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Pico
Steven Hunley
© Copyright
2016 by Steven Hunley
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It was misting while they were still in
the theater on a date arranged by their parents. Angelica insisted
they sit near the front on an aisle, instead of in the last row he
suggested. She wouldn’t allow Junior to kiss her, not even
once. On the way home, wet streets reflected the traffic lights, and
changed from green to yellow to red. Flickering neon signs and car
headlights shined in shimmering bars across the glistening pavement,
no matter what direction they walked. Before they’d gone a
block, the scent of new autumn rain replaced the smell of old summer
dust.
“Pico Street on a Saturday night.” Junior
noted the people hustling to and fro. “It’s an incredible
place, teaming with life."
Teenage girls dressing too
flash giggled and talked with loud-speaker mouths. Their mothers
cradling babies knew better, and watched them like hawks. Young men
posed under streetlights exhibiting extreme swagger, trying their
best to look ‘too tough to talk’. Children in worn shoes
and stretched-out t-shirts played too close to the curb, while
wounded gangsters and old men tottered by on canes, crippled by bad
'Glamorous Life' decisions and unforgiving years.
Sinaloa
Pizza Parlor. A store-front neon-named ‘Oasis’ owned by
‘Persians’ sells drinking water. Haircuts are cortes.
Children are Niños. The 99 Cent Store owned by Koreans sells
pan dulces by the hundreds from dirty glass cabinets. In Little
Tokyo, karate schools speak Szechuan/Español and not a hint of
Japanese. Not to worry, because all street-corner sign wavers use
precision movements, like slender-fingered Geishas spreading delicate
sandalwood fans. In other words, a blaze of Pico in all its
glory.
“Yes,” Angelica agreed politely, with only
a piece of her heart. The rest of her wasn’t so sure.
She
looked past the surface, beyond the illusion; at stars fixed in the
sky like diamonds in Tiffany settings, and wondered, ‘Where are
the angels? What are they doing? What do they eat? Do you suppose
they make love? Do they sing Glory Halleluiah day and night to Our
Lord?
It was incredibly clear between the towering buildings,
but to a young Catholic woman, an inadequate view of a darkened
Heaven.
“Yes,” she agreed now, whole-heartedly.
“There’s nothing like it.”
Drops of diesel
fuel from noisy Mack Trucks splashed onto puddles, turning them
rainbow colors. Veterano OG gangsters driving Chevy Impalas sported
spinning hubcaps on their favorite rides. Rolling jolly joints of
mota, they stuffed them in their sweaty hatbands. The summer night
wore on, fueled by countless shots of Jose Cuervo and deeds of great
bravado. Once up to speed, the drunken men honked and yelled and
whistled at anything in a skirt on the sidewalk. Then they sped past.
When they disappeared, the women stopped cursing, and giggled to each
other, hiding sly smiles or uneven teeth with delicate hands, where
every fingernail was a piece of art.
On the hill overlooking
the street, the well-mannered couple still held hands for public
observance. The conversation was sparse and the good-night kiss was
the first and last. He waved good night from her wrought-iron gate,
and gave a great sigh. She sat at the looking-glass absently braiding
her hair before going to sleep. The two had done their duty and
showed the proper degree of respect. No mother or father could expect
more.
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