Antonio was the youngest of six, the only son, the spitting image of his dear departed father, so there was no end to the tears when he decided to seek his fortune in California. His mother grabbed his hand and wouldn’t let go. “Pack a lunch,” said Julia, the sister he liked most, rhythming it like “Get a room.” Antonio grinned at her intervention and shoved another piece of cake into his mouth. Rosa, his oldest sister, was the car donor, the former owner of the yellow 1979 Cadillac Seville that was loaded dup and waiting on the driveway. The other sisters gave him smaller presents: a shaving kit from Luisa, a book from Bella, a stack of cassettes from Gabriella, the youngest. “I recorded introductions to the songs,” she said, “like I was a DJ.” Antonio hugged her, kissed his other sisters and his mother, chucked Julia on the shoulder, ran back up to his room to grab the bags of weed and pills he figured he’d have to deal when he first got out west. It was the last day of the 1980s, and he got in the car nearly certain that within a year he would be starring in a movie or at the very least a TV show, the toast of the town, headline material. He was wrong. It only took six months. And he was right. The headlines happened a year to the day after his drive from home: “TV Cop Found Dead,” him smiling in his headshot below, and him shot in the head and half-out of the Caddy, which was parked on the wall of the Tujunga Wash. Gabriella’s cassette was still playing in the car when the cops arrived, one song ending, her DJ voice taking over. “That was Love and Rockets,” she said, the joy in her voice frozen solid in another time.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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