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Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
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Daniel A. Olivas
Pico Boulevard, October 1972
On Pico Boulevard it is hot, too hot, and smoggy
for October as bodies, large and small, stream out
of St. Thomas the Apostle Church.
¡Ay Dios mío! That priest, that priest! says Mrs.
Fonseca. He cannot speak Spanish worth a damn!
When are we going to get a Mexicano to say mass?
The stray, yellow dog barks near the votive candles
looking for attention and the children laugh as
they run to the empty lot three blocks down and
two over. Shit, Alfredo! Stay away from me, you
pendejo! I'm gonna'kick yo' ass, you pinche pendejo!
Alfredo throws a stone anyway and laughs hard.
Adriana, I understand your pain! My first grandbaby
came before the wedding, too! But it will be fine.
The siren shrieks as the gleaming red fire engine
streaks down the bustling street towards black smoke.
Come on, Mirabel. I love you, es la verdad! You can't
question that. But I've waited long enough, haven't I?
The siren is far now, at its destination, firemen
Fifteen thousand dollars! Can you believe it!
Feet hurt, too much perfume, rattling noise: honks,
Mi amor, what do you mean? You have my heart,
On Pico Boulevard it is hot, too hot, and smoggy
helping the helpless, another tragedy confronted.
in one fucking year! Selling this shit will keep
me in dinero better than any pinche college
degree. Hear me, Simón? Better than any pinche
Harvard. What? Shit, man. Don't give me that!
I've got it wired, man. Wired. Hear me? Wired!
laughter, coughing, cussing, cooing, church bells.
you know that! My heart! Believe me. I am not
lying to you. You are a wonderful husband, mi amor,
the best, es la verdad. I love you, mi amor. I do.
for October as bodies, large and small, stream out
of St. Thomas the Apostle Church.
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