C-Train and Thirteen Mexicans by Jimmy Santiago Baca

Author:Jimmy Santiago Baca
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2002-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Ten

Having a family changes things.

Years ago in Taos, Andre from Transylvania

via New Orleans

boasted he could outdrink me

and we bought a quart of vodka for him,

mescal for me; then we went to the local

radio station for an interview:

halfway through on air

he drooled saliva and bubbled on the mike,

whispering could I score some weed

or something to sober him up—

and in Chicano slang

so our host could not understand

I announced if anyone listening had weed

coke or buttons

to meet us in the parking lot;

afterward

poetry lovers greeted us

offering booze and drugs, and

with an impromptu tailgate and on Chevy hoods

we partied

clinked bottles, swigged, and chugged

until someone shouldered Andre away

limp as an empty gunnysack

and I saluted his courage by toasting

from his half-finished bottle

my victory.

Having a family changed all that—

I can’t party like I used to.

I take Marisol to her Little League games, the batting cage

where she smacks over a hundred pitches,

take my daily vitamins

blend fruits for a smoothie,

garlic and fiber every meal,

I run five miles a day, swim, bicycle, and shoot pool,

pay auto insurance and mortgage—

but while I run

I wooze into reveries

when during Mother’s Day in Santa Fe

I was invited to read

and the old ones to the left were chattering away,

middle-aged men in the center of the square

discussing racehorses, and the young to my right

were flirting and giggling and applying mascara,

when all of a sudden I cried out Muthafuckas!

and every able-bodied man in the crowd

came after me. I whispered to Laura,

Get the car and pull it around in back, quick!

and just before they leaped onstage

to pummel us with tortilla rollers, Victorio and I

leaped through the Volvo windows and sped away;

cans and rocks and sticks flying at our car,

we escaped to recite another poem.

But having a family changes things:

you risk less and spontaneity is replaced

with planning.

No longer does all my money go on a single poker hand

in a Dallas hotel room—

and to sweeten the deal I toss in the truck title—

nor do I stay up as I did for weeks with friends

drinking Chinaco tequila and sotol

with bandits and outlaws on the run from ATS and FBI,

nor do I puke in the mayor’s lap when he’s talking about how he

understands poetry,

nor whiz the cylinder on a .45,

click the trigger back playing who’s chicken,

Having a family changes all that.

I enjoy waking early to greet the sun and recite my prayers

and give thanks for being alive.

I drive my older girl to Sandia Peak

for an all-day grueling 16.5-mile race up the mountain and back down

cheerleading her

absolutely ecstatic when she places fourth among three hundred competitors,

sweaty, exhausted, mud-grogged, almost passing out

she wavers across the finish-line banner,

where I bear-hug her, pat her back, and head to the grill

for burgers and lemonade:

such family joys high-water

foamy white-caps my journey

with island tides of innocence,

filling the trail of father’s footprints in moist sand

with wild lashings of wave-laughters and tears

pains and joys of being the man they follow

not to get lost

as I got lost,

tempted by bad-boy wanderlust.

I smuggled guns across the border and sold them to bandits,

hijacked tractor-trailers loaded with freshly auctioned tobacco le

and sold it in Georgia,

or sitting around

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