look out for herself. When Ramon said cruise, he meant by foot. So we walked on over there, and by the time we got there, it was hot out and we were all hot too. Lamberto lived in the second story apartment. There was a basketball hoop in the drive, where kids were playing. To get to the apartment, we had to go up these wooden stairs by the side of the building. Ramon knocked. A few minutes later, a woman answered saying, “i,Quien es?” and peeking out from behind the chained door. “Ah Ramon,” she said opening the door all the way and letting us in. She had long wavy blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a turquoise jogging outfit, running shoes, and an old Christmas apron. She had flour all over the front of her sweatshirt. She whispered something in Spanish to Ramon and gave his hip a little squeeze as he walked by. She looked us over, and then went Cause it wasn’t Ramon alone, but his way o f being cool that made him magnetic and indescribable like some smellyou remember, but don’t know from where. back into the kitchen, where we could hear the soft sound of her shoes across the linoleum. Ramon led the way into the living room. It was dark and smelled stale-sweet like a mixture of old cigarette and dope smoke. Lamberto was sitting in an armchair, watching the Saturday afternoon fights on tv. The stereo was also on, playing some kind of classical music that didn’t seem like Lamberto’s taste in music at all. Lamberto sure had some fine stereo equipment, though. It was stacked up all over the living room, some of it still in its original boxes. There were also tape cassettes scattered everywhere, along with empty beer bottles. Lamberto, in his undershirt, was mixing some kind of drink. He poured some vanilla extract into a rounded shot glass, then some rum, in equal amounts. He filled the rest of the glass up with milk, and stirred it with his finger. When we came in, he motioned for us to sit down on the couch. We did, and he sat there drinking and watching tv, and we sat there waiting to see what would happen. I could tell Ramon was nervous cause he kept tapping his fingers on the arm of the sofa. Then someone else came to the door, and the blond woman led him into the living room too. He was carrying a cardboard box and looked at us nervously. “He’s cool, he’s my brother,” Lamberto said in English, because this guy was white. The guy still looked nervous, but he set the box down in front of Lamberto. “Now let’s see what you got,” Lamberto said, opening the box. He lifted out some tape decks, taken out of cars. “They still got serials?” The white guy shook his head no. Lamberto turned them around, checking them, then set them down. “The Beach Boys?” he read. “The Rolling Stones? Naw, I don’t want this crap.” Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 37
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