christinamguerrero.com ~ the official site ~
A FEW DOORS DOWN
Copyright 2022 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Not yet.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
When I was traveling back and forth as a background actor in Los Angeles, I found a note on my car one day. The note had a phone number and a name on it, plus a request to 'call for a date.' I did not call the number. The perpetrator later hunted me down one morning, asked if we could go out, and then proceeded to make prejudicial and derogatory comments about a variety of people. I shut this all down, continued to work in entertainment, and later moved on to other places and back to work that I preferred. (Nothing against the entertainment industry; the work paid the bills and I would return to it, if time and money permitted). I decided to write a different ending to that little vignette in my life. Also, I've spent time in the Boyle Heights neighborhood of Los Angeles, and have fond memories of the culture, food, people, music, and architecture there.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Nothing, yet
"So you're the one who's keeping my boy awake at night."
Well, he didn't exactly say that. Instead of 'one' he used a different word. One that implied that my time was spent getting to know people on a rather personal level.
I slowly turned to my right. A man stood there, as he pulled out a wallet to pay for his items at our neighborhood convenience store. The man was a little bit shorter than my five-feet-nine-inch self. He had short dark brown hair with auburn highlights, dark brown eyes, and dark olive skin.
"What--" I began.
"What'd you do to him?" the man said. "Did you take something he didn't want to give?"
I lifted my chin. If he was about to get violent, I'd go down with some pride. Being Hispanic, I had always hoped if another Hispanic challenged me; that we'd either resolve the issues peacefully or battle with dignity. I was prepared to die.
"Take the argument outside," the clerk said as he placed a small gun on the counter.
I looked around for witnesses. Behind me, a tall, skinny young man was surrounded by five women and two men who looked exactly like him. They all had shoulder-length, curly, bleached-blonde hair. Their hair poofed out around their respective faces. The group looked like an arrangement of flowers. I stared and almost laughed. But the young man was a supporting actor on the TV show I was working on, and I did not want to appear to be making fun of him and his friends.
"Hey, Jordan," I said. "Hello, everyone. I forgot you all visit the neighborhood sometimes, for the Mexican pastries."
Jordan squinted and turned light pink. "Hi."
The others either stared straight ahead or played with their phones. I considered more small talk, decided against it, and focused on the man to my right.
He eyed the gun and said, "Okay. We talk outside about my boy. Pay and let's go." He vanished into the evening outside the store.
I stared. He had a boy? The man looked young, anywhere from twenty to thirty. How old was his boy? Five? Two? I was keeping the child awake at night? What the hell.
The clerk rang up my purchases. I paid and went to the doorway.
From there I said, "Jordan. Everyone. If I don't show up tomorrow, my remains should be somewhere in this neighborhood."
Eight phones lifted; eight flashes went off.
Someone said, "We got your back."
I said, "Thank you. How can I return the favor?"
Jordan said, "Donuts. Just plain donuts. From anywhere. Two for each of us."
For a moment they all seemed somewhat perky at the prospect of mostly sugar-free pastries. Then they resumed staring ahead or at their phones.
I said, "Gotcha."
The man stood outside on the sidewalk, just watching me.
I looked up and down Cesar Chavez Avenue in East Los Angeles. The place was jumping in the late evening. Scents of peppers, tortillas, grilled beef, steamed pork, and spicy Chinese food filled the air; horns honked; people called or whistled to each other; the lights ranged from soft white to pink to red to green.
"What are you talking about ?" I asked the man.
"The note! The note! He wrote you a note and put it on your car! You don't call him; he gets upset; he cries every day for more than a month. We're on day thirty-one. What did you do to our boy? You walk the streets?"
I stared stupidly up and down the street again. "No. I'm a background actor. An extra? I work in movies and TV. I sometimes have to leave home camera ready except for makeup. What does your son want with me? To play with Tinker Toys and Hot Wheels and Minecraft? Watch Baby Shark? What the hell?" I had visions of a shrieking, red-faced toddler sucking on his thumb; then had different visions of someone Jordan's age -- eighteen -- and wondered what he and his girlfriends and boyfriends engaged in. Did they have a battle of wits and then cuddle or bargain about what happened next in the harem? I rolled my eyes and muttered, "What the eff. And I don't want to know. To each his own."
The man stared for a long time. "You work in movies? Okay, then. And how old do you think I am?"
"Don't ask me."
"So far the Good Lord has blessed me with fifty-five years of happiness. Then my son started crying over you. What did he do wrong? What did WE do wrong? My wife is upset, too. That's her only child. Her baby."
"Fifty-five? You look much younger. And please apologize for that awful word you used earlier."
The man shook his head then studied the ground. "I am sorry. But my son is a good man. And now he is depressed."
"How old is your son?"
"He is thirty-three and a half."
I almost laughed. Everyone should be so spoiled.
The man said, "You're his age?"
"About a year younger."
The man said, "Perfect. You come with me and talk to him." He turned and started walking.
I sighed. "Hispanic men," I muttered. "Some of them are so ... ugh." Much louder, I said, "Where are we going?"
"It's right here. We live above these stores. A lot of families live here. All the doors are open upstairs to the apartments, we all party on Friday nights. Come upstairs."
I stood at the bottom of a staircase. He had continued moving, as if his concerns were my priority. From upstairs, I heard what sounded like a live mariachi band, happy voices singing along, and children screeching.
The man turned and looked down. "Come on. Just say hello to him." He frowned and shook his head.
I went upstairs and followed him to an open door in the middle of the second floor. We went into a big living room. Scents of grilled beef, cilantro, and onions wafted through the air. The music played on, somewhere. Several pictures on the wall revealed a group of men who looked like cousins; other pictures on a nearby table showed people of various ages, most of them with brown or blonde hair.
"Esteban!" the man shouted. "I found your friend."
A woman entered from the kitchen. She was taller than the man, at about the same height as me, and was slim with long golden-brown hair and dark blue eyes. When she moved closer to the lamp, I realized her eyes were a beautiful teal color.
"Hello," she said with a smile. "My name is Mercedes. And you're Alicia. My son has described you so perfectly! And it looks like you met my husband, Juan."
"Uh. Yes. Nice to meet all of you."
"Nice to meet you, too." She raised her voice and shouted, "Esteban! Alicia is here."
A gravelly tenor voice called out, "Alicia! Finally! Just a minute!"
Juan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. "Please have something to drink. Beer, soda, water?"
I took the beer. He could walk me back if I got too tipsy.
I was about to open the can when someone else entered the room. He was almost as tall as his mother, quite slim yet muscular, and had long, wavy, golden-brown hair. He also had his mother's teal eyes. Although his eyes were red, and his nose sniffled, he still smiled. A little sob popped out. He wiped his nose with a tissue. He had impressively wide shoulders and the sweetest face with big eyes--
Too late, I recognized him. "Oh, hell, no," I said. "No, no, no. Are you kidding me?" I put the beer down.
"Wait a minute, seņorita, please," he said. "I can explain."
Juan picked up the beer, opened it, and handed it to me.
I ignored him and said, "Esteban? YOU are Esteban? You told me your name was PLATON."
"It's one of my middle names--"
"You still owe me a hundred dollars for the damage you caused to my car a few months ago. You said you would pay me back a hundred a month in cash. Where is the last month's payment? We verbally agreed to this. I've been waiting more than a month for the last payment."
Juan put the beer in one of my hands, wrapped my fingers around the can, and returned to the kitchen.
Esteban said, "Seņorita--"
I got close to him and said, "Don't you seņorita me. Where is my money--"
"If you let me explain--"
"Explain what--"
"--I had to work--"
"But it's been a month--"
"And then I had business to take care of--"
"But I live a few buildings over from here--
"And I had to go to the South American countries--"
"For what?" I shouted. I raised and lowered my hands. "What do you do for a living--"
I suddenly stopped moving and speaking and stepped closer to the pictures on the wall. On the lower right side of each photo was a logo: Fuego De Oro. In English: Gold Fire. This was a band. Esteban stood in the middle of each group. Faint writing beneath each band member indicated he was the lead singer.
"I've heard of this band," I said. "It seems to be doing well. Why haven't you paid me?"
"Because I wanted to see you ten times, not once."
I looked sideways at him.
His tears started up again. He cried there, in front of his parents and me. "I'll go get your money," he said. He left the room.
Mercedes approached me with two plates of food. "Please eat something. Here's a plate for him, too. Please make yourself at home. Try to talk to him. He's a sweet boy."
"Seņora, he is a grown man." I saw our reflections in the glass door leading to the party in the courtyard. We had similar builds and coloring, and appeared to be the same height.
"Do you have children?" Mercedes asked.
"No."
"Some day you will, and you will understand."
"Hm."
She smiled softly when Esteban entered the living room, with money in his left hand and a wet washcloth in his right hand. When he sat to my right, Mercedes returned to the kitchen.
I tried not to stare at his thighs. He had nice thighs. He was wearing some sort of athletic-soccer-type shirt and shorts and brand new black and green athletic shoes.
He ran a slim hand through his hair, wiped his face with the washcloth, handed the money to me, and said, "Your final payment."
"Thank you."
"I am sorry for hitting your car. You looked so beautiful that day. You still do. I have never seen such loveliness in my life. Ever. And you are kind. And funny."
"Do you live here?"
"Sometimes. The band shares a nice house in the Hollywood Hills. I visit here often. That day, I had just turned the corner and I swear I was about to park properly. But you stepped out of your car, and I finally got to get a good look at you. All the other times, you were on your way in or out."
"The other times?"
"Yes. You passed me once or twice."
"Really."
"And when I checked the damage to your car, we looked at each other for a long time. You did the same as I did. You looked at me."
"I was admiring your hair." I finally tasted some of the food. "Hm. Great enchiladas, guacamole, tortillas. Homemade?"
"Yes, by me and Mama and Papa. I made the guacamole, too."
We ate in silence for a while.
"You can touch my hair," Esteban said.
"I don't want to touch your hair."
"Everyone does."
"Whatever."
"Go ahead."
"Leave me alone. Eat your food."
"Look. I take your hand--"
"Let go. I'm eating."
"And you touch my hair."
I yanked on it.
"No, not like that."
"Stop being so vain! Why do we need to talk?"
"Because I want to go out and have a date."
"Go out ON a date."
"Then we go ON a date. In one and a half years."
"Why."
"I can not date until I am thirty-five."
I continued eating; this was the only fulfilling part of the night. I'd have seconds and leave. He was kind of funny and definitely cute, but I simply had no patience for this.
"Did you hear me?" Esteban said.
"Yes. Why can't you date until you are thirty-five?"
"That is the agreement I made with my parents when I started the band."
"May I please have seconds?"
"Of course. Do you want something different? We also have tamales, pozole, and albondigas."
"A little bit of each."
Esteban went to the kitchen.
I took a long swig of beer and squinted at all the photos. Apparently some of the grand-parents had brown or blond hair and blue eyes, which explained their descendants' light hair and eyes. The band photos showed the men growing up.
Esteban returned with two plates of food, handed me one, and sat. "Mama is glad you are eating. She hopes you stay for a little while for the music. The band will be here soon."
"Okay. What's the deal with the dating?"
"When I started the band, I showed Papa my business plan. He said he was worried, and did not want me to be exhausted from this business, and then out dating and doing all that at the same time. We talked a lot. Eventually, I agreed to postpone most of that until I reach the age of thirty-five so I can concentrate on my work. So far, this has allowed me to reach my goals. I would like to invite you to spend time with me and my family and friends and band-mates on a regular basis, and in one and a half years, go out on a date?"
I looked sideways at him again, then ate a chunk of tamale. "Hm. Interesting. Is that why you were always with at least two people outside in public when you would make your payments? Like girls who used to be chaperoned a long time ago?"
"Yes."
"What's up with the note on the car? You could have asked me in person."
"I could have. But I thought you would act like this, so I make a plan to get you in here. Meet my family. See that I have a job. See that I am legitimate."
"Oh."
"What you think?" Esteban said. There were dark circles under his eyes. He was pale. He bit at his fingers in between talking to me.
"Don't do that," I said softly. I pulled his hand away from his face.
He stared with big eyes.
"Esteban," I said. "This is a nice gesture. But I'm only here for about a year or so. It's almost over. I came here to work as an actor on a reunion show. After this, I'm moving to Russia."
He squinted. "Hm."
I felt achey. I had been curious about him, and had appreciated some of the time spent together. But I was eager to get to Russia and the life I wanted to have there.
"If you happen to go there, look me up," I said. "I've appreciated the work and the breaks I've been given in the Los Angeles area, but I want to go home."
"You are from Russia?"
"No."
"Then how is it home?"
"It always has felt that way."
"Even with all that is going on?"
"Yes."
I waited for more tears but he only sighed and squinted at the photos on the wall.
"Esteban, we could be pen pals. Write back and forth. Or e-mail. Get to know each other that way."
"Yes, we could. I would like that."
Voices made us look toward the hallway. Esteban went to the doorway and spoke in Spanish about amplifiers and guitars and the sound quality on the clearing behind the building.
"We go soon," he said to me. "Stay for a few songs. Then we say goodbye. Talk again before you leave for Russia."
He went into the hallway.
I escaped to the kitchen, where Mercedes was cutting a cake. She said, "Have more if you would like. There is plenty of food."
"Thank you." I had a handful of chips and dipped them into all types of salsa.
Guitar chords rang out, filling the air.
"Oh, good," Mercedes said. "Let's go."
We went to the clearing, where Esteban and four other men -- those from the photos -- tuned two guitars, one violin, and one accordion.
"Welcome," Esteban called to a small group of people. "Thank you for coming to my mother's birthday party. Mama, you never age and you are the most beautiful, most comforting, most loving mother in the world. And you're a good cook, too. I love you."
Mercedes smiled and blew kisses. Juan looked up at her with adoring eyes.
"Thanks also to our friends and family and neighbors for joining us, including Alicia." Esteban wiped under his eyes, then said, "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro."
The musicians played an instrumental song. Esteban wiped under his eyes afterwards, and went to Mercedes for a hug. He returned to his band mates. They started another song and Esteban began singing.
He sang in Spanish about a lost love, of a girl who promised to reunite with her lover, but who did not show up at the right time because she had written down the wrong information. Her lover searched the earth, and eventually found her only a few doors down, sleeping, and believing she had gone to the wrong place and mistakenly believing he had moved away.
"Did he just make that up?" I muttered. I checked my phone, and searched for the band's albums. There was indeed a song entitled "A Few Doors Down" on their third album.
I studied Esteban. I had admired him a bit, and enjoyed the brief conversations when he paid me each month. But I was exhausted from my schedule. I wanted to live in Russia, and eat good food, and get lots of sleep, and work from home. Esteban most likely had his pick of many women. He would probably realize that during the next one and half years, and live happily ever after with a high-quality, beautiful, sweet woman.
As I thought about this, I caught my reflection off the glass pane of a window. I was tall with brown hair and blue eyes like Esteban's mother. But I was rather plain. His compliments were sweet, but I found it difficult to believe he was attracted to me.
The band performed for about fifteen minutes, then took a break.
I said to Mercedes, "I really should go. Happy birthday, and thank you for the food and drinks."
"You are welcome. Please come back. We can hang out as friends and family."
"Thank you, seņora."
Esteban observed as I moved to the kitchen door, and followed. Two of his band-mates stood several feet away. "Not even going to say goodbye?" He said.
"I thought you might notice, and follow me."
"I did, and I am."
We went to the sidewalk, down the street, and to the building where I lived above another set of businesses.
The band-mates stood near us and chatted softly about the neighborhood.
Esteban looked over the building with a little smile. "Alicia, it is so good to finally spend some time with you. I still want to go on a date when I am thirty-five."
"Esteban. Why don't we write to each other. We could do this through regular mail, or through e-mail. That would be a great way to get to know each other. Then decide how we're going to do that if we're living in different countries."
He nodded. "Yes. Let's do that. Give me your address when you move. Here, I will give you my e-mail address."
I went inside, prepared for the the next day, slept, woke, and got ready for work, including buying the donuts. On the set, I approached Jordan, who sat in the holding area with all of the people I had seen the previous day: his stand-ins and body doubles.
"Thanks for having my back yesterday," I said.
"Yep. Thanks for the donuts."
The others looked up from their phones and nodded.
"Bro didn't murder you," Jordan said.
"No. All ended well."
"Bro was too much," Jordan said.
The others nodded then ate their donuts in unison. Everyone's hair looked the same as it had the previous day: big and poofy and glossy.
I smiled, then went to the cameras, where they were expecting me.
On the day I moved out, I sent Esteban an e-mail with my new address in Russia. He stopped by as I was about to drive away, and ran to my limo: a bit of an expense, but the TV show had paid more than expected for the special reunion show.
"Alicia," he said. "You are leaving without a hug?"
I stepped out and examined him. He had lost some weight since the party. "Eat more," I said. "You need nutrition to perform and live."
"I miss you, and don't feel like eating."
"Well, eat anyway. How can you miss me? We hardly know each other."
"I know. But I miss you anyway. You be careful in Russia."
Nearby, Juan and another man watched as we hugged.
"You too," I said. I got back inside the limo and sighed.
Soon, I was at the airport, and had to focus on traveling.
One and a half years later, I looked through the e-mails we had exchanged: messages that had started out tentative and short, and that had grown longer and longer as we shared more about ourselves. Esteban was funny and kind and appeared to be a good friend to his band-mates and friends, and quite loyal to his family. He was supportive of me as I shared only a little bit, and then a lot about my own life. I had to explain that I had no family of origin; that those I believed to be related were actually not related to me at all, after I had taken a DNA test. The test indicated my background was most likely Russian, with some traces of Asian ancestry. Investigations and police requests and legal documents and lawyers could not find any information on how I had been given to the people I had always believed to be my biological family. I explained that in Russia, I was definitely home, even though I did not know who had created me. Perhaps they still walked the earth, perhaps not. I would investigate more when I was ready.
I smiled at all the emails, which included pictures of Esteban's travels and activities. He had gained some weight back, but was still a bit slim. His face was always smiling, despite faint circles under his eyes.
An annoying ring tone interrupted the silence. I checked my phone. It was official, according to information Esteban had sent me, and which I had converted into a reminder. He could now date. He was thirty-five.
I looked at my computer. He said he would send a message shortly after his status became official. I kept the computer on, then moved to a stack of books I needed for research on my next novel.
A few hours later, I checked my computer. Still no message. I checked the light outside: it was evening in Vladivostok. For him, it was much earlier in the same day, still closer to midnight.
About an hour later, it was dark. I looked out at the bay, still feeling grateful for the view. It was soothing to see the water, and some of the lights of the city down below. I was up on a hill, in a building where several other expats lived.
I thought about Esteban. Perhaps he was busy, or was figuring out how to tell me he was not interested after all, or perhaps was not able to send a message at this time--
My computer produced a faint, sweet little sound.
I went over and checked the email. I found a message from Esteban: "Alicia. I am sorry for my late e-mail. Would you like to go out with me for dinner?"
I sent back, "Virtually?"
A few minutes later he responded, "No. There are restaurants close to where you live. It's a bit of a walk, but it's a nice night for one. I still have protection, this time a bodyguard who charges reasonable rates."
I stared at this, then grabbed a coat and a purse and went outside. The neighborhood was well-lit, and rather busy most times of the day and night. I rushed to the corner Esteban mentioned, and found him sitting on a bench with a serious man dressed in black. The man frowned at me and poked Esteban, who looked around, smiled, and walked quickly toward me, followed by the man.
Esteban was taller than I remembered, and much more handsome than pictures or my memory recollected. His hair was down past his shoulders, shades of gold and brown. His eyes were that beautiful teal color; his features angular and prominent. His skin was a rosy-gold color. He wore his usual soccer-like attire, this time black with teal like his eyes, and the same colors were on his athletic shoes.
"Alicia. Go with me. Let's eat. We can talk. And learn more about each other."
I glanced at the serious man.
"Oh, this is Sergey. Sergey, Alicia."
"Zdrasvutye," Sergey said. "Greetings. Woman should not be alone at night anywhere on planet."
I nodded. "I agree." To Esteban I said, "How long are you here?"
"I live here."
We stared at each other for quite some time.
Then he kissed me. "I am a consultant for musicians. Between that and the business empire of Fuego De Oro, I will be a good provider."
He looked down at a pocket of his shirt, in which a small box appeared to be.
I felt my face grow warm.
*****
Twenty years later, our son Montoya wept against his twin sister Mona.
"She talks to you, Monnie. But she works a lot and helps her family. You should give her time. She seems shy." Mona shook her head at me.
I studied our sweet, fair-haired, teal-eyed son and his twin. They were beautiful children, and we did not spoil them as much as Esteban had been, but we still wanted only the best for them.
"Who is this girl?" I asked.
Mona said, "She is an ice skater. Her name is Ekaterina."
"Oh, is she pretty like the one from long ago?"
Montoya pouted up at me with huge eyes. "Even more beautiful, Mama." His face twisted and he resumed weeping.
I sat next to him and pulled him close. "Where can I find her? I will talk to her. And wipe your eyes, Baby, so you can concentrate on your writing. Don't disappoint your fans, not for anyone."
"I know, Mama."
Mona patted her twin. "She is practicing right now. At the ice skating rink. She will be there until five p.m. Then she will walk by her with her friends, and Montoya will go out to talk to her, and she will be nice, but she will not linger."
I said, "I will go right now. Perhaps she has time to talk."
Montoya hugged me. "She is so nice and kind, Mama. I love her."
"Baby, be prepared for the worst. I will be back."
I brushed long golden-brown hair out of his eyes, kissed his damp forehead, and hugged him tight.
Then I marched down to the ice skating rink -- not too long of a walk.
I went inside and asked if I could observe the skaters, and was given permission to do so. Near the seats, I looked around, and found this Ekaterina. She wore a pale lavender skirt with an even paler blouse and matching hosiery. Her skates were a sweet shade of pink. Her long dark brown hair was pulled back from a pale oval face with big sky blue eyes and a small nose and mouth. She was tall and slender and graceful as she skated past the section where I sat.
Suddenly she stopped, turned and skated to the entrance closest to me.
I went to the entrance and waited.
Ekaterina skated over and gracefully courtsied and said in Russian, "Good afternoon, ma'am. Montoya pointed you out to me one day. I am pleased to meet you. My name is Ekaterina." She had a sweet, gentle voice.
"Good afternoon, Ekaterina. Would you like to join us for dinner this this evening, on your way back from practicing? At about five-thirty? Montoya and Mona are there, and they would love for you to visit."
She turned pink and smiled. "I would like that. I do enjoy talking to both of them."
"When we are finished, we could walk you to your home."
"That would be kind of you."
I returned home, where Esteban listened to my story with a big sweet smile. He and I cooked a bunch of food as fast as possible: tacos, enchiladas, guacamole, home-made salsa, a small salad, pinto beans, rice, and a big tray of brownies.
The intercom buzzed at five-twenty-five. I let Ekaterina in, and she entered just as gracefully as she had ice skated.
She had brought me white roses and a bottle of Kahlua for Esteban. She was in the foyer less than a minute when she perked up, said, "Please excuse me, ma'am," and fluttered by. I heard her say, "Montoya. Why you are crying? Hello, Mona! Here, Montoya, why don't you wipe your face with this. Did your characters disagree with you again?"
I smiled. So that's what he was telling her?
I vanished into the kitchen, where Esteban was concentrating on making albondigas. He smiled at me, then said, "Let them find their own way. She works too much, but so does he. They will make a great pair."
Esteban's face was clear and rosy-gold; he no longer had dark circles under his eyes. He had regained some weight since the days of waiting for us to be together.
"Touch my hair," he said.
"Stop it." I touched anyway, and said, "You look even better than you did when we first met."
"It is the love of the woman I want, keeping me healthy."
We grew silent and hugged and kissed.
"And look," Esteban said. "Our son already looks happier; perhaps she will do the same for him."
We watched as Montoya chatted softly with Ekaterina.
"And Mona," I said. "So far she is happy with this Pablo person." I shook my head; I sounded exactly like Mercedes, just as she had predicted.
"Yes, I think so. I vetted him."
"Do I want to know?"
"Only a little. I discovered him crying over her. That is a good start. I swear I did not use any bad language."
"You have just a tiny mean streak in you, just like your Papa with his potty mouth."
"Seņora," Esteban said, with a little smile. "I am not mean. I have standards for our children. Just like my Papa had for me."
"Everyone should be so lucky and spoiled."
"It is not spoiled. It is love. And if you do not experience it, you can teach yourself the standards. It may be difficult, but you can."
We resumed cooking and flirting, to the sweet sounds of our children and Ekaterina enjoying each others' company.
~*~
BACK TO JOURNALISM - * - BACK TO ARCHIVES