Chapter 3

My case manager sent me to my doctor.

My doctor sent me to a heart specialist.

The heart specialist sent me to a therapist.

The therapist told me, “You had an anxiety attack.”

“A what?” Twenty-four years old, healthy as a fucking bull, and I had an anxiety attack? Wasn’t that for little, sickly nervous people? I almost stood up and left the office.

“Wait, Salvador. Let’s talk about this,” the therapist said. “How long were you in prison?”

“Five years,” I said.

“Five years in a cell with one other guy. One hour in a yard a day. That right?”

I nodded.

“And you think you wouldn’t be affected by suddenly being in the company of hundreds of people, all doing whatever they wanted, without any bars or guards to control them? You’re fooling yourself. What you had? That was an anxiety attack.”

His words hit me hard. Later that night, I talked to my homie Spider about it. “He said I had an anxiety attack caused by the fear I couldn’t control the situation.”

“You mean, like, you’d lose control? Like the Incredible Hulk?” Spider asked.

“No, no, nothing like that,” I said. “Like I couldn’t control the people around me. I couldn’t predict what they would do. Maybe one of them might push me onto the tracks. Or another one might pull out a gun. Or all of a sudden one of them might start swinging and then there’d be a fight—”

“So, basically, a fear you couldn’t control the people around you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s what he told me.”

Spider shook his head. “¿Y ahora, qué? ¿Estas loco?”

Crazy. Am I really crazy? “Maybe. I don’t know.”

My case manager made me schedule regular appointments with the therapist. I didn’t like it. The therapist wanted me to open up. To talk to him about everything that was bothering me. We had these sessions in prison but that was different, easier—group therapy. I didn’t mind that so much. But sitting in a room with just one other person talking about yourself—that’s weird as hell. I stopped going to my sessions three weeks in. My case manager shook her head and sighed. “You’re not going to get better this way, Salvador.”

The question still nags at me.

Am I broken?

Shit, isn’t everybody broken?

Some people just like to touch their broken parts more than others, to rub them over and over again, like jacking off. I want to leave my broken parts alone.

I push myself to take the trip to Santa Monica again and again. I force myself to walk through the busy train station. I put myself in the middle of the biggest crowds and slowly, silently get used to the feeling of drowning in people. Whenever I get dizzy, I pinch my arm through my hoodie until the skin bruises. I tell myself to get a grip. I call myself useless, a piece of shit, an unlovable loser.

I force myself to do this.

I pinch the same patch of muscle on my arm. The dark bruise fades. I put new ones on top.

I need to work.

As if it’s afraid of me, my anxiety slowly recedes to some dark corner in my head.

The train doors open. I catch my last bus to Defiance Gym. It closes at midnight but I always get there at eleven and start on the bathrooms and offices. By the time the last clients and trainers clear out, I’m on my own and can work on the equipment in the main part of the gym.

I come in through the back door and stash my backpack in the owner’s office. He’s sitting in there on the phone. He’s a young guy, a little bit older than me. His parents are loaded. They fronted him the money for this place. Rich takes care of rich just like poor takes care of poor. Fine by me—he always pays me on time.

I take off my hoodie, put on my Defiance T-shirt, and check the clipboard the owner and the trainers leave for me. The clipboard holds notes and special requests. Today, they want me to check the shower drains in the women’s locker room. They’re clogged with hair. Nothing new. They’re always clogged with hair. I don’t see anything else so I head off to the storage room to get my cleaning supplies.

“Hey, Sal.” The owner’s name is Barrett. Last name, White. He wants me to call him Barry. I’m not even kidding. Barry White puts the phone back on the receiver and leans back in his swivel chair. “How’s it going?”

“Good, boss. Going good.” I put on a happy face for him, like I do for all the bosses I’ve ever worked for. I’m a quiet guy so people tend to assume I’m gloomy. A long time ago, I learned that it pays to appear cheerful. People begin to assume you’re approachable. You know, a thug, but a friendly thug. You want them to say things like, “Sal? The gangster? The ex-con? He’s so nice. Let’s give that fucker a raise.”

Barry always wears designer gym clothes and the latest Nikes. He’s wearing a baseball cap with his gym logo on it, the word Defiance with a big fat D. “Listen, Sal, I’m about ready to take off.”

“All right, boss.” I clock in and put my card back in the slot. “You have a good night.”

“Actually, listen. A friend of mine just opened a bar nearby. I want to check it out. How about a drink? One or two before your shift starts?”

I look at the time. My shift starts now. If I go out with him, I’ll be behind on my work for the rest of the night. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea—”

“Sure it is.” Barry stands up and claps me on the back. He takes the expensive hoodie hanging on the back of his chair and puts it on. “Let me buy you a beer. No problem. Let’s go.”

I like routines. I like schedules. The boss asking me to join him for a drink is going to mess up my whole routine including my workout, but what am I supposed to say? He’s already shutting down his computer and zipping up his sweater. He takes out the keys to his Raptor and holds the back door open for me. “Ready?”

I nod. “All right, boss. Sure.”

The bar is just a few blocks away. Barry’s truck is brand-new, fully loaded with a leather interior. Just driving to the bar feels like a luxury for someone who doesn’t have a car. During the short trip, I think about how many F-Series trucks my brother and I lifted, how satisfying it felt to turn the screwdriver in the ignition and hear that engine start up. We liked Ford trucks, and we loved stealing Lexuses. Easy to chop, easy to move. We were fast. We worked clean. Never caught.

Well, just one time. That last time.

“Here we are.” Barry knocks me out of my trance.

Abbot Kinney is a hip neighborhood, and tonight all the street parking is taken. Barry doesn’t hesitate to drop his truck off at the $20 valet.

I nod at the puzzled valet and follow Barry into the bar. The sign above the door says bay city brews.

“You good?” asks Barry.

“Yeah,” I say.

I look around. This bar is dark and fancy, all wood. You can smell the fresh varnish on the walls. There’s a long row of taps along the back of the bar—no liquor bottles, just beer.

I follow Barry to the back of the room. He’s fist-bumping and waving at people. They all know him either as their trainer or as a local business owner. I notice everyone down to the last server is white. A couple of them do double takes when they see me, but hipsters love tattoos and the fact that my arms and neck are covered with them, along with the fact that I’m wearing a Defiance T-shirt and I’m with Barry, gives me a pass to their bar. If I showed up here alone, I’m one hundred percent sure I’d still be bounced in a heartbeat.

Barry slides into a booth and takes a look at the menu. It’s big, a binder, pages and pages of beers. While he decides, I lean back and scan the crowded room. I see pretty Westside girls with their expensive clothes and straight white teeth. Computer nerds in glasses and plaid shirts. And some big bodybuilding monsters, a couple of whom I recognize from Barry’s gym.

“Here.” Barry slides the menu over to me.

“What does this place serve?”

“Local craft beers. Some made here.”

I look at the binder in front of me. The beers have long descriptions. Each beer has a fancy name, the alcohol content, and the price. None are less than eight dollars. Following each description, there’s a list of items the beer supposedly tastes like. Floral. Intensely hoppy. Hints of dark chocolate and coffee. Blackberry essence. Ripe bananas.

What the hell is this?

Doesn’t beer just taste like beer?

All I’ve ever had is Bud. A Corona or a Dos Equis or two. Whatever was in Regina and Spider’s refrigerator. Whatever was in the cooler at the party. I never really thought about how it tasted.

“What are you getting?” I ask casually, trying to hide my confusion.

It’s noisy inside the bar so when Barry answers something like “A fly!” I nod and say, “I’ll get that too,” even though I have no idea what a fly is.

A pretty waitress comes over and takes the order from Barry. Afterward, he makes a point of checking out her ass as she walks away.

“Not bad,” he says.

I nod and shrug as if to agree. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. This woman looks nice but she doesn’t do anything for me.

I like them shorter. Angrier. Red lipstick definitely helps.

“So there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Barry says.

My vision of Vanessa disappears. I blink and sit up. Immediately, my mind goes all over the place. I’ve screwed up somehow. Someone’s complained. He’s not happy with my performance. His nephew is coming in from Nebraska or some shit and needs my job. I’m on alert. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“You’ve been with us about six months now. The trainers and me, we love the work you do. Always on time, detail oriented, no drama. And you know when you started I gave you permission to use all the gym equipment when you were done with your shift.”

Yeah. It’s a perk I’ve taken full advantage of. My favorite part of the job. After I’m done cleaning up, if I rush, I’ve got an hour and a half to work out on my own and take a shower before I start back home. This gym is almost $150 a month for membership. As long as I finish before the first clients show up, Barry said I have full run of the equipment.

Which could mean only one thing. “Do you want me to stop working out? Has anyone complained?”

Barry laughs and waves his hand. “No, no, nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. In fact, I’d like to ask you something totally different.”

“What’s up?” I’m really wary now.

“I’ve seen how you work out. You know a thing or two.”

I shrug. “I read a lot about weight lifting when I was locked up.”

“Didn’t you lift when you were inside?”

“No. California got rid of weight rooms in prisons a long time ago.”

“Really? So how’d you stay fit?”

“Routine.” Barry looks confused so I explain. “In our section, all the homeboys, we shared the same routine. Every morning, we’d make the beds, clean the cells, clean ourselves. Everything had to be spotless. After that, we had a two-hour workout. One guy called out all the exercises. Push-ups. Crunches. Lunges. Anything you could do in a five-by-eight cell, we did. I got really into it. I got books on bodybuilding and read every single one. That way, when I got out, I’d be able to start lifting.”

“So you learned it all on your own?” Barry asks. “No help?”

“I guess so.”

Barry nods to himself. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Tell me, how’d you like to take on some clients of your own?”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“I’m losing a trainer and another’s going part-time, so we’ll have some extra clients. What if I trained you to be a trainer?”

Me? A trainer? Is he joking?

I search his face. Whether he’s serious or not, I have to handle this right. I know I’m not cut out to be a teacher. I don’t have the patience, and I don’t want to hold anyone’s hand. “That’s really kind of you, boss, but I can’t afford to lose any wages while I learn something new. I’m saving up for—”

“I’d pay you a trainer’s wages on day one.” He looks at me like he can’t believe I’m turning him down. A part of me can’t believe it either. “It’s on-the-job training,” he says. “Come on—you know you’d be great at it.”

I don’t know what he’s seen or heard about me that would make him think I’d be good at training people. He’d be disappointed if he knew how much I hate being around people. Well, maybe hate is not the right word. Being around people doesn’t make me hate them. Being around them makes me tired. And more than that, you need to be an upbeat motherfucker to be a personal trainer. That isn’t me. “I’ve never considered it,” I say carefully. “Won’t people be turned off by…my appearance?”

Barry snorts. “The tattoos? The fact that you’re fucking yoked? No, Sal. No one will be turned off by that. The bigger, the better. These guys, these pale office-worker guys with dad bodies and minivans? They’d kill to look like you.”

His words make me feel weird. It’s not a strong feeling, just a deep-down shiver. I’m not like his clients. I didn’t buy this body. My muscles are from five years of sit-ups and burpees in a cell. From weights lifted alone, just me trying to beat down my anxiety one repetition at a time. They’d kill to look like you. Guys who look like me, they look like me because a lot of the time, they have killed. They have taken a life. They had to look like me to survive.

But my boss is looking at me like a very excited puppy dog. If this motherfucker had a tail, it would be wagging.

“Let me think about it,” I say.

“Think about it?” His eyebrows shoot up. “It’s a shit-ton more money, Sal.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “Just…just give me some time.”

Barry leans back, takes off his hat, and scratches the back of his head. “You’re breaking my heart.”

“Not long. A week.”

“All right. All right, bro. Think about it.”

The waitress comes to our table along with a skinny white dude in a trucker cap, glasses, and a graying beard. They’re carrying wooden boards, each loaded with small glasses of beer. “Gentlemen, here are your flights,” she says.

Flights. Not flies.

Barry fist-bumps the skinny white dude after they put the boards on our table. The waitress smiles and bounces away, winking at me.

“Alan, meet Sal. He works at the gym with me.” I notice Barry doesn’t say whether I’m a janitor or a trainer. “Sal, meet my buddy Alan. He’s the owner of Bay City Brews. We’ve known each other since he was my chemistry teacher at Samohi—Santa Monica High School, right down the road.”

“Nice to meet you, man.” Alan has a Southern accent, just a little bit.

We shake hands. I lean back as Alan sits down at the table next to Barry. They chat and laugh and ask about each other’s families and I feel like I’m eavesdropping. Anxiety bubbles inside me and my knee shakes a little. I force it to be still. I don’t want it to look like I don’t want to be here, even though I don’t.

To distract myself, I listen carefully. I learn from their conversation that the bar has been open two months. It’s been Alan’s dream for many years. He’s been saving up money for a long time. He worked part-time at a home-brewing store. I’m not sure what home brewing is but I don’t want to butt into the conversation with dumb questions so I hang back.

“So what are we drinking?” Barry asks.

Here we go. Alan starts to point out each of the little glasses, which I notice are different shades of brown, both light and dark. “We’re making this all here now,” he says.

He says a bunch of words I’ve never heard before, and more of those descriptions: coffee, hoppy, citrusy, refreshing. He uses the words frankincense and myrrh, which I kind of remember from Christmas, but I’m not sure what they mean. He talks about leather. Beer that tastes like leather? He’s really excited and assumes I know the difference between a lager, an ale, and a stout. After Alan’s long explanations, Barry asks, “Where should we start?” And Alan points out the first glass.

This is a lot of beer. I got drunk at my welcome-home party, of course. I got drunk at Ruben’s daughter’s wedding. Twice in six months. I haven’t had a beer in a while. I take a sip of the first glass, and Alan is right. It’s refreshing. It’s good.

“That’s our Dogtown IPA.”

“Dogtown?” I say, impressed. “Like the gang? Out by Chinatown?”

Barry looks at me oddly. “No, Dogtown like Venice. Like Dogtown and Z-Boys? The Zephyr skateboard team?”

I shrug. “I’m not familiar with them.” I guess just like there are two versions of Los Angeles, mine and his, there are two versions of Dogtown.

The next drink is a little bit darker. I drink it. I copy Barry, close my eyes and try to taste lemon like Alan recommends. I feel like an idiot. If anyone from the neighborhood saw me right now, I would surely get a beatdown.

“Did you taste the lemon?” Alan asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

I take smaller and smaller sips as Barry throws the glasses back. They’re small pours but they add up. For a guy who lives on chicken breasts and protein powder, the alcohol and carbs are getting to him fast. Soon he’s giggly and silly. Drunk.

Eight beers in and we get to the last one. It’s dark as coffee.

“This is a gingerbread stout,” Alan says. “This is my newest one. Only available here, and only seasonally.”

I’ve never had beer like this. To be honest, every single one tastes really good. But this last one tastes like a memory, although I can’t remember what.

“You’re tasting molasses.”

I don’t know what molasses is. But it’s so good, I finish the glass.

Barry orders a pint of it and quickly polishes it off as Alan goes on and on about his operation. He’s a nerd, but a likable one, and I enjoy his company more than I thought I would. He’s into what he does.

What is that like? Being into something so much that you can’t stop talking about it.

I remember dudes in the pinta who wouldn’t shut up about cars or jainas or their mom’s pozole. One veterano doing twenty-five to life wouldn’t shut up about piñatas. I shit you not. His dad made piñatas, I suppose, and he wanted to start up the business again when he got out. Most of the time, people would tell him to shut up already about los pinches piñatas and what do you call a piñata full of shit because that’s what you are? Me, he didn’t bother me. It felt good to see sunshine shining out of some people in a place that didn’t get much light.

Alan asks me, “So what do you think of these?”

“I think they’re good. Really good.”

“Do you drink a lot of beer?”

“Not really. When I can get it. Just regular stuff. Nothing like this.”

“Do you want another? A fresh one? You didn’t finish these. They’ll be warm by now.”

I hold up my hand. “Nah, I’m good. I gotta work later. But thank you.”

Alan nods and slaps Barry on the back, causing him to splash beer on his hoodie and start giggling like a chick. It would be a funny sight to see if I didn’t have the horrible feeling that now he’s my responsibility.

“Barry’s a lightweight,” Alan says to me. He mouths water to the waitress and she brings two glasses over. “So tell me, which of the beers did you like best?”

I point to the last one, the dark one. “This. I really liked this.”

“Feliz Navidad,” he says.

“What?”

“That’s what I’m calling it. Feliz Navidad. I want people to think about Christmas when they drink it.”

“Do all your beers have names?”

He nods. “It helps people to remember what they’re drinking and what to order again when they come back.”

I get that. It’s the same reason we got names when we were kids joining the gang. People remembered us. We got our new names tattooed on our skin, like a signature. Like a brand.

“That beer tastes like something I used to eat when I was a kid.” I’m not sure why I say this. Maybe I’m drunk too, but I don’t think so. I just feel like opening up a little, and that Alan won’t judge me if I do.

“What was it?” Alan asks.

“There was a bakery near my house when I was growing up.” I look at the dark drop left in the bottom of the glass. I drink it down, and there’s that memory again. An old one, from when my sister and my mother were still alive. My dad was still working at the slaughterhouse and my brothers and I were all still in school. “A Mexican bakery,” I say. “They sold a type of bread…it was dark brown. Sweet. In the shape of a pig. It had a raisin eye.” I let the flavor linger in my mouth. “This beer tastes like that. Exactly like that.”

Alan adjusts his glasses and studies my face. “Is that bakery still open?”

It’s in the neighborhood, but I haven’t been there in years. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Can you bring me one? I want to taste it for myself.”

“You want a puerquito?” I laugh a little, thinking about how far a little brown pig from East L.A. would have to travel to get to the Westside. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” says Alan. “Bring me one.”

I like this Alan dude. “All right.”

Barry has been leaning over his empty pint glass. He lifts his head. “Guys—”

And then, right before he can get the next word out, he falls out of the booth and splits his head open on a chair.