I was tagged in this post by the conscience of my writing, Sabrina Vourvoulais. The blog tour is “Meet the Character.” It answers the eight questions at the end of this email with a link back to the blog of the person who asked you to participate and the a link forward to the people you yourself ask to participate (if you choose to do so). As you can see from #7, it is expected that this be about a novel in progress, but really, for me, if you have a character you are devoted to and want to talk about, then by all means spill.
It was weeks after the alien attack before someone even thought about Little Dopey’s car and when it was remembered, of course it was Oso who brought it up. That vato was always sliding in here and there, getting what he could get, slick-like. No one knows why they called him Oso, it should have been Rat, because that’s what he was, a rat skulking around the sides of things, watching for an opportunity then dashing in and stealing a choice piece of whatever. No one really liked him, but he was familia, so they kind of had to have him around.
In the 1970’s, we lived off of Florence in Southeastern Los Angeles, in an area called Cudahy that was so crappy we called it Crudahy. There was nothing good in that town. Nothing. It was economically depressed. There was nothing but roach-infested, cheap tract housing and even crappier apartments. There were a few “real” houses but they too, were nothing to write home about and just stood there as hold outs to a time before tract housing for steelworkers. That end of the L. A. River was nothing like the Los Feliz part of it that had delicately tiptoeing egrets, green rushes and the hills of Griffith Park surrounding it. No, this side of the river was all concrete, stink, florescent green algae and junk.
It is my 52nd birthday…
I am always a little introspective most days but my birthday has always been a quiet day meant for reflection. Maybe it is the winter in me that wants to burrow under the covers, warmth and darkness of myself and just think, find answers, remember people and events.
At every party I sit in the back. Once in a while, I do that cholo two-step thing with one of my cousins or some ruca that feels sorry for me. I lift my big panza up of whatever chair is about to break under my weight, listen to it groan, then shuffle off to pull my fists together and slowly, clumsy as a bear, move my feet.