On the Other Side of the Bridge (19 page)

“Yeah, I heard that somewhere,” Lonnie said.

“I know it's easy to point a finger at the homeless and say, ‘That's what you get,'” Mr. Treviño continued. “But some people become homeless through no fault of their own. A woman leaves an abusive relationship and has nowhere to go, for example.”

“You know what's weird?” Lonnie said. “My dad likes to make fun of homeless people. He calls them druggies and con artists who are too lazy to find a job. But now we're homeless, too.”

“Well, your dad isn't totally wrong,” Mr. Treviño said. “Some homeless people
are
druggies and con artists. About a third of the street beggars here in Marsville are drug addicts or alcoholics. Another third are mentally ill. These are the people the city tries to help, by offering medical and social services. Then there are panhandlers the city refers to as ‘entrepreneurial homeless.' Do you know what an entrepreneur is?”

“Isn't that like somebody who owns a business?” Lonnie asked, thinking back to a story he had read about Milton Hershey, the man who founded the Hershey's Chocolate Company.

“That's right. Well, some so-called homeless people really aren't homeless. They live in an apartment or in a rent house, and they receive some type of government assistance, like a monthly disability check. Panhandling is their business. That's how they supplement their income. The city has a hard time dealing with this group because they don't want to be helped. As far as they're concerned,
they have a job — panhandling. Then there are the derelicts who prefer to live on the streets rather than in a shelter. They see themselves as modern-day cowboys who sleep under the stars and make just enough money to sustain themselves.”

“They're
vagos
,” Lonnie said.

Mr. Treviño smiled. “That's exactly what they are, Lonnie.
Vagos
.”

“How do you know so much about homeless people?” Lonnie asked.

“Well, our church works closely with the Helping Hand, a homeless shelter downtown. Sometimes I volunteer there on Saturdays, so I guess I've learned a thing or two about homelessness.”

Lonnie looked up at the clock. It was almost five, and tutoring time would be ending soon. “Excuse me, sir. I need to make a quick phone call.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Lonnie stepped into the hallway and called his dad. Not wanting him to know where he was, he told him he was staying late for tutoring, and asked if he could be picked up at five-thirty.

When Lonnie reentered the classroom, he showed Mr. Treviño his cell phone. “My dad needs his phone in case somebody calls about a job, and I've been able to keep mine 'cause it's part of his phone service package, and it doesn't cost extra for me to have it.”

“Don't put it away yet, Lonnie,” Mr. Treviño said. He drew his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through it. “I have a number I want you to give your dad. It belongs to Mr. Marriott.”

“Mary who?” Lonnie asked.

“Marriott. You know, as in the hotel chain. George Marriott is a deacon at my church and a real good friend of mine. He's also the director of the Helping Hand. I'd like for your dad to call him. The Helping Hand has lots of social service programs that may be able to help you.”

Lonnie added the number to his contacts list and then hesitatingly said, “Please don't take this the wrong way, sir, but I don't think my dad will call your friend.”

“Why not?”

“That's just the way he is. He doesn't like to ask people for help.”

Mr. Treviño leaned forward in his chair and stared intently at Lonnie. “Let me ask you something. Do you think your dad is suffering from depression?”

“I don't know,” Lonnie said, although he'd had his suspicions for a long time.

“Sometimes when people become unemployed, they fall into a depression that keeps them from trying to find work. Your dad's heavy drinking, his lack of motivation and his feelings of hopelessness are signs of depression. The Helping Hand can provide counseling and even prescribe medication, if that's what he needs.”

“I'll try to talk to him about it, sir.”

“Good. In the meantime, be patient with your dad. Don't take your frustrations out on him. If he can't be strong for you, then you're going to have to be strong for him. Do you understand?”

Lonnie nodded weakly. He looked out the window. It was starting to get dark. He thanked Mr. Treviño for taking the time to talk to him. As he walked out of the room, he noticed a wreath hanging on the door. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he said.

“
Feliz Navidad
,” Mr. Treviño replied.

Lonnie ran back to his school, where his dad picked him up a short time later. Once again, he dropped him off at the Twin Oaks Motel and drove away without telling him where he was going.

After his dad left, Lonnie walked down the street to the Chicken Shack.

The Chicken Shack was a run-down, yellow and red building that had once been a Dairy Queen. Lonnie figured they might not be as picky about who they hired as the Brownie's Coffee Shop or the Taco Bell, so he crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.

The moment he entered the building, the smell of greasy chicken assaulted his senses. A man and a woman were standing by the counter, waiting for their food. A pimply-face kid poked his head out the ordering window and in a monotone voice said, “Welcome to the Chicken Shack. May I take your order?”

“Is the manager working tonight?” Lonnie asked.

“Why?”

“I'm looking for a job.”

The kid handed the couple their chicken order, and they left to find a place to sit. “We ain't got no openings.”

“Can I talk to the manager, anyway?”

“He don't get here till seven, but like I said, we ain't got no openings.”

“You need a job?” Lonnie heard someone say.

He turned around and saw a man standing behind him, wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a red tie decorated with tiny Christmas trees.

“Are you the manager?” Lonnie asked.

“No, I need someone to rake my leaves,” the stranger said. “My yard man quit on me, and my back's too worn
out for me to get out there and do it myself. There's twenty-five dollars in it for you if you're interested.”

The kid behind the counter stared at them, and Lonnie wondered if he was disappointed that someone had offered him a job.

“Sure, but, um … can you make it thirty-five?” Lonnie asked, remembering what his dad had said about negotiating price.

The stranger frowned, and for a second, Lonnie thought he had talked himself out of a job. “Tell you what. Let's start off with twenty-five, and if you do a real good job, I'll throw in the extra ten.”

“Awesome. I'll have to check with my dad first, but I'm sure he'll let me do it. When do you want me to come over?”

“How about Saturday morning between eight-thirty and nine? That sound good to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's your name?”

“Lonnie Rodríguez.”

“Lonnie, I'm Sam Porras.” The man took a pen out of his shirt pocket and pulled a paper napkin from the napkin holder on the counter. He jotted down his name, address and phone number. “Talk to your parents, and if they say it's okay, call me.”

After Lonnie left the Chicken Shack, he realized he had forgotten to buy something to eat. It was probably a good thing he didn't. As bad as it stunk in there, he couldn't imagine that their chicken was any good. Besides, he was too excited to eat. Twenty-five bucks for a couple of hours' work? More if he did a good job? He felt as if he had just struck gold.

L
ONNIE AND HIS DAD ROSE EARLY
to eat breakfast at McDonald's. His dad was glad Lonnie had gotten a job, but he wanted to meet Sam Porras in person, although they had already spoken on the phone.

On the way to McDonald's, they stopped at a 7-Eleven, where Lonnie's dad bought ten dollars' worth of scratch-off lottery tickets. Lonnie thought it was a waste of money, but he didn't say anything. His dad was searching for answers, and if his only hope came in the form of lottery tickets, Lonnie had no right to tell him he couldn't buy them.

He mentioned the possibility of getting a paper route to earn extra money.

“No way, buddy. I'm not gonna have you out there at five o'clock in the morning, roaming the streets by yourself. It's too dangerous.”

“Maybe you could take me in your car, and we could throw papers together,” Lonnie said. “When we still subscribed to
The Monitor
, the paper guy used to deliver our newspaper from his van.”

His dad took a sip of coffee to wash down his sausage biscuit. “I don't know about that. I'm driving your mom's clunker, and if it breaks down, I ain't got the money to fix
it. Also, the price of gas keeps going up, so throwing papers by car don't seem worth the effort to me.”

He had a good point. But as much as they were struggling financially, Lonnie thought he would be willing to give the paper route idea a try.

His dad took a quarter out of his pocket and scratched off his lottery tickets. But as Lonnie had come to expect, none of them paid off.

“All I need is one lucky break,” his dad said, crumpling the worthless cards. “Just one lucky break.”

Sam Porras' house wasn't far from the motel. It was an impressive white stucco house, with high arched windows and a red-clay tile roof. Palm trees stood at each end of the front door, and potted chrysanthemums lined the terra cotta steps. It amazed Lonnie how different the homes in Mr. Porras' neighborhood were compared to the low-rent motels a short distance away.

Lonnie rang the doorbell, but no one answered. He rang a couple of more times, then knocked.

At last, a woman came out, holding a cigarette between her fingers. “You Lonnie?” she asked in a smoker's voice.

“Yes, ma'am. And this is my dad.”

“Come on in. I'm Thelma, Sammy's bookkeeper. Sorry I didn't hear you right away, but that doorbell's been busted for a while. I keep telling Sammy he needs to get it fixed, but you know how he is, always putting stuff off.”

She led them through the kitchen and out the back door. “You here to help?” she asked Lonnie's dad.

“No, I'm just dropping off my son. Where's Mr. Porras?”

“At the club, I would imagine.”

“The club?”

Thelma took a drag from her cigarette, then blew out a stream of smoke. “Sammy owns the Club Monte Carlo on Bickers Street, off I-27, which he might as well call home 'cause he's hardly ever here.”

“Does he book bands?” Lonnie's dad asked hopefully.

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Hold on a second. I'll be right back.” He rushed to his car, returning a moment later with a CD case in his hand. “I play in a Chicano band called Los Brujos,” he told Thelma, handing her the demo CD. “I thought maybe Mr. Porras might be interested in booking us for some gigs at his club.”

Thelma studied the CD cover. On it was a photo of Lonnie's dad, Gilly, Joe and Mario, posing with their instruments in front of what appeared to be a Spanish mission, but was actually the side of a restaurant called The Presidio.

“Well, Sammy usually uses DJs, but like I said, he does hire bands on occasion. I wouldn't get my hopes up too high, though. DJs are a lot cheaper to book than bands. Know what I mean?”

“I understand,” Lonnie's dad said. “But can you give Mr. Porras my CD anyway?”

Thelma shrugged indifferently. “Sure.”

Satisfied that Lonnie was in safe hands, he thanked her and left.

Thelma walked Lonnie to the shed and unlocked it. “Everything you need is in here,” she said. “Rakes, trash bags, brooms, leaf blower.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“When you fill the bags, sit them along the curb. The brush collectors are supposed to come by Monday to pick them up.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Felipe used to do the yard, but he had a family emergency in Mexico, so he had to leave right away. Until he comes back … if he comes back … Sammy needs someone to take Felipe's place. Think you can handle the work?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And quit calling me ma'am. You make me feel old.” Thelma took another puff of her cigarette, then tapped the ashes on the ground. “Sammy expects every leaf to be picked up. You got that?”

“Yes, ma'am … I mean, yeah, sure.”

“I'll be in the study. When you're done, let me know, so I can pay you.”

“Mr. Porras told me that if I did a real good job, he'd give me thirty-five dollars,” Lonnie said, wanting to make sure they were clear on their agreement.

“Yes, he told me how you hustled the extra ten out of him.” Thelma winked. “Good for you, Lonnie. I'll have your thirty-five dollars waiting for you when you're done.”

The job turned out to be harder than Lonnie had expected. He didn't know when the last time was that Felipe had worked on the yard, but there were tons of leaves on the ground.

Rake, scoop and bag. Rake, scoop and bag.

After a while, his back was killing him. At one point, Lonnie felt like going inside the house and telling Thelma he didn't want to do it anymore. But they desperately needed the money, so he kept working.

Rake, scoop and bag. Rake, scoop and bag.

Three hours later, he finished, having filled and tied twenty-four bags. He called his dad to pick him up, then went inside to collect his money.

“Ma'am? Thelma?”

She didn't answer. Lonnie peeked inside the study, but she wasn't there. A laptop sat in the middle of a long, mahogany desk, along with a Diet Coke can, a half-eaten granola bar and a glass ashtray with a lit cigarette leaning inside it.

While Lonnie waited for Thelma to return, he studied the photos on the walls. He assumed the kids in the pictures were Mr. Porras' children and wondered if there was a Mrs. Porras. Thelma didn't mention her last name, but Lonnie didn't think she was Mr. Porras' wife.