First You See Her, Then? by Tommy Villalobos


First You See Her, Then?

To me, a beautiful woman with a book is something I could only envision in my wildest imaginings

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: January 27, 2017

First You See Her, Then?

“There is no such thing as romance in our day; women have become too brilliant; nothing spoils romance so much as a sense of humor in the woman.” I made the foregoing declaration after downing four beers at the Green Bar. I then looked around for engagement.

A Fríjol seated two bar stools from me and to my right, made no response. I figured he was concentrating on a lost love or even a lost wife.

To my left sat a Pepino who also seemed lost in some Pleito from long ago and two states away. Sure, sometimes it took him several minutes to react, but he always responded. I liked bouncing my thoughts off him.

“Oscar Wilde wrote that down in his play, “A Woman of No Importance.” What do you think?” I added.

The Pepino took his customary few seconds to ingest my words, burped, then said, “I think all the time,” as if proudly proclaiming heartfelt pride in a well-hidden fact.

“But what do you think now?” I challenged. By the way, I am Edgar, the Barrio Sage, or the Barrio Be-Knowing-It-All, as some misguided souls call me. I like to read books and people. However, back to the Pepino. He was still thinking as we get back to him.

“About what?” he said, with another underscoring burp.

“The women of today and their take on romance.”

“I can tell you about women,” said the Pepino. “One day when I turned eight, my mother dropped me off at my abuelita’s and never came back. I didn’t cry. I laughed. I went from one female who cooked like an army sergeant, to a grand Señora who filled me with Comida Méjicana from sunrise to sunset. I haven’t tasted such tasty cooking since she turned in her olla.

Considering how this Pepino’s misfortune turned into a Spielberg ending, I recalled what a famous man once said, “The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.” In my case, I must always add, “If you give him some time.”

I then remembered her like it was something that happened right before I walked into the bar.

It all started out one spring day at a Chicano book fair. She, the object of my discourse, was selling books at a bookstall. To me, a beautiful woman with a book is something I could only envision in my wildest imaginings. I could compare it to a guy seeing a babe approach him out of nowhere with two big mugs of beer, set both before him and slide in next to him.

I walked up to her bookstall, opening one of the books. It was about life in early San Antonio while I was thinking about life in present East Los.

“What are you looking for?” she said as she walked toward me in a methodical manner, which I, being Chicano-blooded Edgar, saw it in a salacious manner.

“Do you have anything by Edgar Solotán?” I gave her my name even though I have never written as much as a grocery list. I did this just to take up her time, and, thus, observe her, and hang with her beyond the usual allotted time under the circumstances.

“No, but if you whistle the first five lines, I might recognize something.” She was obviously on top of her Chicano Literature. She gave me a stare, okay, a glare that said she did not appreciate me or my ancestors, going back to my first ancestor plucking wild corn in some valle in Méjico.

Seeing how she caught me off guard and had wrapped my tongue several times around my throat, she then politely said, “What are you looking for?”

“Ah, the eternal question,” I said, regaining my cerebral equilibrium. “Are you a philosopher posing as a beautiful woman?”

“Neither. I’m just me.”

“Just you?”

“Con safos.”

“You from around here?”

Chale. But I ain’t saying where. Don’t want no trouble at no book fair. But don’t cross me, ese. I can take care of myself.”

Another saying by that famous man crept into my brain: If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

I was about to make another U-turn of the many I have taken during my lifetime when she said in a soft, inviting voice (okay, maybe not, but that’s the way I heard it), “This is a very good book. Read it myself. Three times.”

Holding a thick book with both hands, she pushed it toward me as if it were a cake she had just baked for me. I read the title while she still held it firmly under my nose: “The Ways Of My Abuelita Jesusita For Today’s Chicana & Others” by Clotilde Bonista.

“That’s for girls,” I spit out.

“And others,” she spat back.

She withdrew the book and placed on a shelf below her.

“What else you got?” I said, hoping to recapture the only friendly moment she had offered me.

To be continued…

Illustration by Helene Thomas of Yakima, Washington. She did the cover of Tommy’s latest novel, Outline For Love.

 

First You See Her Then? Part 2

They talked and talked so I walked and walked. Before I knew it, I was a fair piece down First Street and nearing Ford Boulevard

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: February 28, 2017

First You See Her Then? Part 2

Read Part 1 of First You See Her Then?

“What else you got?” I said, hoping to recapture the only friendly moment she had offered me.

She merely waved her hand over the books surrounding her. So as to maintain contact and not to have to keep calling her “her,” I now asked her for her name.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, in case I run into you at some airport, I don’t have to yell out, ‘Hey, you, the one with all the books and brains and beauty, how are you?’”

“You don’t have to yell at all. Just don’t say anything. Keep walking.” She fluttered a hand in the air in the direction of the street as if directing me onto the street and away from her.

“You don’t want to get to know me better?”

“No.”

She was being coy. Other batos would have said, “She ain’t that pretty. Let her die all alone in some jacal.” But not me, Edgar Solotán, whose ancestors fought in key battles en La Revolución Mexicana, both sides. She was fighting her destiny. I was going to show her we belonged together, sticking our noses into the same book over a dribbling baby.

“Let’s each grab a favorite book and meet at some park. I’ll bring the wine and potato chips. You bring your pretty self.”

“I try not to disappoint.”

“And you don’t.”

“I do and will. I will not meet you at a park, a zoo, or Metro Rail station. ¿Entiendes?

“Not when you put it that way.”

“That’s the way I will always put it, for now and all eternity.”

“Can you really see that far into the future?”

I never received a response, for another person, a guy who looked like an Aztec warrior who moonlighted as a fashion model, walked up and stood at the other end of the stall. I, with thinning hair, an egg-shaped head, and thick glasses, stood helplessly by as my book lover was transformed into an idol worshipper before my eyes. She scampered over to him like a puppy dog finding its master after wandering for days in and around Griffith Park.

They talked and talked so I walked and walked. Before I knew it, I was a fair piece down First Street and nearing Ford Boulevard.

My thoughts rested with the self-realization that even females with brains were not attracted to a book collector and observer of the human condition. I’m talking about me, Edgar Solotán, to be sure we’re on the same página. Where was the justice? A fellow who looked like that good time Charlie always gets the girl at the end of any chisme.

Was I admitting defeat?

“If she was that smart,” now said the Pepino, quaffing his beer, “that means she knew you weren’t quite right.” I did not like his response. He was not only slow, but lacked understanding.

I launched my counter-assault. “I did not fall. She was there the very next day. She even smiled at me when she saw me.”

“Sure she wasn’t laughing?” said the Pepino.

“No, because she then said that she was glad to see me.”

I picked up a book, a mystery, I think. The Man Who Loved Me But Then Went Away by Claudia Myopiaz.

“Was that a friend?” I asked her.

“Friend?”

“The Aztec Warrior with a fat modeling contract.”

“Huh?”

Even her “Huh?” sounded intelligent, even alluring.

“Yesterday as we were talking, this man stood over there”–I pointed an accusing finger to the very spot where he had stood–“and you zoomed to him as if he were a monster magnet and you a tiny, collectible pin.”

“Oh.”

“You say, ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Oh-oh.’”

“We’re very close.”

“He’s already your husband? Did you marry him last night?”

“No. He’s my brother.”

Sure, I said to myself. She did not have his height, bearing, or muscle tone. I was onto her.

“Yeah, that’s why I always take the sisters over the brothers,” the Pepino interjected.

I ignored his sarcasm and pressed on. I asked her why she closed shop on his demand.

“Because it was time for me to close and he was taking me home. He drops me off and picks me up. I have a protective brother via my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, I have one of those, too.”

“How come you talk like that?”

“Are you questioning my manner of expression?”

“See! Like that.”

“Huh?”

Again, her “Huh?” reflected a certain level of savoir-faire.

“I mean to say, yesterday, here and there, you sounded all chola-like. You even called me, ‘Ese,’ a mark of distinction in barrios in every direction. You sounded like a legitimate chola, not a fake one.”

“It comes and goes.”

“By the way, books are my passion. But I don’t like mysteries.”

“Too bad. We have some of Rudolfo Anya’s Sonny Baca mysteries.”

“Do you have any romances?”

She eyed me with eyes that told me that she knew what I was thinking, while, at the same time, telling me my hopes had no basis in reality.

“You know, you haven’t bought not even one book for being so in love with them.”

While I was reflecting, she continued.

“Are you sure you adore books?”

“It’s my religion. I think I’m a high priest. I collect them like some people collect boyfriends.” I was proud of my last statement since it was the perfect sentence to elicit a positional reaction from her.

“I have the perfect book for you.” She whipped out a slim book and held it under my nose. I couldn’t read the title from the angle she was offering. My expression must have told her, for she assisted me.

“Read and absorb,” she ordered, adjusting the angle.

To be con

First You See Her, Then You Don’t, Part 3

Her face told my face to move or the attached legs at the other end would kick me hard and far.

By Tommy Villalobos, Contributing Editor
Published on LatinoLA: March 31, 2017

First You See Her, Then You Don't, Part 3

First You See Her, Then You Don’t, Part 1

First You See Her, Then You Don’t, Part 2

“What Not To Say to a Chica in Or Out Of the Barrio by Alex Finable. Dude knows of what he speaks.” She then withdrew the book quickly and hid it below the counter, as if preventing me from gaining any free wisdom.

“You seem to have a book for everything.”

“I use them like balas.”

“But a guy doesn’t want to be shot at when he talks to a girl.”

She gave me a look worthy of an international assassin ready for a formal execution. It was a cross between a snarl and a smirk.

“I have no problem with you outside of you not buying any books.”

“I find it distracting to buy books when someone who looks like you is hawking them.”

“Why should I distract you? You seem to be distracted all by yourself.”

“I’m normal. You might even say boring. That’s why I need a woman in my life who wouldn’t find me boring. You like books and reading them in a quiet room, a cup of hot chocolate within reach, I’ll bet. Do you find me boring?”

“Extremely.”

I have to admit, that was a thrust with a rusted, serrated knife right through my corazón.

“Are you sure you feel that way?” I said, giving her a second chance.

“Willing to testify in court.”

She unhooked the chain again and closed the overhanging stall door on my face. I rushed to and waited outside the exit door in the back.

When she came out, my inquiring face met hers. Her face told my face to move or the attached legs at the other end would kick me hard and far.

“And don’t follow me,” she added out loud. “My other brother, nickname Bofón, is meeting me at the taco truck on the corner.”

“You are sending me mixed signals. On top of all the others you have sent me.”

She proceeded to lock the door then headed down the walkway.

“I yam howta beer,” said the Pepino. He waved his hand for another.

He was swaying on his barstool as if he were a cobra ready to strike.

“So, did you get the girl?” he said when his beer was set before him.

“I’m still working on it. But that is beside the point.”

“The point being?”

“That I was in love.”

“No kidding,” said the Pepino.

“I am a true romantic. Last one, I think.”

“You must be kidding there, too.”

I didn’t know why he thought me such a committed comedian.

The very next day, I returned to the book fair. My heart sank below my knees and down to the heel of my left foot. The area was empty. I saw this bato sweeping. I went over to him and asked him about the whereabouts of the beauty in the bookstall. I even pointed to the spot where she had floated.

“I just clean up,” he said, and then pointed to a woman who was stepping into an office nearby.

“I can talk to her about it?”

“All day.”

I headed for the woman who had now disappeared into the office. I hurried over, in case she, too, vanished into barrio air.

As I rushed in, I nearly rushed up her back as she had stopped to read something she held. She was well dressed. My stomping caused her to turn and face me.

Her look told me, “What in holy chimichangas do you want?”

My responding stare must have said, “I am not sure but I’ve been looking all my life for it, can you help me?” for she then looked at me as if I had just hatched a large goose egg on her floor.

I said aloud, “I am looking for a young woman. Pretty. No, gorgeous. She worked in a bookstall over there,” I said pointing to the heavenly spot.

“Why?” she said, with a superior air.

A surprise question that did nothing but give me a blank mind and an iced up tongue. She pinch-hit for me.

“Do you do business with her?”

Oh, would I, I thought. Instead, I chose the fabled higher ground. “I have this crazy notion that we hit it off and she would be crazy to see me again.”

“She would be, for she is on her way to England. Oxford. Trinity College.”

“What?” was all I could come up with on such short notice.

“Yep. She is a dedicated young woman and her only focus is Medieval English Literature.”

“Her only focus?”

“And her love of books, in general. And she grew up right around the corner from here.”

“I love books, too,” I said, trying for points and an inroad.

“Then why aren’t you sitting somewhere reading one?”

A good question and I aimed to give her a worthy answer.

“I am on a hot trail.”

“Well, I won’t keep you.”

“But you are part of that steaming trail. What is that angel’s name, anyway?”

“You were close, just like your stab at romance.”

“Huh?”

“We call her Angelica. She’s my niece.”

“Will I see your sobrina again?”

“As soon as I find a good deal on a crystal ball. Maybe online. Then I’ll let you know.”

There stays my romance.

“That’s it?” said the Pepino with a burst of three burps. “You started out a dark horse who became a dead horse.”

“Neither,” I said, keeping my fortitude. “I am the second mouse standing by.”

“What second mouse standing by?”

“The early bird catches the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. I think I read that on gang graffiti two blocks from here.”

“But you didn’t get the girl,” he insisted.

“Then you’ll have to come back for another story as the rest of my life unfolds,” I said, finishing my beer.
tinued