Carlito’s Way: Culmination

[dedalus_1947]

The first thing I noticed about the main street of Redondo Beach was that there was no parking. Cars occupied every available space in front of the stores, boutiques, and restaurants situated along Catalina Ave. When I turned the corner, and drove around the back of the storefronts, however, I found an empty city lot, with row after row of solitary parking meters, like forlorn crosses in a Veteran’s cemetery. I truly expected to find free parking this far away from the main street. I guess I’d been away from the South Bay too long. I could feel the first germinating buds of irritation start to break through my subconscious as I maneuvered my Volkswagen into a vacant space. I had been driving for over 2 and a half hours, and I was primed to become upset about something, anything. Then, I was rescued by an inspiration, “Wait a minute, I can use my change!” I’d been hoarding quarters in my coin purse for weeks, and it was bulging with “silver”. My pants pocket felt like I was carrying an anchor, and I was always listing to the port side. This was a great opportunity to unburden myself of this oppressive weight and move on. I dropped “eight bits” into the slot; and was further rewarded with the bonus news that there was no charge after 6:00 P.M. There was free parking in Redondo Beach - at least after 6 o’clock.

My spirit was clearly conspiring to keep me buoyant and happy on this particular Saturday afternoon. I had driven down from Canoga Park to celebrate the graduation of Carlos (“Carlitos”), the son of my brother Arturo (Art) and his wife Elia, from California State University, Fullerton. He had earned a degree in Fine Arts, and was now pursuing his dream of becoming a professional photojournalist. After witnessing the struggles of my own two children through college, and watching the trials and tribulations of other nieces and nephews, I was much more sensitive to the difficulties and obstacles that university students contend with these days. I missed Carlitos’ high school graduation and party, 5 years earlier, so I was committed to sharing this important milestone in his life. I was very proud of his accomplishment, and wanted to demonstrate my pride with my presence at his celebration.

The movie, Carlito’s Way , starring Al Pacino, is about a “small-time” drug dealer’s attempts at changing himself and becoming a legitimate businessman. I saw the theme in the movie as the human need to set high and lofty personal goals, and then struggling to achieve them. Ironically, the quest sometimes becomes nobler than the attainment, because the fate of man is so often failure. The movie came to my mind as I was driving to Hennessey’s pub. Actually, it wasn’t so much the story that first attracted me (although it was applicable), as it was the title. “What a perfect title for a blog about Carlitos” I thought, “as he seeks the artist’s way”. Carlitos also reminds me a little of a young Pacino: he is slight, intense, talented, and full of nervous, creative energy. I thought that with an interesting working title, the story would write itself, and the connections with the movie would emerge naturally.

I had no clue of the scope or make-up of this party. I’d received an email graduation announcement from Carlitos about a month ago, and I’d responded with a card and a gift. A month later, an email invitation to this graduation party followed. Through earlier contacts and phone communications, I knew that, with the exception of Kathy, who had a conflicting retirement party to attend, and Prisa, who was out of the city, my son, and most of my family would be there. This certainty was keeping my spirits up, after the long car ride. It would be great fun to see and speak with my brothers and sisters, in a clearly festive environment, where we were all showing our pride and joy at Carlitos’ achievement.

It was 4:30 P.M. as I walked into Hennessey’s, but I saw no familiar faces as I scanned the dark, wooded interior of the Irish pub. I was a little unnerved and uncertain at this discovery. “Is this the right place? Am I too early?” I wondered. In my family, ‘being on time” is a compulsion that we (with the exception of Art) inherited from my mom, and her side of the family. Mercifully, my father’s family was spared this trait. They had a more personal (some would say, Mexican), and self-serving concept of time. For them, a starting time, or a deadline, was more of a suggestion than a requirement. Art was the only sibling to manifest this tardy predilection, and he suffered a lifetime of disapproving looks and dismayed glances on arrivals, as a consequence. The imperative to be early, rather than risking the humiliation of being late, is a family disorder that Kathy finally helped me control (at least socially). The invitation said 4:30 P.M., so I was a little disconcerted to find no one there. I decided to relax at the bar and investigate with a drink.

When I asked the bartender if there was a party booked for the restaurant, she pointed upstairs, to a room I had not seen on my arrival. Climbing the stairs, I entered a shaded, open-air room, where I found my mom, Stella, Gracie, and Eddie, already there, finishing their first drink, and about to order another. I knew I was back in the comfortable familiarity of my family’s neurosis.

There are some advantages to being early; it gives you time to inspect the field, choose your ground, and control the action and conversation. In this setting, when the only four people present were family members, we would be able to talk exclusively with each other, and strictly about family matters. I had not seen all of my siblings together since Christmas, and even then, with so many people, children, and grandchildren present, there was never a real opportunity to talk in any depth. I’d managed to get together with Eddie and Alex on occasion (see Hang’in in the Pontiac Lounge and The 300 Spartans),  so I was pretty up-to-date with them, but this was not the case with the rest. I was particularly interested in finding out what was new with Gracie, the “baby girl” of the family, since her move back to Los Angeles from San Francisco.

Gracie is, without a doubt, the most interesting member of the family. Her independence, self-sufficiency, and willful imperative to follow her own course of action through life, has always been a source of wonder, envy, and admiration. Gracie was the first person to leave college and work at a full time job after our father’s death in 1971. She was the first to marry, raise two children, establish office manager careers in universities, and then hospitals, divorce amicably, and then made a difficult career transition to hospital administration. The move that really rocked me was her decision to leave Los Angeles, and accept a position as a hospital director in San Francisco. Her boys would move to Portland, Oregon, to live with their father, while she pursued a new, independent career, in a strange city, living alone. I could not believe the nerve, courage, and sacrifice required for that kind of decision, and action. I was in awe.

The earliest hint of this adventurous spirit was in 1966, when I convinced Gracie, a high school sophomore at the time, to cut school, and help me “rush for classes” in my freshman year at UCLA. Art and Stella had turned me down flat. They were not going to ditch school, wake up at 4 o’clock in the morning, and drive to a dark, foreign and scary place, to stand in line for me, as I tried to register for additional classes. I remember leaving Gracie in the semi-darkness of early morning, standing alone in a line of huge college strangers, promising that I would return before she got to the front. I was too late. Not only did I fail to enroll in the class I was waiting for, but by the time I got back, she had been displaced from her line as well. Gracie looked small, miserable, and depressed, when I found her. She was angry with herself. She felt like a failure for being intimidated by the impatient collegians and the foreign surroundings. Her anguish quieted my own disappointment, and forced me to assume my brotherly role of comforter. I took her to eat at the Student Union and confessed that my scheme had been risky from the start. On the bright side, I pointed out; it had provided her with a day off from school, and a marvelous adventure that we would never forget. There we were, a brother and sister who had challenged a mighty university system, together, breakfasting on a college campus, like two “real adults”. It was a special day, even though some might consider it a “failure”.

Gracie filled me in on the latest; her Westwood job, the new apartment in Ocean Park, her new car, and how her boys and two grandchildren were doing in Oregon. She was most excited about signing up at a health club and working out with a personal trainer. The regular and deliberate exercise regime was showing benefits at work and home. She was working, eating, and feeling better than ever. She also looked great. At 55, Gracie is in her peak years, where her talents, interests, and abilities are recognized and showcased, at work, at home, and in popular culture media. Gracie has the rare distinction of being mentioned by a bestselling author, in a book about older, single women who are happy and satisfied with their lives, and who are not looking for a new, or an original, spouse. In Gail Sheehy’s Sex and the Seasoned Woman: Pursuing the Passionate Life, 2006, page 197-199, Gracie is described as “a Latina woman, with blonded hair and caramel-colored skin, who obviously takes care of herself, and seems planted, stable, and earthy.”

 

We talked a little more, shared jogging stories, and then joined a discussion with Stella and Eddie. At about 5 o’clock, Art and Elia, the host and hostess of the party, arrived with Elie, their daughter. The party had officially begun.

Art was beaming with so much pride and happiness, that he could have illuminated the entire city of Redondo Beach. He orchestrated all the conversations at the party to focus on Carlitos. He interrogated each of us to make sure that we knew of his degree, his achievements in photojournalism, and his website . He also “happened to have” many samples of his portfolio, which he quickly shared with us. I tried teasing him about the overabundance of photos showing beach-clad, female volleyball players on the website, but Art was not to be sidetracked. This party was about Carlitos. It was clear that Carlitos had maximized his university experience and education, by gaining valuable training as a photographer in many local newspapers, magazines, and journals. Art had invested (time and money) in his son’s talent, and Carlitos appeared to have the determination to succeed. With his father’s support, Carlos was well on his way to a viable career as a photojournalist, a tough and merciless professional.



The other topic of conversation was from whom Carlos had inherited his talents: because he obviously “did not lick it off the grass”. Carlos is actually the latest in a long line of artists and photographers on my father’s side of the family. My father, and his brother Ricardo (Kado), were both professional photographers. My father had gone to art school after the war, and after a period of ordinary jobs (reading meters for the Department of Water and Power, and baking bread for Foix Bakery), he finally landed a position in a photography studio, which was managed by two old school mates in 1959. He eventually became the manager of this West Los Angeles studio, until his heart attack and later death. Kado learned his craft in the Navy, and then went to work for my dad, until he separated to start his own independent studio. Art, too, was no slouch as a photographer. Although he lacked formal training, he had a gifted eye and a natural inclination for the visual arts and photography. Arturo was the only member of the family to win a scholarship to art school. He spent a summer (during high school) learning and refining the skills of sketching and drawing. He looked quite French and imposing with his sketchbook, charcoal crayons, and oversized picture portfolio. However, because of his high marks in traditional academic subjects, Art was never encouraged to pursue his talents for the arts. It was only later in life that I realized he never abandoned his urge to create. Besides drawing, Art, also, taught himself photography and music (on the piano). To me, Art is clearly the most naturally talented person in the family. This probably explains (and excuses) many of his annoying eccentricities.

The third wave of guests to arrive was Alex and his wife Julie, and Tonito and Jonaya. Their entrance signaled the moment to sit down, at a horseshoe shaped table, in preparation for dinner.

At this point, an odd thing happened. I gravitated to the side of the room where my mother and siblings were positioning themselves to sit. Tony and Jonaya, on the other hand, moved to the opposite end, away from everyone. There were many available seats, and lots of space in this area, but no people, and no member of my family seemed inclined to displace themselves from their earlier staked-out territory. I watched this dynamic evolve for a while, as Alex barraged me with questions, hoping to catch up quickly on the news and discussions he had missed. When it appeared certain that Tony and Jonaya were not relocating closer, and no one from my family was moving, I decided to act. This spatial divide pointed out the absence of Prisa and Kathy. Their presence would have ameliorated this situation immediately, by dissolving the family’s exclusivity, and encouraging a more heterogeneous mixture of people. Prisa’s sitting location would have attracted a coterie of cousins and uncles around her. Kathy would have moved from one seat to another, making sure that everyone felt included, and tied together. With both of them out of action today, however, the responsibility fell on me. I took a seat across from my son and his fiancée, positioning myself in such a way as to avoid showing my back to my family. I did not wish to exclude them, or close them off. It was awkward for a while, but it worked.

 

Carlitos and his girl friend arrived just as we ordered our meals. He had been on a photo assignment, shooting pictures for a local newspaper. He was flushed from work, and embarrassed with all the attention he was receiving. Once served, we settled into a youthful meal of great hamburgers, fish and chips, and cold amber beer.

I spent much of this time speaking with Tonito and Jonaya. Jonaya had just arrived from New Jersey, and she too had recently graduated (from Williams College in Massachusetts). She, coincidently, was also pursuing a career in photography; so much of our talk was about the future and her plans about work. At one point, she mentioned that some of her graduate friends had already landed lucrative jobs, and were earning salaries of over $100,000. She wistfully said there were many things she could do with a salary of one hundred thousand dollars. I pointed out that, in my experience, too much money, too fast, was not a good thing; the slow and gradual accumulation of affluence, comforts, and wisdom, was easier on the spirit, and more beneficial. When she insisted on her ability to resist the ill effects of immediate wealth and success, I decided to lighten the argument (while still making my point). I had just seen the 1991 movie, Grand Canyon , that morning, and I was again struck by one particular line of dialogue. As Alex walked by, I included him in making my point by pitching him a “softball” question.
“Alex, what is that line by Steve Martin, in the movie Grand Canyon?”
“Oh, that’s a great one”, he responded. “I think it goes, ‘You know what your problem is, it's that you haven't seen enough movies - all of life's riddles are answered in the movies’.”
“That’s it”, I said.
“Jonaya”, I pointed out, “you just haven’t seen enough movies. This issue has been answered in some movie. You just need to see the right one, and you’ll find out about the evils of money”.
“What movie?” she asked, with raised eyebrow.
I had a movie in mind, but at that moment, my memory failed me, and I drew a blank on the title. The balance of my entire argument hung on the timing of my response. So, I quickly sought Alex’s aid, once again.
“Al, what was the name of that movie with Al Pacino and the guy from Matrix? You know, the one where Pacino offers him the world in exchange for his soul?”
“Oh”, Alex replied, “you mean The Devil’s Advocate!”
“I knew you were going to cite that movie!” chimed in Tonito, with a laugh.
He had been silently monitoring our argument the whole time, without saying word - until now. I knew he got the point I was making, but all he did was laugh.

The party ended in a flurry of toasts, congratulations, and gifts. Carlitos, as always, was understated in his emotions and response, but he was clearly moved and appreciative of the attention and generosity. By the time I left, the sun was beginning to set, so it must have been around 8 o’clock. It would be dark by the time I arrived home.