ENGLISH 422

The beer with Chango after class had resulted in an invitation to meet Delgado Contreras.  Ron and Chango had easily established that Delgado was indeed the man shot in the head and cradled by Ron until helicopters evacuated all of them on one of those final days of fighting in Vietnam.
    A week later, gangs of teenaged children, shouting epithets at each other from every wall in the near-downtown neighborhood, reminded Ron of the forts he and his friends had built of junk from all of their garages when they were in grade school; and how macho they had seemed when they stapled a piece of hand-lettered paper over the old blanket serving as a door.  “The Stingers,” it had said,  “Keep out.”
    Ron’s hands were deep in his pockets against the blowing wind as he walked down the barren street with Chango at his side.  He nearly laughed out loud at the momentary importance of that long ago sign and how insignificant it seemed in the world of today’s kids, their graffiti, and their fierce, street wise society.
    Ahead, in the early dark of mid-fall, were a dozen children all around  twelve to fifteen years old.  They all wore the same cap - the younger ones wearing it backwards, the older with the bill sideways.  They leaned against a deserted store front in a variety of wide, oversized, ragged jeans, constantly tugging at them to keep them in exactly the right place.  Most were smoking.  None were smiling.  Some were engaged in loud hand gesturing conversation.  A radio on the ground screamed out hard rock.  They seemed sullen, listless, and hostile in a practiced sort of way.  Ron couldn’t help seeing them as the foolish children they were, attempting to look like foolish adults.  Their game was a primal one, punctuated now and then with violence and drugs that he could see in their eyes, and he wished for the power to stop the senselessness of it all.
    “Hey, Chango,” one of them called as the two passed by.
    “Sambo.  What’s it?”  He answered in the neighborhood lingo, looking into the mistrustful eyes of a local tough.
    “Nothin’.  Everything’s cool.”  The youth’s mustache was new and thin.  A gold chain earring hung from one ear.
    Strong and tough himself, Chango was never part of a gang as he grew up, but he was respected by all of them, partly because of the hero-status of his uncle.  When his peers were into gang activities, his intact family demanded decent grades, and his free time, like his brother’s, was spent working in his father’s grocery store.  He was tightly reined in, but left alone by the neighborhood youth, especially after the loss of his father two years ago.
    The group parted slowly and reluctantly, relinquishing a slice of concrete through them, eyeing the white man, who was old enough to be Chango’s father.  The group sealed quickly back together and turned to track the twosome’s destination.
    “New friend, Chango?” came a voice, buoyed by the false confidence of his tight group.
    “Yeah, man,” said Chango looking hard at the face of the speaker.  “New friend.  Fought in ‘Nam.  Saved Delgado’s life.  Hell of a guy.  Any other questions?”
    The encounter made Ron nervous.  His fingers jingled the change in his pockets.  He thought better of it and instead fingered his car keys.  He was surprised by the tough, staccato answers Chango had thrown at the youth who had asked the question.
    “White man in ‘Nam?” asked a faceless voice as the two of them crossed the side street.  Ron suppressed a comment about these kids and ‘Nam, a hell hole that few of them could come close to placing on a map.
    “Plenty of white men in ‘Nam brother.  Plenty that had to stay there, too.”  Chango turned and belligerently re-crossed the street, his shoulders squared up and fearless.  Ron watched and waited on the opposite curb.  “Now wave it off, and go ask your mamas what and where ‘Nam is, ‘cuz your life here is golden compared to what you call ‘Nam.”  Chango rejoined Ron as the group grew silent, having spent their hollow cynicism, and became children once again. 
    They walked along the side wall of yet another deserted building where weeds grew from the joint of the wall and sidewalk, adding green and life but speaking louder of decay and neglect.  At the alley, they turned left past the boarded-up rear of the same store, then into a recessed doorway.  A tiny back hallway of the grocery store led to the back steps of the Huereras’ apartment.