Chicano Frankenstein, page 10
Pretty soon Fernando’s father, Miguel, figured that Fernando knew all there was for a ferret to know about hunting for food. So Miguel would let Fernando go out on his own to search for something good to eat. This is when Fernando and I would meet and play.
One day I was lolling around the nice, warm dirt waiting for Fernando. The wildflowers had recently bloomed into beautiful bursts of yellows, purples, and reds. A family of quail scurried about, and the fluffy white clouds blew across the brilliant blue sky. Suddenly, I heard Fernando calling me. He was speaking in perfect beetle. I looked up and saw him standing near a large pile of rocks.
“Fernando!” I said as loudly as I could. But he didn’t hear me. Suddenly, the ground started to shake and rumble, and I thought to myself that some large animal must be stomping close by. Then I realized that this was no animal! It was an earthquake! Then I noticed that the pile of rocks above Fernando started to shift, just a bit. The earthquake had set the rocks in motion. They started to teeter and Fernando didn’t notice what was happening!
“¡Temblor!” I yelled. This time Fernando heard me. He ran in my direction as the rocks came crashing down and landed where Fernando had been standing! Fernando ran even faster and eventually reached me.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He was out of breath. “I’m fine,” Fernando finally said.
“Oh good!” I said.
“I’m so lucky you’re my friend,” he said.
Is there a moral to my story about Fernando? I don’t know. All I know is that he is a wonderful friend even though we are very different. And wouldn’t the world be a boring place if we were all exactly the same? I think so. What do you think?
The man had read the book perhaps a hundred times since his reanimation. He’d found the battered cardboard box with his meager, government-issued belongings in the transitional housing he lived in before starting his first job and had enough money to rent an apartment. And each time he read the book, he heard the soft voice of an older woman with an accent similar to Faustina’s mother’s. But the man did not recognize the voice in his head—he had no idea to whom it belonged.
The man turned to the frontispiece of the book. Below the title was the name FERNANDO OCHOA written in block letters in alternating green and red crayon. He traced each letter with his right index finger. The man closed the book, examined the cover one more time—appreciating the colorful painting of the smiling young ferret with his friend, the beetle—then carefully placed it back into the battered cardboard box, closed the lid, and set it on the desk rather than returning it to the drawer. He then touched the business card as if to make certain it was still there. The man pulled out his phone and looked at Faustina’s flight schedule for tomorrow. He knew that he should explain his plan to her in person, not by text or phone. But Faustina needed to prepare for her deposition, so it would need to wait until tomorrow night when she was back in town. The man turned off the desk lamp with a loud click.
Chapter Fifteen
THE MAN CLOSED HIS apartment door and entered the cool evening. He stretched his legs and twirled his arms in three clockwise circles. The man took a deep breath, put on his hoodie, and then started on his nightly run. He turned left on Hurlbut Street toward Pasadena Avenue and then turned left again. The man let his legs stretch out in long strides as his muscles slowly warmed up. He concentrated on his breathing. The man imagined Faustina’s beautiful face and wondered how she would react when he made his request of her. Would she storm out of the room? Would she smile and say, Yes, of course, how could you even doubt my decision? Or would Faustina remain silent and simply stare at this man who would dare to ask her for such a thing?
NBC NIGHTLY NEWS SATURDAY WITH JOSÉ DÍAZ-BALART
JOSÉ DÍAZ-BALART:
In other news, early this morning, the FBI raided the headquarters of one of the nation’s largest reanimation facilities in Oxnard, California, seizing computer hard drives and records a month after President Cadwallader formally shut down the industry, though allowing for a repurposing of the technology. For more, we turn to NBC correspondent Emilie Ikeda for the story from Oxnard. Hello, Emilie.
EMILIE IKEDA:
Hello, José.
JOSÉ DÍAZ-BALART:
What can you tell us about this FBI raid?
EMILIE IKEDA:
Well, José, the scene here at Clerval Industries in Oxnard is now calm, but as you can see in this tape from earlier this morning, the FBI was swift and thorough. I have with me president and CEO of Clerval, Akilah Hosseini, who agreed to answer a few questions for us. Ms. Hosseini, why would the FBI raid your facilities, and do you think it was politically motivated?
AKILAH HOSSEINI:
Thank you, Emilie. We at Clerval Industries have always followed protocol when reanimation was legal, and we have complied with the new law and stopped our reanimation program with a move toward using the technological breakthroughs for other medical treatments, such as multiple transplant surgical techniques.
EMILIE IKEDA:
But what have been the allegations, if you know, to support the FBI search?
AKILAH HOSSEINI:
Well, there were some breaches in protocol early on in the reanimation program, that’s true across the industry, but we at Clerval Industries moved quickly to put in place best practices and prevent any further breaches, and to cure past breaches where possible.
EMILIE IKEDA:
What sort of breaches?
AKILAH HOSSEINI:
Well, you know, the most common breach involved a few rogue employees making contact with reanimation subjects after reanimation and sharing personal information about the subjects’ past lives, that sort of thing. All done with good intentions but against protocol. But again, we moved quickly and put in a fail-safe system to prevent this from happening again in the future. There have been no recent reports of these kinds of breaches.
EMILIE IKEDA:
Then why has the FBI gotten involved now?
AKILAH HOSSEINI:
I hate to say it, but I do think it’s political. With those midterms looming, I think the raid was meant to grab headlines and make a political point. But it’s not fair to our employees, who worked hard under the prior law and are now readjusting under the current reanimation ban. And even with the repurposing of the technology after the ban, we did have to trim our workforce to be leaner and more efficient to adjust to the new situation. But over time, we may be able to ramp up again as new breakthroughs are made.
EMILIE IKEDA:
Next steps for you?
AKILAH HOSSEINI:
We will continue to fully cooperate with the FBI because, quite frankly, we have nothing to hide. And if we find any additional breaches, we will deal appropriately and swiftly with those then.
EMILIE IKEDA:
Thank you, Ms. Hosseini. José, back to you.
JOSÉ DÍAZ-BALART:
Thank you, Emilie. Interesting report. Let’s see how all of this develops.
Chapter Sixteen
THE MAN ENTERED THE Walgreens and strode to the back of the store. He saw the line and was relieved that only a woman and her daughter were in the queue. He had seen them before at the pharmacy, so he nodded to them. They stopped chatting, looked at the man, and simultaneously offered him a smile. When the man took his place behind them, the daughter—who looked no older than eleven or twelve to the man—spoke in Spanish to her mother. The man listened intently, pleased by the gentle manner she had with her mother. The daughter reassured her mother that the pharmacist would have a solution to her mother’s reaction to the medication. The mother said she needed the medication for her heart, and she was afraid that the pharmacist might tell her to stop taking it altogether. The pharmacist suddenly said, “Next customer!” The mother and daughter approached the pharmacist, and the daughter took control of the conversation.
“My mother is taking this medicine,” said the daughter as she handed the pharmacist a small plastic bottle. “She takes it for her heart, but it’s making her swell in her wrists and ankles. And it is uncomfortable.”
The pharmacist smiled and examined the bottle. As the pharmacist started to offer an opinion, the man looked up at the fluorescent lights that buzzed softly but relentlessly. He counted the number of tiles that surrounded the rectangular light fixture. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. An even ten. Three on the long sides of the rectangle, two each on the short sides. The same as last time, of course. The man blinked and looked down again at the woman and her daughter as the pharmacist handed the bottle back to the daughter, smiled, and said, “Tell your mother not to worry; her doctor will likely change the dosage, so call her doctor when you get back home to get the ball rolling.”
“Thank you,” said the girl. Her mother smiled and nodded at the pharmacist, a look of relief spreading across her face. The mother and daughter turned and walked away.
“Next in line,” said the pharmacist.
The man came up to the counter. He noticed for the first time that the normally empty countertop now sported a large, plastic grinning jack-o’-lantern filled with mini Tootsie Rolls. The man looked into the pharmacist’s eyes, gave his name, and asked for the second half of his medication. The pharmacist nodded and went back to the bins of prepared prescriptions. The man counted the bins: six across, five from floor to ceiling. Thirty bins total. The same as his last visit. The pharmacist came back to the counter empty-handed, typed something into the computer, and then shook his head. The man’s left hand trembled, and beads of perspiration emerged on his forehead and upper lip.
“I am so sorry,” said the pharmacist. “There is still a shortage of that medication. As I said the last time you were here, there’s been a run on it because of that law the president signed. You know, a hoarding, and some supply chain issues. We simply don’t have it in stock.”
“But you only filled half my prescription the last time I was here, and I need the other half,” said the man. “You told me that it would ‘blow over in a week or two, and the supply will loosen up again.’ Those were your exact words. I’m running out.”
The pharmacist looked down at the countertop. The man waited for an answer.
“I shouldn’t say this,” began the pharmacist, keeping his eyes trained on an ink stain, “but you might consider other alternatives just until the supply loosens up.”
The man shifted between his left foot and his right. “Alternatives?”
“There’s a fear—that is really unfounded, if you ask me—that the manufacturers will stop making the drug,” said the pharmacist as he looked up to meet the man’s eyes. “But I am certain that will pass in time. Just like the run on toilet paper, flour, bottled water, meat, and other things during the early part of the pandemic, remember?”
The man did not remember because the pandemic happened before his reanimation. But he nodded anyway, since he had read about the bizarre hoarding that had no relation to actual shortages.
“What alternatives do I have?” said the man.
“Until it sorts itself out,” said the pharmacist in a gentle voice, “you could ration your medication—you know, cut your pills in half—just so you don’t go cold turkey.”
The man nodded. There was logic to this solution.
“And as I said last time, there will likely be a generic soon,” said the pharmacist. “Anyway, the good thing is you don’t have to pay until the rest of your supply is here.”
“Yes,” said the man. “Okay. I will consider the alternative. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” said the pharmacist. “There’s one alternative I do not suggest, however.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t buy stuff off the internet. There’s all kinds of unscrupulous sellers out there who are peddling dangerous fake pills. I saw a horrible story on the news the other night. Let’s just say you don’t want to take that risk.”
The man nodded and looked at the pharmacist. The pharmacist smiled and said, “Next in line!” The man turned and stepped away from the counter. He averted his eyes from the other customers and quickened his stride. He felt his throat closing, and he gulped at the cool air as he left the pharmacy.
The man found his car and got in. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The man thought about what the pharmacist had said, cutting his pills in half. That would have to do for now. The man opened his eyes and blinked. Okay, he told himself. That’s what I’ll do. He closed his eyes again and conjured up Faustina’s beautiful face in his mind’s eye. The man’s breathing slowed. His grimace slowly morphed into a small smile. After three minutes, the man opened his eyes, started his car, slowly backed out of his spot, and eased himself toward the parking lot’s exit.
Chapter Seventeen
ARTHUR PAGE BROWN DESIGNED the San Francisco Ferry Building in 1892. A transplanted New Yorker, the young architect didn’t live long enough to see the completion of his grand design. Two years before the Ferry Building’s opening in 1898, Brown died at his Burlingame home, succumbing to severe injuries suffered in a runaway horse-and-buggy accident. He was thirty-seven years old. Brown left behind his wife, Lucy, and three children. Lucy and her six siblings were the children of Sara Agnes Rice Pryor and Roger Atkinson Pryor of Petersburg, Virginia. Roger had been a general in the Confederate army but started a new life for his family after the Civil War by moving to New York City. Roger became a successful attorney and prospered, eventually becoming active in Democratic Party politics. His hard work and political connections culminated in his appointment as a justice to the New York State Supreme Court. Roger was among a number of influential Southerners who had relocated to the North and became known as the “Confederate carpetbaggers,” though he eventually renounced the Confederacy. His wife, Sara Agnes, also added to the city’s social and intellectual fabric by becoming active in civic affairs, founding several heritage organizations, and writing novels, histories, and memoirs. Her first memoir, Reminiscences of Peace and War, was enthusiastically embraced by the United Daughters of the Confederacy, which encouraged Southern women writers to defend the Southern cause. Sara Agnes promoted the idea that the Civil War had nothing to do with slavery, but that the average Southern soldier fought to resist the Northern invasion. She died in 1912 at the age of eighty-one, predeceasing her husband by seven years.
The Ferry Building had been the second-busiest transit terminal in the world—second only to London’s Charing Cross—until the 1930s, when the Bay Bridge and Golden Gate Bridge were completed. The magnificent structure suffered decades of decline until it was reimagined as a world-class food market and home to Book Passage, one of Faustina’s favorite bookstores in the Bay Area. As a law student at the University of San Francisco School of Law, she would escape legal studies and browse the bookstore’s extensive collection of novels and short story collections. And a few steps from Book Passage was the restaurant Cholita Linda, where Faustina would inevitably order a delicious plate of picadillo and an icy agua fresca. Hours would slip by as she got lost in a new book and slowly consumed a meal and drink that reminded Faustina of home. She eventually would head back to her apartment and get down to the business of studying law, though refreshed and feeling more whole because of her visit to the Ferry Building, whose history Faustina did not know.
And today, thirteen years after graduating from law school, after the deposition that ended early and on a pleasanter note than she had expected—with opposing counsel suggesting they discuss settlement very, very soon—Faustina had ordered her favorite dish of picadillo but with a Modelo Negra rather than an agua fresca, since she had earned a nice beer with her meal. Because she was famished, Faustina had reversed her traditional practice of first visiting the bookstore. But once refreshed, she promised herself a visit to Book Passage to look for that perfect literary purchase to keep her entertained in the Lyft, at the airport, and then on the flight back home. For now, Faustina enjoyed the food, drink, and bustle of the lunchtime crowd.
And just as it did in law school, this simple dish of sautéed ground beef with green peppers, tomatoes, and onions served with a side of rice and pinto beans brought Faustina back to her childhood in Los Angeles, where her mother brilliantly stretched a limited budget to feed her three daughters—Carolina, Belén, and the youngest, Faustina. The tight budget was not for want of employment. Verónica taught first grade at Saint Thomas the Apostle Grammar School where the three girls were enrolled, thus allowing for discounted tuition. And her father, Agustín, had a solid unionized job as a mechanic for the Metro as a team leader, doing his part keeping Los Angeles’s massive bus system healthy and running. But life was expensive. The mortgage on their small house plus clothes, food, insurance, car payments, and everything else kept them on a tight budget. Her mother’s picadillo and similar budget-smart meals like chilaquiles helped stretch the household’s dollars. And this frugality served the family well when the three Godínez daughters attended college and—in Faustina’s case—law school. So, in a sense, Faustina’s success rested on the simple but delicious Mexican dishes of picadillo, chilaquiles, and other frugal meals.
“Fausti!”
Faustina’s reverie was shattered by this somewhat strained male voice that rose above the din of the lunchtime crowd. Only one person called her Fausti. She looked up from her picadillo and beer. Nicolás struggled to get past the hungry patrons but finally broke through and found a spot to plant his feet near Faustina’s table. Faustina did not stand to greet her ex-husband. She simply looked up from her lunch, nodded, and waited.
