Love Thy Neighbor: ¡Pero No Te Dejes!

By Tommy Villalobos

This is a collection of short stories I wrote based on lives and events of my gente in and around East Los Angeles. The stories and characters themselves are pure fiction but the spirit of my cultura is unfolded with pride and cariño. I like to make people smile, laugh and, if I'm lucky, let out an embarrassing belly laugh.

While every story is not necessarily neighbor on neighbor, each story addresses relationships of various sorts. Perhaps you've run across some of the personality types in my stories; maybe all of them. Even if they are all strangers, I hope they draw at least a chuckle out of you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Villalobos
• Release date: Oct 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780463464007

Tommy Villalobos

Born and raised in East Los Angeles, I have always loved reading and writing. My goal in life is for people to read what I'm writing and then double up laughing, dislocating something. But modest giggles are OK, too.

Book preview

Love Thy Neighbor—¡Pero No Te Dejes! -- Short Story Collection

(From stories first written and published by Tommy Villalobos in ¡LatinoLA¡, an online Latino magazine [http://latinola.com/], Abelardo de la Peña Jr., El Editor; and from stories first written and published by Tommy Villalobos in Somos en escrito, the Latino literary online magazine [www.somosenescrito.blogspot.com], Armando Rendón, Editor.)

Published by Thomas Villalobos at Smashwords

Text Copyright 2013 Thomas Villalobos

All Rights Reserved 

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my mother Mary Arcadia Villalobos who gave me love, inspiration, dichos y stories y mas stories

Table of Contents

Love Thy Neighbor—¡Pero No Te Dejes!

NFL—Nena’s Football League

Selling Chili With Love

Brooklyn and Mednik—Happy Times

Artie’s Next Book

La Vecina Next Door

Seeing Green

Flowers For Henrietta

About Tommy Villalobos

LOVE THY NEIGHBOR—¡PERO NO TE DEJES!

It was an East L.A. morning with all the trimmings, such as kind of blue skies, intruding Hip-Hop, a viento suave, hustling smog-gray birds, distant sound of a power mower, buzzing moscas, and whatever. The inharmonious ruido was a sweet symphony that reverberated back and forth across Dangler Avenue and into Carlota Stima’s ears. Heaven seemed to be kissing all the earth around her as she stood on her porch. She sported a new, generously styled—for she was of generous size—zebra tunic and uplifted spirits. Her feet were smiling in a pair of flat wedge sandals with snake and zipper detail. At her apex, a fresh shoulder-length spiral perm highlighted with golden streaks swimming through her black hair for which Cleopatra would have given Mark Antony’s right arm. Her only privation was a heavily salted margarita with which to caress and numb her lips.

The heaviness of heart was a faded memory. The loss of love, the treachery of friends or thoughts of death no longer haunted her mind. Now fond hopes danced to Salsa there. She remembered her past and only one word flashed on her forebrain in neon—Pathetic.

She was a chingona of the old school. Half-dozen employers would raise their right hand to that, as well as three ex-husbands, two boyfriends, as well as a yapping Chihuahua from down the street that got it in the ribs with one feminine yet dynamic kick from Carlota. He never challenged her presence in the hood again.

Carlota could look the world in the eye again. With a renewed determination and glow, Carlota Stima stepped off her front porch. She was headed for her anger management class at a community center on Mednik. After a few animated steps, a veil of water came down from the cloudless sky to drench Carlota. She stopped and froze like Lot’s wife who turned to gaze upon Sodom and Gomorrah, which immediately got her transformed into a pillar of salt, non-iodized. The water stopped. Carlota turned to the house next door to see Cynthia Boscarida who made Amy Winehouse look overstuffed. To the rest of the world she was Cynthia Boscarida; to Carlota, she was basically The Stinker. The Stinker held a hose in her hand as she gave her backside to Carlota. She calmly turned to say something to her seven-year-old daughter Bertha who sat peacefully on the porch steps, nibbling on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Carlota’s eyes narrowed. Cynthia’s calmness in the wake of her act was challenging Carlota’s current notion that all-was-cool-with-the-world. Her blood was evaporating in her veins she was sure. She snorted and was disappointed when flames failed to shoot forth from her nostrils. She set sights on the four foot, flat top wooden fence that separated, somewhat, the two members of the softer sex.

She told herself she was angry and had a right to be. Then her anger management training kicked in. Sure, she had a right to gnash her teeth, bite her lengua, and kick the nearest cat. However, she told herself to take that anger and set it aside in a tiny basket por un momentito. She counted to ten forwards then backwards, followed by loving memories of her mother, father, and abuelitos. Next, she thought of her first love, her best love, and then added several more for the heck of it. Then she tried humming her favorite songs but they were all about sweet smiles and yielding lips, which reminded her of Octavio, her first husband. He was a two-timing víbora who doused himself with discounted cologne. Her humming turned into the low growl of a wounded creature of the night. Her anger jumped out of that tiny basket and clobbered her like a brick to the back of the head.

Anger management was taking second fiddle to swift and sweet revenge.

She ran toward the fence, hopped, and landed parallel to and on top of the fence, balancing herself with arms and legs gripping wood as if she were astride Slammin Sam on the homestretch at Del Mar. She then searched out Cynthia who was casually strolling toward the water faucet, unaware that Carlota was decorating the top of the fence, planning a fierce counterattack. She lurched herself away from the fence, landing with a Richter Scale thud while yelping like a dog whose tail has been stepped on. Cynthia turned and, upon seeing Carlota who was displaying a dripping and disturbing smile resembling a fiend from the everlasting fire, ran toward her front door. Cynthia was as wafer thin as Carlota was phonebook thick. Therefore, it would have been no contest for Cynthia to reach her door and slam it in Carlota’s face. Nonetheless, odd things do occur. This was one of those odd things. As Cynthia reached the door, after Bertha had bailed, she slipped, landing on her tummy, her body forming a forty-five degree incline. Cynthia stared at her front door like a dying soul in the desert agonizing over a rapidly vaporizing mirage of a rippling spring.

Aha! wheezed Carlota with delight as she reached Cynthia. I can catch my breath before I pull you inside out then boogie on your rotten tripas.

Cynthia turned up to see Carlota hovering over her, soggy as a bar sponge. Carlota maintained the diabolical sneer, looking like a chubby Latina version of Count Dracula. A universal shriek came out of Cynthia, louder than crashing waves, echoing around Maravilla, and then bouncing off the troposphere.

Bertha, now standing behind Carlota and contriving to help her mother, took aim. Just as Carlota was set to proceed with her surgical treatment, Bertha skillfully flung the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, hitting Carlota on the small of the back and, therefore, on her new zebra tunic.

Leave my amá alone, cried Bertha, making certain the purpose of her chuck was clear.

Like an interrupted movie monster, Carlota turned slowly toward Bertha. Cynthia saw a window of opportunity creak open. She pushed off the porch and darted into the house, slamming and locking the door in Carlota’s quickly pursuing face.

Her hair resembling a drowned muskrat, Carlota delicately made her way home. When she arrived, her teenage daughter Kathleen jumped higher than she had in all her previous fifteen summers.

Mom, you’re wet and look real mad.

Put that on your first job app—detail oriented.

What happened to your anger management?

I intend to manage it right over The Stinker’s skull.

But you were doing so good. You hadn’t said ‘The Stinker’ for three days.

Well, everyone will be saying it from now on. She will be a rotting corpse that will be stinking up the neighborhood for good.

Carlota headed for her bedroom, half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich clinging to her back. She wondered how Gandhi would handle this. She was sure he would have tossed at least one of his sandals at Cynthia. She would bet a twenty that Confucius would have abandoned any and all wise sayings and just clobbered her while spitting out a few choice ancient expletives.

Think of the color blue, said Kathleen, that always calms you down.

Carlota did then sneered with spittle since Cynthia was wearing those tight little blue jeans that fit her like the skin on a chorizo.

As she hurriedly dressed, Carlota went into her breathing exercise. She took deep, slow breaths, closing her eyes to envision a tranquil scene—a calm stream flowing by a woodland cottage. She then saw Cynthia standing in front of the hut holding a hose, wearing that nasty grin. Beside her stood Bertha waving another peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I’ll pull her legs off and hit her over the head with them, then shove them down her scrawny throat, said Carlota as she angrily slipped on an old dress.

After the day’s anger management class, Carlota returned home, composed once more. Kathleen was cautiously impressed. After dinner, the house settled into its evening phase. Kathleen was in her room being a teenager in one of the wide variety of ways teenagers have to choose from nowadays. Carlota peacefully sat on the sofa, jotting in a notebook. She was noting all the reasons to dismiss Cynthia’s actions. The first was that maybe she didn’t know she had drenched Carlota. Yeah, right! she added as a side comment.

Next, she noted that maybe Cynthia was off her walnut. She could dismiss her behavior as that of an old-fashioned lunatic. With a twisted smile, she added the comment, Revenge will be sweet!

Her third entry read, That ex-shoplifter, delinquent and home wrecker knew what she was doing which she underlined three times, although she had no evidence Cynthia had ever shoplifted anything, been out at odd hours, or bulldozed any peaceful home save Carlota’s.

With a modest but heinous laugh, Carlota planned. After the next class, she would recruit from among the class of fellow teeth grinders. People who had tossed heavy flower vases, chairs, and people. She would invite the most talented tossers to coffee and donuts. There she would convince the shortest tempers to help her wage a jihad of anger on The Stinker. She wanted souls who would not mutter, Forget it, or Move on. She wanted corajudos who would yell, Now kick her in the teeth, and be quick about it and other encouragements.

Aren’t we going against everything we learned in class? said Toby Orasillo, an unemployed truck driver, at the coffee shop as he crunched into his third cinnamon roll. Hefty Toby had chased a little league coach around Belvedere Park until dusk when he lost him somewhere around the skatepark. The coach had taken Toby’s eleven-year-old son Fat Alfonso out of the game for eating a hot dog during a game—while batting.

Yes, said Eva Mintarosa, an aspiring poet, aren’t we supposed to, like, avoid conflict? Eva had tossed a bowling ball at an Ex who said her poetry read like directions on an aspirin bottle. The heavy ball landed on both of his feet. He was wheel-chaired out of her life.

Look at it as trying to help this cabro…this poor soul. We show her what can happen if you don’t be nice like us, said Carlota.

I don’t know, said Mike Gregoz with a firm stroke of a hand through his thinning hair, I worked hard to get to this point of just forgetting when something doesn’t go your way. Mike, a Certified Chicano and Accountant, had thrown a defective table lamp made in China out of his French window and hit a Russian apartment manager square on the head in a mostly Armenian neighborhood in Glendale. He defined it as a true diversity moment. His friends defined it as a true call for help.

The three anger management attendees Carlota was relying on to zap The Stinker were behaving as if their next goal was to win a group Nobel Peace Prize. She looked around the table like a disappointed mother studying her three children who had just confessed to stealing a viejita’s life savings she had stuffed in her colchón.

"Just listen to my plan