Del Varrio: La Fiesta by Blake Sidewalker

Our story begins in a little varrio called Los Flores. Call me “Xé Quixote”. It’s 1977, and I’m thirteen. My familia and the whole hood are celebrating because my brother, Angel, just got out of a five year bid in San Martes. He’s enormous and covered in tattoos! His eyes look more loco than ever. All the xiquitas are all over him, asking questions, and poking his large biceps. The sun is starting to leave it’s place in high noon, but it’s almost like the fiesta has just begun. Eventually it seems like no time at all before the sky grows orange with the sunset. It’s at about this point where Angel’s amigo, Miguelito, pulls up in his low rider . “Look at the free man,” Miguelito says, “You want to ride in my new calrada, Homes?” “A huevo, Carnal! Xé, tell Mama I’ll be right back!” Answers Angel. This is when I start to feel scared and jealous; scared of Angel leaving again, and jealous that he should have all the fun with Miguelito and his calrada. “I want to go with you!” I say. “Xale, xavalo,” says Miguelito. Angel’s face seems to darken the world around him as he cracks another loco grin, “Órale, Xé! Miguelito, yo quero Xé rifar, like us, Carnal.” “It’s your fiesta, Homes,” says Miguelito. Angel climbs in the front passenger side of the calrada, and I climb in the seat behind him, more excited than I have ever been. Miguelito does a U-turn, and proceeds down the hill, following the setting sun. Before long, we pass over the railroad tracks into Las Colinas. My heart starts pounding as we get farther from our varrio. At about dusk, we’re pulling up to Glen Park. “No maches” I say. “¿Que onda?” says Angel. “This was where you caught your case, vato.” I say. “This time,” Miguelito says, “yo tengo cuete.” I feel the blood leave my face, and we exit the car. I’m not ready to see anyone get shot, but the park seems pretty empty for the night as we make our way down to the bridge running North to South over the pond. We creep into a corridor just before the arch of the southern side of the bridge. On the wall is a purple tag; The Kilo Tray Ballas are trying to move in on our placa. Miguelito hands me a metal can, and my fear becomes excitement. I know exactly what to do. I shake the can, and spray our varrio’s tag in yellow over the purple tag: Los Santos Vagos. Miguelito and Angel are laughing. Back before Angel went to the pinta, He had noticed that Ballas were selling dope to kids down at Glen Park. He beat one Balla so badly down there that he had to go to the ICU, Angel got caught, and was charged with mayhem. I’m nervous, but I’m carful to make sure that the tag looks good. Every sound is deafening and echoing throughout the park, but I paint with as much focus as I can. Once I finish, I turn back to Angel and Miguelito, unable to hide the pride on my face. “¡Es bronca, Xé!” my big brother says. “¡Órale!” crows Miguelito, “¡Qué Vagíto! Now we can go back to the carro, back to the fiesta.” We turn around only to hear several feet on the pavement, then a cacophony of laughter when out of the shadows comes five Ballas adorned in purple. “Where you eses from?” a Balla asks. “¡Los Flores, puto!” howls Miguelito as he opens fire with his quete, and it’s the loudest shit I’ve ever heard. The Ballas stumble over each other to escape, but there’s one coughing, gurgling, and struggling to drag himself away from Miguelito’s wrath. The rest of them run faster than I’ve ever seen anyone run. The smell of the pistol smoke almost stings my nose, and my eyes start to water. It’s almost like I’m walking outside of myself, almost like I’m gliding up the walk. I float over the struggling Balla, and can’t look away. He doesn’t look much older than me, scared, sad, and hurt that his homies left him as the last flicker of life leaves his eyes. Angel and Miguelito pick up the body, and hoof it to the carro. They pop the trunk, and throw the body into a tarp inside. I jump into the back seat, and slam the door before my homies jumped in, and took off. Miguelito drops Angel and I off at the fiesta, then he drives away to dispose of the body. Some of the jainas give us funny looks. I am never the same again after that night .

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