Ken Hada is a fourth generation Oklahoman, descendant of Danish and Hungarian immigrants: Gypsy poets, barn dance aficionados, art lovers, amateur philosophers, wheat farmers, preachers, teachers and common-sense craftsmen.

“These poems, acting as spare parts themselves, go into the making of one smooth-running, powerful engine.”

 - Diane Glancy

Author of Pushing the Bear

Backyard Marriage | by John Paul Jaramillo

 

Just before I was born, my Uncle, Lolo Ortiz, planned a wedding in one afternoon, all while drinking beer. He spoke out loud to a small crowd of chivatos that had formed in the garage.

“Mira, the backyard will be open and we’ll keep the guitar players in the garage,” Uncle Lolo explained. He stood in the doorway with a cigarillo in his mouth, and he kept adjusting it underneath his moustache. “We’ll move all the cars out and we’ll cut all the grass down and the patio and the driveway out from the alley will be the dance floor,” he said. “We’ll make it all look real suave.”

“We’ll keep the alcohol in the kitchen,” Chapulin added.

Chapulin was Lolo’s friend and John Relles’ best man. Of the three men he was the skinniest Chicano and had the thinnest arms and legs. He was twenty-five and had the general expression and build of a young boy.

 “No booze until after the wedding, cabrón,” Lolo said. “This is a wedding and I want to save it from all of that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chapulin said. His face held a child’s deep grin. “I’ll keep a couple of six packs just in—“

“Are you deaf, cabrón,” Lolo said. “I don’t want anyone drinking until everything is all done and over with. “

Just then Chapulin kicked at the Abuelito’s dog that had been licking at his pants. The dog growled in pain and then ran out back to his food bowl and blanket out on the concrete.

“Hey, cabrón,” Lolo said. “Don’t be kicking my family’s dog.”

“Well, tell the motherfucker not to be licking at me.”

 The men followed the dog out back. “And we’ll be sure to tie up the dog,” Lolo said.

“What about the bride, cabrónes,” John Relles said. “What will the bride tell me when I tell her all of this?”

“In her mind, cabrón, she’ll just have to get used to it,” said Lolo. He had three months growth to his beard, and he wore Levis and a plain white t-shirt with a pocket over his big heart. In February he was twenty-six, three years older than John Relles—the oldest of the entire crew—and he’d been living with the Abuelito’s since losing his position at the steel mill. He did not know that for some people that was failure. He had been living in the basement for six months, and he had been drinking every day of it. First he said he drank because he had seen the last of his luck. Then he said he worried and missed his brother John Relles, and then on John Relles’ return it was all a celebration. Then I learned he drank because of a lost girlfriend. But the family assumed it was sadness and habit.

 “Well, she’ll just have to get used to it for a while,” said Lolo. “Without any money, cabrón, what else do you want to do?”

While they walked around the yard, gulping from their cans of beer, Lolo was buzzed and had to concentrate to light cigarette after cigarette, explaining the whole ceremony to John Relles and their friends. He had been planning for months, borrowing and hustling ideas from his friends, from anyone who would bite, guessing at the position of tables and of borrowed chairs underneath the largest apple tree, the location for Father Dwyer to perform the ceremony, and also where the pictures could be taken.

That day he explained the whole situation again to more Compadres—his Tia Archuleta and his cousin Kiko—over the back fence. But Uncle Lolo noticed that John Relles had paid little attention to the details of the wedding until then. Uncle Lolo assumed that his brother was pissed at the whole disgraceful situation, and that he had been avoiding the wedding project over at the garage where he worked with Uncle Santiago to devote all his time in worrying about the wedding. And for two weeks Lolo said John Relles had lost sleep, turning over and over again on the cot in the basement next to Lolo’s bed, muttering something in Spanish that Uncle Lolo could not quite make out no matter how hard he tried. The dreams would blow John Relles out of bed like a shotgun blast and scared Uncle Lolo in a way that only one who served in los soldados during Vietnam could understand. “You OK, cabrón?” Uncle Lolo would scream, but the young groom never answered, could never answer. But I’m sure John Relles’ worry softened in the mid-afternoon sun, while Lolo stood and made specific plans for the ceremony.

 

 

Abuelito had his rocking chair near the side of the house in his usual place, that’s where he drank and cussed. He had always gone out there to get away from the pinche family and drink his rum and RC Cola. It was summer and the air was warm—the apples were thudding from the trees. If you were to go out there some afternoons, I was told, he would be sitting and wearing those big wide ties of his tucked into a tight red sweater. Abuelito was a drunk and called the drink a limon. He’d sit there and puff on his pipe, making smoke rings for the kids, and he’d watch his sons while they’d work on whoever’s car they happened to have up on blocks in the back alleyway. No matter what the sons had going on, Abuelito would inform them of its imminent failure. One time they had John Relles’ Ford up on blocks, trying to get the exhaust system to open up and get the car sounding like a beast, and Abuelito told them, You’ll never get that shit going, cabrónes. Or he’d say, you’ll never get the thing started, cabrón, or you’ll never get that piece of shit going like a new one. To him the neighborhood was just one nest full of cabrónes. It had been that way when the steel mill would go through a layoff or one of the many shut downs or the union would have a lock out. Then he’d say, those cabrónes are fuckin’ up my mill again. The whole neighborhood just sat on the porch or in the back and was defeatist just like Abuelito, no matter what the subject. Uncle Lolo and John Relles were both a product of that. And despite Abuelito’s eyesight, he could see the men that day and knew their plans to take away his best son as the Army and the war once had. Lolo said Abuelito sighed deeply that afternoon, he’d had it up to his nalgas over this wedding, and so he hiked up his pants and took his best pipe and pouch of tobacco and he moved the serious work of drinking inside.

 

 

 “How much you think this is gonna cost, Lolo?” John Relles finally asked.

“I don’t know, manito,” Lolo answered. “I’ll ask the Abuelitos for fifty and see if they give me twenty.”

“Ask for a hundred,” said Chapulin, who had started to chew a fresh wad of Red Man, his front teeth stained with the juice.

“Cabrón,” Lolo said. “John Relles here has been worrying over this shit for weeks. The wedding’s got to be vata bonita and the food’s got to be good, too. I don’t want to fuck anything up by getting greedy.” Lolo began to scratch at his beard. “So don’t get involved, cabrón,” he said. “This ain’t even your family.”

 Chapulin spat and gave an impatient look.

“Do you think they’ll give that much?” John Relles asked.  

“That’s nothing for the Abuelito’s,” said Lolo. “And the woman is worth it, no? We should ask for at least fifty.”

John Relles didn’t say a word but only nodded—lit a cigarette.

“So what about her people?” Chapulin asked. “The Montoyas?”

“A hundred,” John Relles answered. “They’ve already promised.”

“Right on!” Lolo slapped John Relles’ hand. “That’s a pile of money, manito.”

“Yeah, manito,” Chapulin agreed. He was searching for the cigarette thought to be tucked behind his ear. “That’ll buy a ton of booze.”

“After the wedding, cabrón,” Lolo said, giving Chapulin a look. “After the wedding. And we’ll have to thank her family—“

“They’re not coming,” John Relles said.

“Not coming?”

“You know how it is,” John Relles explained. “Viejo Montoya won’t even allow me in the house. Family is all wrong, you know.”

“Well, why don’t you talk to him, manito?” Lolo asked.

“Yeah, manito. Why don’t you just talk to em?“ Chapulin agreed.

“I tried. I told him I am here to talk about my life with his granddaughter. I told him that I swear none of what he has heard is true, but he don’t believe me, you know. Man, you know.”

The backyard lay in the mid-afternoon shadow and more friends were gravitating towards the backyard to listen to the planning and participate in the drinking. It was July and the heat seemed more bearable in the shade of the house close to the stucco walls. When Lolo and the men finished their scheming and their drinking, they opened the door to the garage to pour sand over the oil stains down the short walk out to the cracked sidewalk in preparation for the big day.

 

 

The news had spread through the neighborhood since the engagement and then, as the backyard was prepared, on the day of the wedding. Thinking about the bride-to-be and his brother, Uncle Lolo waited for Father Dwyer to arrive and inspect the Abuelito’s home.

There were a load of relatives and hangers on in the house and the food was being prepared and displayed on the kitchen table: plates of various rices, tortallitas and bowls of menudo and posole, great plates of fried beef, lamb and chicken, and Abuelita’s sweet empanadas and tamales, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner rolled into one. Father Dwyer inspected the table too carefully, without touching the food, thinking that in effect the food was picture perfect and much more beautiful than any he had ever dreamed of at any wedding or funeral.

“What a marvelous celebration,” Father Dwyer said. He sought out Uncle Lolo among the group of people and, fixing his trained Catholic eye on him, said, “Your family, my dear Lloyd, would have been an extraordinary host for the Bishop.”

Abuelita continued to load the table and almost blushed. She wiped her hands on her apron and swept the hair from her eyes.

“Thank you,” Uncle Lolo said.

“You want a beer?” Chapulin said, picking at some of the tamales.

“What’s that?” Asked Father Dwyer. He was smooth and fat, almost like a woman, was how Lolo described the Father. He feathered his hair from his face, and thought for a minute. His voice streamed like a professor or a Latin-speaking monk, and his attitude was distant but respectful.

“I’ve got a twelve pack in the garage,” Chapulin said.

“You know the food smells so grand, and I should really wait until after—“

“Thank you so much, Father, for performing the ceremony,” Abuelita said in Spanish. She said it with such a radiant expression, like nothing Lolo had heard or seen in years—not since his return or his brother’s return from overseas. Lolo remembered the look in her eyes when John Relles had arrived from the war. When he arrived with just his bag and in class-A dress uniform she fell to the ground crying and moaning to the Virgen De Guadalupe. She had cried when Lolo had arrived but his unit had not seen combat, had not seen anything other than a Frankfurt, Germany staging area.

“She says thanks,” said Lolo, leading the Father further to the front of the house.

Es muy blanco, no, Abuelita said, casi como un coco. Como la novia Montoya joven.

“What was that?” Father Dwyer asked Lolo.

“She says you look handsome, Father,” Lolo answered.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Ortiz,” he said, nodding. Father Dwyer was no stranger to the Abuelitos’ home. Lolo told me that on different occasions because of his relationship with the neighborhood and his friendly way of dealing with his clergy, the Father had been called to pray from time to time by the Abuelitos and even Lolo himself. He was called once when Lolo had been drafted and just before John Relles was drafted. He came when there was no word of John Relles near the end of his time in the Vietnam War. He even came to help out when Abuelito was strung out drinking along with his shotgun and wouldn’t leave the garage for work or any family responsibilities. I can imagine Father Dwyer never felt at ease among the non-English speaking family. He couldn’t speak Spanish and all he could do was nod and smile whenever they spoke to him, always looking to Lolo or someone to translate. I’m sure he’d think about them, their rooms littered with crucifixes and statues and that immense banner of the crucifixion that hung in the living room, just above the television and measured three foot across. When he entered the house, he couldn’t move without someone offering him a plate of food or drink. He’d think about their large parties on Saturdays in front of the house, the Tejano music and the large amounts of beer and drinking, and he always experienced a feeling close to fear. He remembered the stories of two young brothers going toe-to-toe in the streets—rumors of one night when one of the brothers was stabbed and rushed out to Our Lady of the Meadows.

 “Has John Relles arrived?” Father Dwyer asked.

“He’s getting dressed, sir. He lives here,” Lolo answered.

“Has the bride arrived?” Father Dwyer asked a few awkward minutes later. He looked at his watch.

“She’s at her family’s house,” replied Lolo. “But she should be here pretty soon,” and he added, “she’s walking over.”

“What’s that?” Father Dwyer said. He was very much perplexed with the thought.

“She’ll be here, Father.”

“I have mass at five thirty, Lloyd,” Father Dwyer said.

“Have you met my Tio Ruben, Father?”

“Ah, no. I don’t think I have had the pleasure, Lloyd. Is that your mother’s brother?”

“No. No, sir. Uh, he’s my uncle on my father’s side out from Montebello, Lolo explained. He’s one of family that is playing guitar today. He’s a musician.”

“Ah, a musician,” Father said.

“Yes, Father,” Lolo explained. “In my family, the music is almost as important as the ceremony.“

Father Dwyer nodded.

The two men walked out to the living room, through the main doorway out to the porch where Tio Ruben was sitting. He was out on the old couch that had been dragged through the front door to handle the crowd that would surely pile up later.

 “Ruben,” Lolo shouted. “How are you, Tio?

 Ruben was an old man, obese and hairy. He was a body man by profession and used to work in the same garage with John Relles before moving out west to California. Lolo had not seen the man in months, until this moment on the porch. “Father Dwyer, this is Ruben Archuleta,” Lolo said.

The fat man sat on the couch with his tie already draped around the collar of his shirt. He turned to my uncle and the Father and said, “Que, Que?”

“Father Dwyer, Uncle. This is Father Dwyer,” Lolo repeated loudly. The front porch creaked with the weight of the men’s arrival. Lolo remembers it giving beneath his feet if only a little. “He’s a little deaf, Father,” Lolo said.

“I barely got here,” Ruben finally muttered. His guitar case was thrown to his side, the faded leather cracked and old.

“Ruben!” Lolo shouted, his arms falling to his sides. “I want you to meet—“

 “I’m fucked up, Lolo,” Ruben said, pathetic with blind drunkenness. He was wearing dark sunglasses and spitting as he talked, realizing where he was sitting and who he was talking with. He kept pushing at his jacket sleeves and scratching nervously at the hair on his forearms. His forehead was completely covered with sweat.

Father Dwyer could not resist laughing and shaking his head.

“That’s why I don’t like to drink at weddings, Lolo, because I get all fucked up, Lolo,” Ruben said, motionless, without blinking.

Father Dwyer looked down upon him uncertainly. “It’s so good to meet you, Mr. Archuleta.”

“I’m so sorry, Father,” Lolo said. For the first time since leaving the Army, Uncle Lolo was ashamed. He wished he would have stayed in California, wished he would have stayed in the Army and kept the respect that came with the uniform and the steady paycheck. For the first time in months he wished he didn’t drink so much, and he wished he didn’t sleep on a cot in his parents’ basement. He wished he hadn’t lost his job.

“Pinche faggots in the church never respected the working man around here,” Ruben blurted and spat. He was talking to himself, still disoriented.

 Father Dwyer closed his eyes and took a step back on the porch, and Lolo thought he might have been praying or wishing he had not made the journey the few blocks from St. Mary’s over to Spruce Street.

“When the mill shut, where was the pinche church?”

“I’m so sorry, Father Dwyer,” Lolo said. “I’m so sorry.”

Father Dwyer shrugged his shoulders and smiled nervously. He took another step back.

Lolo dried the sweat from Ruben’s forehead with his best handkerchief that he had laundered and folded especially for the pocket of his suit. Then he helped Ruben up, taking his arm under the shoulder and helping the man over to the front door and then farther in towards the kitchen.

“Let’s get some café inside of you, Ruben,” Lolo said. “We must have music. A wedding must have music, cabrón.”

“All fucked up,” Ruben repeated. “I’m all fucked up.”

The two men struggled over to the door, leaving Father Dwyer alone on the porch.

The Father set himself down on the couch stiffly, avoiding the depression where Ruben’s large body had warmed and shaped the cushions. He rested his arm on the guitar case.

Across the narrow street, on top of the Baca house, just over the garage, Father Dwyer was surprised to see a half filled basketball, a car fender, and two thick rims without tires. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could cram the equipment onto the top of that house. He sat there and remained indifferent to the view, observing the spectacle as if it were a car crash.

And nothing happened for a long while, but I’m sure Father Dwyer felt as if he would never see this wedding through because now it was close to four o’clock. He felt like standing up and walking back to the church and the shade of the rectory. He had known John Relles and since his First Holy Communion and Bruna from several church retreats, but he also knew he would have to run to make five o’clock mass down the street after the ceremony. He would have to walk quickly or perhaps jog and sweat would fill his collar and the warm June sun would tire him.

 

 

Lolo finally returned with a glass of water for Father Dwyer and a plate filled with fried meat covered in onion slices. Chapulin was right behind him with a plate of food and a fresh beer under his arm. The two men had just left Ruben who was passed out spread-eagled in the home’s only bathroom, where he would stay for the remainder of the ceremony. And after leaving Ruben to rest, Chapulin had talked Lolo into two shots of rum and in sharing half a can of beer. Both had agreed to only that before the ceremony. But back on the porch the two men sat on either side of Father Dwyer, innocently.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” Lolo said.

“I hope he will be OK as soon as he sobers up,” Father said.

“He’s never too sober,” Chapulin said, “so I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

Lolo stared him down. I’m sure the bride will be here in a second, Father, he said. I’m sure everything will be okay when the bride gets here, Father, Lolo said.

“Lloyd?” Father Dwyer asked.

“Father.”

“The home across the street—“

“Yes, Father.”

“The white home with the blue trim—“

“The Baca’s house?”

“Why do they put the car parts on top of the garage, Lloyd?”

“They put it up there so nobody takes it. They put it away for when they need it,” Chapulin explained. He pulled the cover from his tamale and then loosened the knot from his tie and collar. Small stains of chile blurred on the white laundered shirt.

“I don’t understand.”

“Please, Father, call me Lolo.”

“Lolo?”

“Yes, they all call me Lolo here in the neighborhood.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes, Father. All the kids and my family. All the guys in my old unit—“

“Your unit? Where did you serve, Lloyd?”

“I was in Frankfurt, Germany. But most recently I spent some time in San Francisco.”

“San Francisco.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Remind me, Lloyd, Father Dwyer asked. What branch were you in, Lloyd?”

“The Army, Father.”

“And your brother? John Relles?”

“Army.”

Father Dwyer took another look at Lolo. He examined the cool glass of water, then he sipped.

Lolo lit a cigarette and offered one to the Father.

“Oh, no thank you. I forget, Lloyd—“

“Yes, Father.”

“Was it you that served in Vietnam or was it your brother John Relles?”

“My brother, Father. With the 7th Infantry. You came to the house. You ‘member?”

“Ah, yes. That’s right,” Father Dwyer said. He took another long drink of water.

Chapulin cracked the tab of the beer can and pulled the tab loose from the metal and threw it under the couch. He looked at Lolo on the other side of the couch and smiled.

“And what about you, Chop—Chop—?” Father Dwyer asked.

“Chapulin. They call me Chapulin. My name is Robert, Father.”

“Do you go to school, Chop-uh-len?” Father Dwyer asked.

“I worked in the wire mill,” he said. He took a long swig from his beer. He was balancing his plate of rice and tamale on his knee.

“You both worked together?” Father Dwyer asked.

“Lolo worked in the coke plant, Father.”

Father Dwyer nodded and shifted to look at Lolo. “I used to go to school in San Francisco,” Father Dwyer said.

Lolo nodded as he smoked. Chapulin gulped his beer.

“UC Berkeley and then I went to the University of San Francisco. I studied literature for a while before going to seminary school,” Father said without being asked. “Why were you in San Francisco, Lloyd?”

Lolo hesitated. He took a long drag and caught the ashes in the palm of his hand.

“He was in jail, Father,” Chapulin said, slouching into his seat.

“Oh,” Father Dwyer said.

“Yeah, the cabrón got caught drunk off of the plane—“

“Shut the hell up, cabrón,” Lolo blurted. He stood up and instinctively the Father stood up to calm my uncle down. “I’m gonna give you a beating like you won’t believe if you don’t shut the hell up. Sorry, Father. But I swear I’ll do it, cabrón.”

Chapulin started laughing and spitting beer into his hand. “Yeah, Father, the cabrón couldn’t stop drinking for an hour—“

Lolo slapped Chapulin across the top of his head causing his head to jerk violently—all just over the Father’s head. Chapulin then stood to return the blow when all three men suddenly crowded together. Father Dwyer put his hands on both men’s chests repeating, “Please—please.” Chapulin had to excuse himself into the house and then back to the kitchen. Lolo stared him down the whole way and Father Dwyer, again, stood nervously between the men without saying a word.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Lolo said. “Forgive me but that sonso drives my last nerve sometimes.”

Father Dwyer nodded and smiled. “I’m sure the boy doesn’t mean any harm, Lloyd.”

“I just don’t want this day ruined for my brother, Father. I want everything to be sauvamente, Father. And I—“

“Tell me, Lloyd,” Father interrupted. “Please sit and calm down.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yes, sir,” Lolo said, taking one last long drag before throwing his vacha out towards the street.

“Can I ask you one more thing, Lloyd?”

“Please, Father. Call me Lolo.”

“Yes. Yes. Lolo. Please tell me why you have gone to so much trouble over the wedding?”

“Well, Father,” Lolo said, “the Abuelitos always told me you had to prove your love in front of God or it won’t be any good.”

“Oh,” Father Dwyer said. “That is a very true thing, Lolo.”

Just then my mother, Bruna Montoya, came marching up the front stoop with her picture perfect hair and her crisp new dress—her bruised brow and eye covered with make-up. The two men watched her carefully and with wonder, from the elegant lace flowers to her ivory shoes. And this was all one of the few times Lolo could remember satisfaction in being sober and even remembered losing his breath at such a beautiful sight. He remembered her light face was rouged and her elfin nose was red from the sun and the heat of the afternoon and the walk from the Montoya’s home—I might have seen a few pictures of this dress but of this I can’t be certain. Lolo would later tell me that he thought the pictures taken that day would never do justice to that moment on the porch and I want to believe him. The feeling of love he remembered as she moved like an angel or a saint, all while watching the ground and the train of her dress she held in her flawless hands as she walked.

And later towards the middle of the party, after the ceremony, Lolo would become drunk as he always would and passed out towards the front yard as the wedding party went on without him, as the dollar dance started and the guitar players began to play las mananitas. Lolo would pass out and rest on the front sidewalk, in the cool early evening shade of early summer, crying over the woman he had almost married, crying over the mill and the busted union. And later, after eating several plates of food, I’m sure Father Dwyer himself would walk past Lolo, step over the body on the long walk back to the rectory and his place at five o’clock mass.