of vibrant promises, with suntanned women in bikinis and men carrying ice chests brimming with beer. It was a city of handsome, fit young people, all with a bounce in their step. Long before
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