AN HISPANIC INTERPRETATION OF THE AMERICAN
DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
Copyright 2002, Christopher J. Lloyd
Esteban Morales adjusted his trousers and walked aimlessly from
the pantry into the small kitchen. It was tidy and clean, if a little run down
and filled with the faint aroma of
“Metal and plastic don't seem to last much longer than our own mortal flesh,” he mused. It reminded him of the microchip in the central heating he'd been meaning to replace. Too late to do anything about it now though. He grabbed the tray of tortillas his young wife had made him and took them into the living room. She was a good woman Rosaura and a fine cook. But he was glad that she'd gone to visit her sister's for dinner. She always made him feel uncomfortable on card nights. It was nothing she said. Indeed, she always prepared a couple of trays of tortillas. It was just that `holier than thou' streak in her. Come to think of it, her father had been just the same.
He began stuffing a few advertising brochures under the couch but the doorbell interrupted him. He walked over and touched the door sensor but it didn't open the first time, as usual. He tried again and the door slid open. It was his brother-in-law Rodolfo Sanchez and his amigo Diego Garcia.
“Hey, hombre. You know Diego. And this is my other friend, Tequila.” He pulled a bottle from behind his back and held it aloft in triumph.
“Gracias a Dios! How much did it cost Rodolfo?”
“Too much. But I'll win it all back off you tonight, don't you worry. I feel the Lady Maria looking over my right shoulder tonight.”
“Ci. And she's going to tell me what cards you have. Entrate!”
Diego and Rodolfo shuffled inside and the door closed noisily behind them. They peeled off their heavy coats and dropped them on the couch.
“Hey, it's warm in here Esteban. Why don't you turn down the heating?”
“I like it warm.” He changed the subject quickly. “Who's for a drink? I'll get the glasses. Sientate. Make yourselves at home.”
Tequila makes your eyes water and your heart miss a beat. Taken with salt and lemon it anaesthetizes the mouth and leaves a burning trail down the throat to a point just behind the solar plexus. Mexican Indians believed this area to be a centre of spiritual power, something like the third eye of the East, but not many people bother with such things nowadays. The three men squatted on the edge of the couch watching the reaction in each other and enjoying the warmth in their bellies. The bottle was half drained before the ceremony was completed. Esteban fetched the cards and the second tray of tortillas and set up the table in the centre of the room. Rodolfo began dealing the cards.
“How's my sister, Esteban? Is she hiding at Marguerite's again?”
“Ci. Ci. It seems that it every man's calling to drink and gamble away the happiness of his loved ones.”
“You're right hermano.” He laughed and stroked his chin. “Not every man though. My father never indulged in such things.”
Esteban remained silent. He glanced at his cards and threw one out. Diego followed and gathered in his winnings. Esteban was losing but he didn't mind. The fire inside gave him strength, his friends were the most lovable and interesting people in the world and tomorrow he would fix the central heating for sure. He laughed loudly at his brothers' jokes and told some of his own. He cursed at his bad luck with the cards and blasphemed with Rodolfo as Diego gradually increased his pile. They finished the bottle and Diego brought out a cheaper bottle of fruit brandy.
For the next two hours, Esteban watched as the level of the bottle and his pile of quarters steadily dwindled. He sighed and stood up.
“Enough, Senor.”
It had been a long night. The happy haze of earlier was gone now.
“Sit over here in the lounge and we'll have a smoke.”
Rodolfo shifted himself clumsily and knocked a few cards off the table with his sleeve. Diego followed him into the lounge. He seemed in good spirits at least.
“What you got, hermano. Mexican Reefers again?”
`Sure. Who can afford Acapulco Golds on our wages? You gotta be a gringo or a card cheat to be that rich, eh Diego.”
“You had the same chances I did, Esteban. I never cheated a brother in my life and if you think I did you can have the money back and I won't ever trouble your hospitality again.”
“No. No, Diego. I didn't mean anything. I know you're an honest man. For godsake, our pops worked together at Chrysler for twenty years. Don't listen to me amigo. I just been lettin' things get on top of me lately, that's all.”
Rodolfo lit up, drew deeply and passed it on.
“What's the problem. You need money brother?”
“'Course I need money. How d'you live decent on the shit dinero Honda-Chrysler pay us. Rosaura and I can't even afford a baby yet and we been married four years...but it's not just the money. It's a matter of self-respect. Eats me up watchin' those machines buildin' cars all day. Only reason we're there's to pick up a bolt sometimes when it gets dropped. It's not fit for a man's work. That's what Rosaura says and I agree with her.”
“Ah,” Rodolfo nodded. “She was always ambitious for you that sister of mine. Used to come home from school and talk about how smart you was and how you'd be a journalist some day. It's not your fault Esteban. How many hispanics you heard of writing for the Washington Post? It's a gringos world alright. There's more chance of a damned nigger makin' it to the white house than one of us.”
Esteban sucked hard on the Mex and coughed a little. “Let's turn on the Holovision.”
In one corner of the room was a large opaque cube about a metre and a half high. Esteban turned a knob on the wall next to it and it went slightly cloudier, then incredible clear and finally a scene appeared. Two men and a woman were sitting in a dimly lit stage-lounge. They were well dressed and looked very real except that one corner of the cube glowed a pinky colour and every now and again there was a tiny flicker and the woman's head would lift slightly off her torso and then rejoin it in an instant.
“Any brandy left?”
“Un poquito. Here. What's this shit on HV?”
“You know how Esteban likes this sort of high education stuff, Diego. Remember him at school always making eyes at that English teacher with the long legs?”
Esteban looked mildly embarrassed. “She was a clever girl that teacher and she had nice legs alright.”
“Well this one doesn't and she's boring me to death,” continued Diego. “Turn on the sports beam Esteban. I can't think with all this smoke in my head.”
“You haven't even heard what they're talking about hermano. Don't you wanna improve yourself? You're right though. It sure sounds like shit.”
The conversation lulled and the three men stared at the cube, two of them distractedly and one more intently.
“....is indicative of a new dynamic in American literature. Do you see any parallels between the Professor's ideas and your own Dynamic Punctuation thesis, Dr. Grabendieb?”
The good lady doctor shifted herself in the lounge chair and cleared her throat.
“That's a penetrating query, Kingsley and I'm more than glad to discourse upon it. I must first mention, however, that my own work does precede that of our young Professor Slick here by several years.”
She glanced pointedly at the man beside her. Her head momentarily separated from her head as she continued.
“Let me begin by saying that I think recent history in literature, and by literature I refer primarily to the Euro-American context, has demonstrated a consistent trend towards structural minimalism much as music did in the twentieth century. This trend was anticipated by Joyce over one hundred years ago but only in the last twenty years or so have we seen the rise of true micro-semantic expression i.e. small groups of words and even syllables used only with the loosest relation to any contextual matrix. We have seen the use of punctuation taking an increasingly dominant role. I mention Hacker's use of question marks at the beginning of a sentence. This reinforces a philosophical stance that all questions are open-ended and that to ask a question we must necessarily anticipate an answer. Thus we see a textual manifestation of modern humanity's traditional dilemma, do we answer the question or question the answer?”
“What's she talking about Esteban?” Esteban raised his eyebrows and continued concentrating.
“....I particularly draw your attention to the research of Granadios who had been making great progress in his theory of Grammarless Prose. For instance, he has developed a new use of the hyphen as an ambiguous suffix to words. His latest work, 'American-' with hyphen suffix is a well known example. This title suggests several completions, American dream, American Pie, American Declaration of Independence etc. He has also worked on extending the hyphen's more traditional usage as a semantic conjunction with results reminiscent of classical German word invention. One phrase in point is the washing-soap-opera-sobbing-scene, both a brilliant description of his childhood domestic tragedy and a marvelous parody of Dylan Thomas' famous simile. But his message is more profound than parody. The hyphenation of the phrase is germane to his thesis that word relationships can be visually reinforced through the novel use of punctuation. And the hyphen, being both reflexive and transitive in its operation, is set to play a central role in this coming literary development.”
“Hyphens? We always got taught they were bad English at school,” muttered Rodolfo. “I need a piss,” and he lurched out.
The man had taken over. `....and Granadios has related his theory to what he considers the salient features of American and free world culture itself, free expression and self criticism.”
“Yes, Professor,” interjected the chair to young Slick's obvious annoyance. “I'm sure that our viewers are all familiar with Granadios' unique brand of American patriotism and hispanic fire. I think the country could do with much more of it. Which reminds me to mention again to the viewers that the American Literary Criticism Society's third national essay competition closes Monday, so if you want a share in fifty thousand dollars, then there's not a JUNCTURE-OF-THE SPACE-TIME-CONTINUUM to lose.” The hyphenation was magically displayed above their heads in bright green.
“Marvelous Kingsley, marvelous,” cooed the doctor and everyone looked very satisfied. Even the ambitious young Professor.
The program finished and the HV turned off automatically. Diego was sleeping on the couch and Esteban sat very still next to him breathing slowly. The marijuana was wafting around his head leading his thoughts where they would. He felt unsatisfied with his life but he could still enjoy its occasional quiet moments. From the hallway came the hissing sound of the front door opening. It cut through the pause like a razor. Diego stirred self-consciously as Rosaura entered the room a little breathless.
“The elevator's out again, Esteban. I hate walking up those stairs at night. It doesn't feel safe.”
“It isn't. Call me next time.”
Rodolfo returned with the sound of a flushing toilet behind him, a sway in his step and a glaze in his eye.
“Sweet sister. You look like the Madonna standing there. Come here and kiss me before I become a religious man. You see my sister, Diego. Isn't she beautiful? And my mother was twice as beautiful. Isn't that right Rosabella?”
Rosaura extricated herself from her brother's drunken embrace. “What have you three been up to tonight, as if I didn't know.”
“Nothin' below out station, sister. Esteban made us watch a literary program on HV. I mean let us. D'you know how lucky we are to live in America Rosa? You can join all your words together with hyphens if you want to and no-one's gonna look down on you. Maybe I could be a writer d'you think, sitting in front of a word processor all day, smokin' Golds?”
“I doubt it.”
“Rodolfo's right Rosaura,” put in Esteban. “If the right people take a liking to you, you can write any damned crap and they'll call you a genius.”
“And whose going to take a liking to you, marido? You just tell her you got a jealous wife and not to even think about it!”
“Ooh! Listen to her. C'mon Diego. We'd better leave before a domestic scene develops.”
“I probably got one of my own waiting for me at home. Why didn't you guys wake me?”
“Don't cry on our shoulder. You got all our money in our pockets. Just show her that and she'll smile like an angel. I'm the one with the problem. I'm late and broke.”
Rosa began to clean up the mess in the lounge, the men making ineffectual attempts to help.
“Listen to you three men. Since when did any one of you worry about your wife's temper? It's all a big joke to you isn't it?” and she strutted off to the kitchen with the ashtrays and empties.
“She's working up a head of steam, Esteban. I think we'd better get on home. Goodnight Rosabella!” Rodolfo called towards the cleaning sounds coming from the kitchen.
“Buenos noces, Signorita!”
Rosaura called back goodnight and then muttered something they could only half hear.
“You fellas OK getting home?”
“Sure Esteban. Not a back route in Detroit I ain't got committed to memory in this Spanish head of mine. Diego can drive and I'll navigate. Haven't been breathalysed in ten years and I'm not gonna start tonight.”
“I hope not. Thanks for coming hermano. You too Diego. Been a pleasure losing money to you. Drive carefully.”
Diego and Rodolfo disappeared down into the darkness of the stairwell. There was a scuffling sound and a laugh.
“Driving's no problem. It's walking down these stairs is a problem!”
II
Esteban lay in bed staring into the blackness. Rosa was breathing the steady rhythm of sleep beside him. They'd had a few words but he'd teased her and cajoled her out of her mood. He was thinking about the three wise monkeys on holovision. So eager to sound intelligent, so desperate to look relaxed. What had Slick been saying about American literature and the Constitution?
“...America has an historical tradition of freedom of speech embodied in Thomas Jefferson's famous monologue. This isn't solely guaranteed by the constitutional Bill of Rights however but is embraced whole-heartedly by American society. It is no accident that the truly revolutionary literary movements of this century have begun on these shores. Interestingly though, the growing involvement of hispanic writers is evident, not so much in the academic sphere but actually out there in the ghettos of Miami and Detroit. One of the most exciting cases in point is the young writer Esteban Morales who we are privileged to have in the studio tonight.”
Kingsley and Dr. Grabendieb both stood and enthusiastically applauded as Esteban strode onto the set, good naturedly acknowledging the hand given him and humbly motioning the others to be seated before himself. He settled himself and caught Ms. Grabendieb's eye. She wasn't nearly so academic looking as he'd thought and her breasts were noticeably bigger than he remembered. Esteban took it upon himself to initiate the conversation.
“Thank you sincerely for the invitation to appear, Kingsley. Muchos gracias.”
There was a polite titter in the studio. Kingsley glanced significantly at Camera 1.
“How charming. Tell me Mr. Morales, how have you accommodated this instant fame you've achieved into your ordinary life? You've sold an incredible number of books.”
“So did Enid Blyton.”
The audience roared with laughter and Slick rocked back and forth clapping his hands in ecstasy. Ms. Grabendieb pushed her chest out and smiled prettily at him. He gave her a wink but she coyly glanced away.
“But seriously, Kingsley your reference to my former life as `ordinary' is just further testimony to your indefatigable egotism.”
Kingsley's jaw dropped and he lifted his hands in a questioning gesture to Camera 2. There was muffled applause and the audience hushed in expectation. They wanted more so Esteban gave it to them.
“Really, I can't reconcile your anglo-saxon smugness with your pseudo-intellectual arrogance without hypothesising some disastrous mishap during your juvenile toilet training which discretion prevents me recounting in detail.”
He was really glorying in his new found eloquence.
“Ok, ok,” said Kingsley putting his hands up in surrender. “So I had it coming!”
The crowd went beserk. Esteban looked around at the lights and the cameras. One of the cameramen was his foreman from work. He shook his head wonderingly at Esteban as if to say `I never knew you had it in you'. The studio audience were only dimly visible in the darkness behind the set lights. He recognised a few people he hadn't seen since school, standing on their seats whooping and cheering.
“Enjoy it while you can you little spic,” whispered Kingsley from the side of his mouth, smiling a canine grin. “That smart mouth of yours is gonna spit teeth, just you see buddy.”
The pandemonium died down eventually. Esteban suddenly had the feeling that things were getting out of hand. He hadn't intended to publicly flay Kingsley like he had. Something nasty was going to happen, he could feel it. A buzzing started in his head. He tried to ignore it as Kingsley asked another penetrating question but he could only watch his lips moving helplessly. Kingsley saw he was in trouble and moved in for the kill. He just wouldn't let up. He was sneering and spitting tiny droplets of water into the air which glistened silver under the spotlights as he alternately glared at Esteban and grinned at Camera 1. Esteban tried to get up but his legs were like jelly and he only managed to stumble sideways a few steps onto the settee, half on top of Ms. Grabendieb.
“Oh, I'm sorry Miss Grabbentit.”
He was trying to get off her but his hands seemed to have a life of their own grabbing and squeezing things they shouldn't no matter how hard he tried to control them. Ms. Grabendieb screamed in an ugly screech. Slick stood up from his seat and advanced menacingly.
“What the hell d'you think your doing Morales?”
He still couldn't disentangle himself from the hysterical medusa under him. Kingsley dragged him off, finally,” You filthy bastard”, and punched him in the solar plexus. Slick picked him up by the shirt collar and punched him square in the jaw. The jolt was incredible. The crowd was making such a noise he couldn't think, only stagger dumbly around the stage as Kingsley and Slick used him as a punching bag, back and forth, back and forth, each punch harder than the next. The punches should have hurt more but he felt quite removed. He watched mesmerised as another fist, hugely knuckled, came out of the darkness and crashed into his nose.
Esteban bolted upright in bed, sweat all over his back and the bitter taste of fear in his mouth. Getting out of bed was difficult. He dragged himself down the hallway to the kitchen for a glass of water and then stood there, holding the glass, staring into nothing, his eyes squinting against the unforgiving light. Stood there for more than ten seconds, then the spell broke and he went into the lounge and sat down at the micro.
III
The weather was more dismal and grey than it had any business to be on a weekend in May. Diego and Rodolfo were taking cover from the drizzle under the canopy of a newsagent next to a Turkish delicatessen.
“So your brother-in-law's going to be moving in different circles from now on Rodolfo?”
“Hey, hombre. If you move in circles you never get anywhere. Me, I follow my own path, not anybody else's circle. You seen the masterpiece they gave him fifty kay for? They're selling it here, have a look.”
In front of the newsagent was a stand with hundreds of very thin booklets all sealed in a plastic wrapper. The sign read:
THIS YEAR'S WINNING ENTRY
OF THE AMERICAN LITERARY
CRITICISM SOCIETY'S THIRD
NATIONAL ESSAY COMPETITION.
BY E.R.MORALES OF DETOIT
ONLY $5.
Diego paid his coin and took a booklet out of its wrapper.
“It's pretty thin isn't it?”
He opened it and there were two pages. The first was the title `An Hispanic Interpretation of the American Declaration of Independence by E.R. Morales.' He turned to the second page. It was entirely filled with hyphens.
