Chapter one: J-rod.
It's break time. This is a temporary worker, day pay facility. Dudes show up, first come, first serve work. Daily. In the corner are some tables and benches. Dudes are talking. One guy chimes in, "Yeah, I know that hoe. I got this to tell y'all, though. You know J-rod, right?"
J-rod stands for Jose Rodriguez. He was from Jalisco. Jose was a halfbreed. Mexican, and American. Mamacita was Jalisco raised. His Spanish was weak. He always used English. J-rod was cool, though. He had heart. He always stuck to the pack no matter what. He was Las Chivas familia. He told me, him and his lil' mommy was going to have a humungous family. He used to box in Guadalajara. J-rod's from Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.
"You said that, hoe," a listener said jokingly.
"Stop being a lil' puto, and listen."
At 19, he wanted to be a boxer. His goal was to win the IBA Golden Belt Series.
"You heard of it? Youngsters got something," the listener smiles.
"Keep interrupting, and I'm going to slap the shit out you. Anyway." The coworker keeps telling the story.
In training, Jose won some area boxing matches. He hadn't heard about the big leagues, though, until some dude bumped into him in front of the taqueria. J. was cool, he took the fliers and actually read them. It was a call to a gym for fighters that were interested in the IBA. Jose called, and he got to go and meet the manager. It was quick. J-rod showed up, the manager signaled to him. They were in an office behind the gym.
The manager slapped on a weird, homemade face protection mask. He says, "Hit me with your best shot, Chula." J-rod, being a young go getter, takes advantage. Yap! He connects twice. The manager has no words. He smiled, simply. Jose answers, "Thanks, boss."
He became close to the manager's boy, named Guillermo. They called him G-mo. He was a member of the area boxing group called Chivas familia. J-rod did his thing. J. had potential. There's winning potential and then there's championship potential. So, Chivas familia wanted him to throw a fight. J-rod refused. You know, already breaking the rules. No sweat. He was drugged before the match, anyway. J-rod was beaten to a pulp. The referee gave him the ten count three times. The crowd was in it. They were chanting. It was a call to break him. It was all for show and bets. Jose was laying on the mat bleeding from his mouth as if he were at home, asleep, slobbering on his pillow.
Post fight, there was always a meeting at the area bar. In Jose's honor, his manager held a TITOS VODKA shot party. Lemon, limes, cherries, oranges, and salt were all over the place. Empty 1.75 Liter bottles lined up like soldiers on the floor by the bar. There were some hotties there, too. All the fighters were there. Jose got numb and limped home. He wobbled into his house and dropped on his couch.
J. shook awake and heard the rutcus outside. J. looked out of his window. Chivas was hanging out of the windows of a 1985 GMC Suburban K2500 Sierra Classic 4×4 350ci V8, brick red. It had been refurbished a handful of times. Guillermo hopped out first. Instead of making his way to knock on the door, he started yelling. "Come out here and ride with it, Jose!" Shouts turned to light threats.
J-rod was almost unconscious. He couldn't sleep, or drink anymore. He might as well finish his yard work in the backyard, he reasoned. J-rod found the broom. He slung it to the side. He strapped on the backpack blower, instead. "Let's get it done."
Las Chivas heard the leaf blower, faiintly, beginning to come alive. Guillermo led the pack to the half falling fence. They pushed in. Some climbed over.
Jose spun around, as he was trained to, quick, on his toes. Guillermo and his squad had spilled into his backyard, quietly. G-mo spoke, chillingly, "Únete a la familia o vete. Esto es todo para ti, hermano."
In his own yard, J. was presented with an invitation, but in a way that made him look at all the faces in his yard. A view he'd not forget. Guillermo says, "I'm not going to repeat, join us or leave?" It was an easy call, Guillermo had connections. He could make the must of whatever G-mo was stressing. It also looked like a can-of-ass-whooping soon to get opened up, on behalf of TITOS VODKA.
Jose Rodriguez joined Chivas familia fight family that night.
He kept training. Approximately, two weeks later, during a biweekly fight camp meeting, Guillermo, now leader of Las Chivas, elected to expand the families horizons. Literally. There were Chivas connections in Jalisco, Puebla, and Mexico City. G-mo exclaimed, "We are strong enough, Chicanos fuertes!" Guillermo, in hindsight, elected to push to Estados Unidos. "Punks pay to train. We train them. We work, but we fight harder," said Guillermo, looking solely into the eyes of those going to America to lay foundation for the family. "Jose Rodriguez is also going...," G-mo sipped from a highball glass with rocks, "...going to the States." He clapped J-rod, possessively on his v-shaped, fighter back. Then, he squared off playing, while he handed his drink to J.
Everything between that day and those days when Jose worked as a grass cutter in Santa Rosa had blurred together. He made it to America. He didn't swim across. He was on a luxury bus, asleep, the entire way. Getting to Estados Unidos was one thing. Getting a job was another thing. Keeping a good paying job is a motherfucker.
Jose Rodriguez is a leaf blower, or Professional Lawn Care Technician. He paid partial rent living with some coworkers. They all did some sort of light industrial work. One homey was a bartender, though, always having cash money. He'd had a few friends from Chivas familia. Him and Jose had a few, potential, fight gyms to square away with G-mo. Basically, he had to send the funds.
On this particular one morning, J-rod had a hangover. The dancefloor smoke in the club that night before was real smoke. The morning dragged by until break. The taco truck hooked him up, and he walked into the air conditioned building. A supposed work captain was yelping, "This job is cool, nice pay."
Jose says with a mocking tone, "The fuck is bullshit, but you'll get some scrap." His amigo smiled at him.
The captain spoke louder, "if you can, you have to be fast, and be able to multitask. Hack whatever is assigned by the Super. Maintain the grounds of industrial, commercial, and public property. There are other installation and enhancement activities, too. You get extra compensation after any difficult activities. Interested; follow me."
There was a shiny, new white work van with a brand new trailer hooked up to it. There were two vans. All of the equipment was amazingly immaculate. Cap' handed out all new work gear. He added, "The ride is extra long, get ready to go, now."
They loaded up, testing the shocks on both vans.
One of the bystanders speaks up, "How long is this punkass story, anyway? I heard this shit before. They stole all that fucking equipment, burned one of the vans. They got paid, bro!" His partner laughs and they smack hands.
The narrator keeps telling the story, despite the haters trying to bust his balls. "Long story, short, one of the vans was unaccounted for and the other van made it back to the Temp. yard on a flatbed tow truck. That's it out there," pointing to a forklifted, burned, mound of metal. It had bags and other trash accumulated around it, already. "No lie, bro. That was like a month ago, too."
The guy shook his head slowly as someone said loudly, "We still got fifteen minutes left." Some guy had his hat on, already.
In the background, a leaf blower let loose.
Everybody got back on the job, anyway.
