My father, George De La Garza, Sr., in South Korea in 1954
This is my father’s recollection of returning home from military service in Korea.
I had thought of joining the military when I got older. My older brother, Jesse, did. He was 17 and failing out of school when he enlisted in the U.S. Army in the summer of 1942. They shipped him out to the Pacific region. He was stationed on some remote island, when he killed his first person. He said it was at night, and Jesse and his commanding officer were hidden in some thick foliage – looking for…whatever. Then they spotted a Japanese solider approaching. Jesse’s CO ordered him to kill the guy…“or I’ll kill you first and then him.” He was still 17 and had no choice. Jesse saw other casualties – adults and children; soldiers and civilians – in the wicked and bloody chaos of World War II’s Pacific theatre. He caught malaria, before returning home.
Jesse received a slew of awards, including a Purple Heart by Gen. Douglas MacArthur himself. He got an honorable discharge and quickly came back to Dallas. One Saturday morning me and Jesse, our younger brother, and some other friends visited a local barbershop. As sat conversing in Spanish and English, the shop’s owner approached and – in his heavy Scottish brogue – ordered us to leave. “We don’t cut Mexicans’ hair.”
Here we all were – born and raised in the Dallas area, not causing any ruckus – and a foreign-born man tells us to leave. At some point over the next couple of days, a massive rock found its way through the large glass window of that shop. I swear I don’t know how that happened!
That experience kind of left me bitter about this great country and the freedom it was supposed to have. I no longer had any desire to join the military.
Then came Korea – and I had no choice.
I had just turned 21 in January 1954, when my father drove me to the Greyhound bus station in downtown Dallas – just like he’d done with Jesse more than a decade earlier. I had rarely been outside of Dallas and never outside of Texas. I arrived at Fort Bliss in El Paso, a little scared and not knowing what to think. After basic training, they put me on another bus to Los Angeles, then a train to Seattle, and finally a ship to Korea.
From what I understood later, Korea wasn’t nearly as bad as World War II, but when is there ever a pleasant war? More importantly I understood why Jesse never wanted to talk about his own experiences.
By then the U.S. armed forces had been (forcibly) integrated, so men of all shapes, sizes and colors served together. I developed close friendships with many of my Black comrades. I could envision these connections lasting a lifetime.
It was only two years, but it felt like decades. We left Korea on a ship for Seattle. Once there we had to take a train down to Los Angeles. I stood with my Black buddies on the platform, before we had to board. My friends started walking away from me.
“Hey, guys, where are you going?” I asked, still innocent – naïve actually.
“We have to go to the rear of the train,” one of them called back to me.
The rear of the train – where the Negroes had to go.
Oh yeah, I told myself. We’re back in America – the land of the free.
Everybody has that one (maybe two or more) quirky relative who defies explanation. In my family’s case, that’s actually more of a rule. But when my little sister, Mandy, would say she’d see people, we honestly didn’t know what to say. No one likes to admit there’s mental illness in the family, right? I mean…as a kid, everyone has imaginary friends. But Mandy said she didn’t just have imaginary friends; she saw people. It was cute – until she was a teenager.
Then it got scary. ‘What’s wrong with Mandy?’ was a common question at family gatherings. We couldn’t say; no one seemed to know…what was wrong with Mandy.
“We’re cursed,” Mandy told me; she was about twelve. “Our family is cursed.”
“Yeah, we are,” I remember telling her that first time; thinking about the family events where someone got shit-faced drunk and started fighting.
“I’m serious!”
I tried to be understanding. But when someone says your family is cursed – especially if it’s a relative who has a reputation for saying shit like that – how do you respond?
I’m the oldest of the brood, and Mandy is the youngest; four boys and two girls. She was my baby; tiny even for my 12-year-old arms, when she was born. I helped to raise her, along with my brothers. Our parents were primary commanders, but I was second in charge. My brothers were tough to raise – as you would expect with boys. But Mandy turned out to be even more of a handful!
I don’t know what it was about her, but she could be so difficult. My mother always said it was because we girls tend to cause drama. Daddy would just sigh, as if saying, ‘Tell me about it,’ yet not wanting to be too honest.
I really can’t remember the first time Mandy said she saw someone who wasn’t there…in her bedroom. She pointed to her dolls. “Over there,” she told me.
But it was after our maternal grandmother, Martina, died. “Mamatina” – the witch of West Texas. Damn, that bitch was mean! And nasty. The droplets of blood from the garage into her kitchen said enough.
“You need to get out of here when you graduate,” my Aunt Nicoletta told me. I was 18 and had just attended my senior prom with a boy who said he felt nauseous every time he stepped into our house.
“That part of the family is too strange,” Nicoletta muttered. She was an in-law to my mother’s side. “Everybody knows that. They just won’t say it.”
I started saying it to myself before I graduated high school. Only a few other people would say it out loud.
Especially after meeting Mandy. “Our family is cursed!” she kept saying. I don’t know how many times I heard that from her.
My father would just quietly bob his head up and down. Marrying into my mother’s family was probably like an initiation into a biker gang. He had to endure a lot of misery and, once in, couldn’t escape. If anything, though, he injected a semblance of normalcy into the chaos. I’m certain he was glad when Mamatina died. Without making a sound, he let out a massive breath. I could hear it through the moaning at Mamatina’s funeral. Even the priest looked relieved. In this instance, Mexican mysticism didn’t blend well with Roman Catholic purity.
What would Jesus do?! Hell, what would Mother Mary do?!
I was certain Mamatina’s death would solve a lot of problems. And it did – for the most part. I had just earned my bachelor’s, and I noticed the air in the house had lightened.
Then, as I approached 30 and still not married, Mandy shocked me. “I’m pregnant.”
This had to be a joke, I told myself. But I uttered the eternal question: “What?”
“Yes.”
Raymond was a boy she knew from high school. He wasn’t weird…just plain and ordinary.
“He’s the perfect one,” Mandy said, “the perfect father.”
I then said the next best thing, “Um…okay.” I never knew what perfect was supposed to mean.
Raymond was present for the birth and even named the baby – Rose. It seemed ideal – and appropriate: a sweet-smelling blossom with thorns and a blood red pallor.
Mandy’s fingers looked white the moment she gripped the rails of the crib. Rose was about two months old. “We’re cursed,” I heard her mumble.
I sighed – not too heavy – my head bobbing slightly. “Okay.”
But it wasn’t…okay.
Mandy kept saying it – more than she ever had. “We’re cursed.” Our family was cursed.
Ordinary Raymond just ignored her, as he swaddled Rose in his skinny arms. Rose never cried, just sort of grunted. When she seemed distressed, Raymond was the only person who could calm her down. He’d pull off his shirt and press her tiny head against his chest; the left side – where she could hear his heartbeat.
Then came that one Saturday afternoon. I took some groceries over to the house for Mandy and Rose. Raymond was at work, and no one else was there.
Mandy looked disheveled, but was notably calm. I guess she’d been up all night.
That word – ‘cursed’ – kept running through my mind.
What does that mean?
“You know,” said Mandy.
Well…I did. In some ways, I understood what she meant.
Cursed…that one word hung over me like a chronic itch in the middle of my back, while wearing a heavy winter coat and driving.
That baby…Rose.
Mandy’s child.
Daddy’s head bobbed up and down as he thumbed through the TV channels.
Finally…I looked at Mandy. “What curse?” After all these years, I had never thought to ask her.
Her eyes flinched.
Rose fell silent.
“You know,” Mandy whimpered.
The air grew heavy. I mean…REALLY HEAVY.
Cursed.
Please! I entered Rose’s room and approached the crib. She looked…well, red.
Heavy air.
I turned back to the doorway and stepped into the hall.
Cursed?
What?!
Heavy air.
Really.
Heavy.
Air.
I turned around…looked at the crib.
Rose was quiet…still.
And – I saw someone.
Something sharp and cold plowed up into my spine. That itch.
I felt dizzy.
There…standing beside the crib…someone.
Some…thing.
Cursed.
A curse.
Someone…some…thing…a curse.
Something.
Smiled…it smiled…grinned…at me.
Mine.
What?
Mine.
I looked at Rose.
Mine…she’s mine.
Her?
Rose remained still.
It grinned…the someone…something…standing beside the crib.
It grinned again.
Her…this child…mine.
“I told you,” Mandy said, standing at the doorway.
That…something…blood red skin.
Heavy air…really…heavy.
I could hear Raymond’s heart beating.
And Daddy nodded.
The something grinned…mine. Its bony fingers gripped the crib railing. Blood-red skin. Mine.
“Thank you,” muttered the pastor, already looking more tired than when the service started. “Now, would anyone else like to say a few last words before we proceed to the cemetery?”
I took a deep breath and stood. “Yes, I would.”
“Very well.”
I looked briefly at the crowd and swallowed hard. “I have to say my friend was a unique individual.”
Obnoxious little bastard!
“He never seemed to meet a stranger.”
Only made friends if they could do something for him.
“He could be funny and engaging.”
And rude and stupid!
“I always had the best time with him.”
If he didn’t run out on the tab – which he did more than once!
“We even thought of going into business together at one point.”
He had the looks, but I had the brains.
“A graphic arts business.”
Bastard wanted to turn it into a porn thing.
“It was a great idea, and I knew we’d go places with it.”
After a while, I wanted his ass to go straight to hell!
“I think we did our best, but you know how everything looks great on paper!”
He kept screwing up things!
“Still…I was sad when he got sick.”
Payback, bitch!
“I just keep thinking of those better times.”
Good one.
“And wished…in a way, he was still here.”
What?!
“Yeah, I do.”
Okay, now you’ve lost it!
“I know that sounds odd.”
That’s one way of putting it!
Everyone looked at me…confused.
Now you have their attention.
“Yeah…despite everything, I already miss him.”
More quizzical stares.
You know they’re going to talk about you after this is over, don’t you?
“I don’t care.”
Oops! Didn’t mean to say that out loud!
“Excuse me.” I couldn’t help but notice the raised brows and twisted mouths.
Might as well keep going.
I turned to the photo beside the coffin. “Goodbye, my friend. I hope to see you on the other side.”
And you really mean that?
“I really mean that.”
Several people turned to look at me. I didn’t care. As big a pain in the ass as he was…I already miss my friend.
You know the adage – it’s not the gift; it’s the thought that counts? Or some poetic shit like that. Anyway, I still feel the best gifts are cash, food or alcohol. Yet some people don’t think normally and go off the rails when choosing gifts. I’m one of those who don’t think normally – as my loyal followers well know – but at least I’m practical when it comes to gifts.
Still, here are a few things the Chief definitely does not want or need for Christmas. Of course, I truly appreciate that thought, but again, cash or wine are better, along with a back massage and maybe even a good old fashioned obscene phone call. Surprise me!
You’re a fool for asking. You induced so much pain and suffering to so many people – millions of people.
I know. I realize that. And I’m so sorry for that.
Too late.
I really am sorry. Please, believe me! I’m truly remorseful!
Again – too late.
But I’m not the only one here – right?
Of course not. People from all over are here.
And are they – ouch! – are they going through the same thing as me?
They’re enduring some unpleasantries.
Are you going to keep me in this box forever? Oof!
Yes.
Oh please, no! Please, please let me go! I beg you! I’m so sorry for what I did to all those people! I truly am!
All those millions? Some 6 million or more.
Yes!
I doubt it.
But I am! I truly regret what I did to them.
Too late.
I know there are others who did worse than me! Who killed more! You know that as well, don’t you?!
Yes – of course I know that. You think I differentiate among the numbers?
I don’t know. I would think so.
I don’t.
But – who are you?
You know who I am.
I – I think so. But I can’t see you. I’ve never seen you. I can only hear you.
You still know who I am and you know why you’re here.
Please, please let me go! Please let me out of this – ouch! – out of this box. I can’t stand the poking and prodding anymore! I know what I did was so horrible. I understand now. I know that now. And I’m so sorry for it! Please, please believe me!
I don’t.
How long will I have to stay here?
Through the end of time.
What time? When will that time end?
Time never ends.
Oh please! That can’t be true!
It is.
How can it not end? Everything must end.
Not time.
Oh please let me go! I implore you! Ouch! I beg of you! I’m truly sorry for what I’ve done. I am. Oh please believe me. Ouch!
No.
Please, please! Hey…are you still there? Hello? Hey…please…please let me go. I think I’m bleeding. Please! Please! I’m so sorry for all those people! Please! Please believe me! Hello?! Oh please, make it stop. Please! It’s burning! Ohhh! Ah!
As all my followers well know, The Chief is always asking the tough questions about our world. For example, how do sexual harassment policies work in adult film production companies? I realize that’s a hard one to think about, but just try. You never know what you’ll come up with!
I will now refrain from posting anything for the rest of the weekend.
Here’s an interesting dichotomy. Please look closely at the photo above. Is this what the tail end of middle age is all about?
Occasionally I receive mailings from a company that installs walk-in tubs – the kind used by, you know, old and or disabled people. But, for the last couple of years, I’ve also been receiving periodicals from “Parents” magazine. I suddenly feel like I’m one of the three last people on Earth – and the other two are a drug dealer and a politician.
Why?
I’m 58 now and am starting experience the early signs of an aging physique and mind: occasional loss of balance, difficulty squatting down and getting back up, saying whatever comes to mind with little regard for the consequences. In some respects, I feel like both my body and mind have tired of me and want to lead separate lives. For the most part I don’t blame them.
But note to self: I DON’T NEED A FUCKING WALK-IN TUB!!!
Not yet anyway.
The “Parents” magazine is more shocking. I don’t know how I got subscribed. It’s not like that time back in the mid-1970s when some neighbors – impressed with my curiosity and precocious nature – bought us a two-year subscription to “National Geographic”; a subscription I maintain to this day.
I literally had to do a double-take when I saw “Parents”. It didn’t seem to be a complimentary issue; a trial run. My name and address are on the label!
It’s a true irony, though. I always wanted to be a dad. To get married and settle down into a nice comfortable suburban life. But I also wanted to be a world-famous scientist, an architect, an actor and singer. Some things just don’t happen because there weren’t meant to happen. Oh well…
I’m still a writer! Something I definitely wanted to do with my life!
After peeling off the labels, the two above-mentioned items go into the recycle batch. And I go into the kitchen to grab some wine!
Foreign Born Job Recruiter: I need you to clitify something on your resume.
The Chief: Um…excuse me?
JR: I need you to clitify the period since 2015.
TC: I still don’t understand. What is it about 2015?
JR: Your work history since 2015 needs to be clitified.
TC (thinking salaciously without breathing hard; after all, I’m talking to a woman): Okay, I still don’t…um…I still don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Um…clitify? What…what do you mean?
JR: Since 2015 – your work experience needs to be clitified. What were you doing?
TC (beginning to breathe hard – er – heavily): Since 2015? I was working freelance – contract – temporary. I often consulted on writing projects.
JR: Ah! Okay, that’s what I wanted to know. You were a consultant, right?
TC (pausing, breathing slows): Well…yes. (Now I get it!) I consulted on various writing projects. (Brain functioning more thoroughly now; as in 2+2=4.)
JR: It’s just not clitified on your resume.
TC (getting juicy again, but maintaining composure – long pause): Clitified?
JR: Yes.
TC (still maintaining composure but damn it’s hard! I mean, difficult!): Okay…(brain synapses finally engage). Oh! Clarify!
JR: Yes.
TC (uttering derogatory comments about trying to communicate with foreign-language speakers): Okay, I see what you’re saying now.
JR: Yes, you need to add that – consultant.
TC (lightheartedly and still annoyed): Okay, I will.
TC (reworking resume to CLARIFY work experience since 2015): Why the fuck can’t they outsource job recruiting to somewhere relatively close to the U.S.?! Like, say, Montana.
NOTE: Yes, I’m usually shirtless when working from home (unless I’m on a video call), but I do make it a point to wear (clean) underwear, which is size extra medium. Not that you needed to know, but my writer’s intuition tells me your filthy mind was curious. Look, people, this is a family blog! Get your minds out of the fucking gutter!
Janie managed to lift her yes; the migraine having magically disappeared. The light from the floor lamp beside her normally would have reignited the pain. But, she thought, the wine must have already started working its own magic – along with whatever Heath had put into it.
He stood a few feet in front of her; bare-chested and holding…something in his left hand. She couldn’t make out exactly what it was. And she didn’t care. She couldn’t help but salivate over his rocky torso and recall how much she cared about him. How things had seemed so perfect all this time. If college was supposed to be a coming-of-age/adventure/find-your-true-identity, Janie had achieved a perfect score.
And now, it had come to this. These things weren’t supposed to happen. In a perfect universe. If such a place existed. In this universe.
His lips trembled – the way they did when he first asked her out. The way they did when he asked her to marry him. So…what was he going to ask her now? “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
She saw his eyes glance to the wine glass she held in her left hand. And unexpectedly let go.
It tumbled to the floor.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry about…what?”
“I love you. But…”
She tried to lean forward, yet her body seemed paralyzed. The lines in Heath’s torso began to crisscross. “What?” she spit out.
“I can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sorry it came to…this.”
The last thing she heard. Her head knocked to the right, and her body slumped.
A few spots of wine dotted the chair where she sat.
Heath took a deep breath. “Oh, God. Forgive me.”
She was heavier than he thought. He pulled her limp body off the chair and into the kitchen.
Getting her into the boat along the pier was even more difficult. He moved only by feel and by moonlight. The blue-black darkness hid enough, he felt. Lewisville Lake was a long 20-something miles away from the condo. A trash dumpster would have been closer…but too obvious.
So he chose the lake.
The flavor of the alga-laden water swaddled his throat. Heavy, heavy.
He grinned. They both liked the lake. They and all of their friends. How many good times did they have out here? Memorial Days, Fourth of July, Labor Days…many summer days. Just about any weekend they felt like coming out here. Just about any time they felt good about…something. Or didn’t feel good. The lake was always a refuge; always a place to escape from whatever.
That odor of the water…heavy, heavy…like Janie’s body.
Even getting the inflatable boat out of the garage had been a chore. Everything had become so difficult.
He had shrouded her in an old burlap bag and hoisted her into the boat. Actually a giant…raft? Seemed like it. An oversized pool toy colored blue and green. Thick material. It wobbled…but made little noise as he slipped it into the water.
No moon. Clouds covered it.
The water undulated quietly. The mossy scent had become strong, almost too strong.
What great times they had out here.
How had it come to this?
Despite the coolness of the night air, sweat coated his bare torso. His cargo shorts were also damp with moisture. He paddled out as far from shore as he could, using the little rubber oar that came with this glorified pool accoutrement.
He finally stopped.
And breathed.
Strong water smell.
Without looking he grabbed the end of the thick rope laying beside him. The rest was already wrapped around…the bag. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Rolling her over the rounded edge of the boat almost tipped the entire thing over. The sound of her form hitting the water made the loudest noise in that serene night.
The rest of that rope quickly uncoiled itself from its spot beside Heath’s foot…before the last few inches wrapped around his ankle…and knocked him off balance.
He fell into the water with an even louder splash.
The boat tipped upwards onto its side before smacking back down into place.
A whirlpool sprung up where Heath entered the water.
And, as Janie’s burlap-clad body sank into the lake, Heath didn’t see – he couldn’t see – her hand poking through the bag…grasping the rope.
Chief Writing Wolf 