Three Batos And A Chavala

By Tommy Villalobos

Three batos go on a train ride in the1930’s. The trip is between Los Angeles and San Francisco. They are not aware of each other’s presence. But they all know about the presence of one lovely woman. All want to woo her into marriage. Of course, there is a tía who actively instills herself between her cherished niece and the three hounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Villalobos
• Release date: Aug 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005873950

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.

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Three Batos and Two Chavalas

By Tommy Villalobos

Copyright 2021 Thomas Villalobos

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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 your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work is dedicated to the people who have had to bear the brunt of inconvenience created by my writing schedule and temperament: Wife Gloria Anna and son Tommy Jr.; also to my writing partner for other projects, children’s author Helene Thomas; she is always ready to help in any way to improve my work.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About Tommy Villalobos

Other titles by Tommy Villalobos

Chapter 1

Through dancing curtains around a window attached to a duplex that Sandra Westo had lived in for twenty-three odd years, an East L.A. breeze entered like a nosy vecina.

It was a mellow spring morning. Neglected and unwound, her mechanical alarm clock had called it a night at fifteen after midnight. However, her inner one was working as her eyes opened at five a.m. sharp. She sat up. This was a routine of a lifetime, which started en un ranchito down in Chihuahua, her family’s spread.

Was this the Sandra Westo of Chavacano Press, El Paso, who had published poems y poemas with a few passionate romance novels thrown in? Òrale. She was. And she was enjoying life with accolades, a few bucks here and there, few bills, many friends and parientes of various sorts, only a few of which she cared to be around.

The year 1937 was a challenge to anyone in the United States, especially to people scrapping away in the barrios around the country. Every morning, the papers brought bad or indifferent news to anyone who wasn’t rich. To further add to everyone’s anxiety, five years before, on July 8, 1932, the papers had stated it was the lowest point for the Dow Jones. The Great Depression.

So, the past few years, people were moving everywhere, hoping to escape the hard times, only to find that hard times were waiting with open arms wherever they went.

Raza of every part of the U.S. and different views of religion, politics, comida, música, and chismes, were scraping especially hard. Chicanos looking for perspective in 1937 were en acuerdo that at long last all the gringos now knew what daily life of millions of Mejicanos on both sides of the border felt like. Pobreza on every corner while everyone is looking at the corner for prosperity to come around it.

Sandra Westo had come over with a batch of immigrants in 1911. The road trip was prompted by whizzing bullets coming from all directions. The Mexican Revolution was in full swing. She scampered across la frontera at age thirty-one, a year before her family, while ninety per cent of rich and poor were still sorting out what to bring and what to leave. Mostly what to leave.

She had left Méjico with a couple of sad pangs, for darting away was a sacrifice. More than anything else, she loved the rancho she had grown up on in a remote corner of Chihuahua. So many años worked by her family gone. She missed the aire coming down from the mountains, the pleasant walks in the evenings, and the Atole in the morning that her grandma made with such care, tenderness and love—all part of her but no longer hers. She knew Chihuahua was hers and she was Chihuahua‘s. Because of the cold reality of the mundo, one had to tell her No. Nothing is ours. It can all be taken away and many times it is.

She held the hope of returning someday to relive her happy childhood, and spend her childless years living en La Tierra. At other times, she thought of spending her waning years alone here in L.A. But the thought chilled her huesos. Happily, she felt that her niece Samuela Listora could go with her back to Chihuahua with a marido in tow, and would give Sandra grand sobrinos to fill every corner of her rancho, inside and out.

Samuela Listora, on her part, had been born in East Los Angeles and appeared to have no knowledge of or desire to go anywhere south of Downey where her favorite primos lived. It was the sound of Swing music coming from a bedroom that made Sandra head for the cocina to make breakfast for a niece who lived with her and so far had shown little inclination to cook anything. Sandra mixed and rolled with a uniquely Mejicana sigh.

She never demanded Samuela live the life of a Mejicana, and, other than scheming and planning her niece’s destiny, she let her swing her hips every which way with a tía’s patient smile while Samuela, taking advantage of a tía’s patience, would rise at the crack of twelve.

In contrast, Sandra Westo ate her breakfast at 6 am, eaten on a small mesa in a corner of the kitchen. It consisted of two tortillas de maize, two huevos, chiles cortidos and black coffee. She then looked out the windows to check on neighbors, and she would fly out of her chair to chase cats from her backyard that wanted to use it as a place to address the call of nature in all its glory.

To one side of the coffee pot holding the liquid black magic, was a pile of letters, three days’ worth and growing.

Sandra read her mail while attacking her tortillas and eggs. Most were from fans of her poems, a few critical, but the majority praising her passionate lines, her inspirational words. An invitation from a women’s poetry group asked her to read a poem at the next meeting of the Belvedere Women’s Poetry Group on Mednik. There were two letters regarding her romantic novels, one positive and one negative. The favorable one was from a single man, and ironworker; the critical one from a woman with eight chavalos grabbing at her apron.

Then there was the letter from Felipe Sinmalo, a name from her past. Felipe was an old neighbor from an even older neighborhood. He was a gordo and a lawyer who now lived on the west side. He wrote that his son Arthur would be passing through on his way back home from visiting parientes in Pacoima and would she please treat him warmly. She didn’t care for Arthur when he was a mocoso and doubted she would care for him now that his snots had dried up. She yawned at the mail.

She separated Samuela’s mail, which consisted of strings of short letters from an unknown source. Samuela refused to tell her aunt the source or content of the letters.

There was ruido from the sala that moved swiftly into her kitchen. It was Alicia, a woman of advanced years and Sandra’s devoted Señora who helped her clean, and take care of her large home and Samuela. Her only setback was her cooking, which Sandra found highly indigestible.

Señora, hay un hombre.

Sandra didn’t like surprises. Especially in the morning because that was her creative time.

Did you ask what in all of Méjico he wanted? The tonality of her voice said, ¿Sabes que? Estoy agüitada.

No. Solo lo tiré a la sala.

Alicia then became Mejicana silent, a silence that reverberates with cultura going way back before any Europeans came snooping around. She then found her lengua.

He says he’s your vecino’s son from when you lived somewhere else. He also said his name is Arturo Sinmalo.

Sandra now felt she could openly proclaim that she was now muy agüitada. She had not seen her former neighbor’s son since he was that mocoso and would like to extend that into old age. She remembered him knocking over and breaking her knick-knacks in her casa and making repulsive noises with his nose. She then allowed for old neighbor friendships and told herself giving him a few moments wouldn’t overturn the carro of her writing career.

She went into the sala to find a joven who looked pretty much like any other joven of this period but slimmer than most. Arturo was taller than what she expected, and looked to be in his late teens to early twenties, about six feet tall, hefty build. He was as brown as any Mejicano from here to La Capital with a face that did not raise suspicions but looked as uneasy as a mouse caught in a trap.

Hello Señora Westo, he said nervously.

¿Entonces?

A Chicano silence followed. Sandra, who was not cheerful around young men and didn’t like her creative time infringed upon, concluded that he was still a self-centered mocoso, a six foot one; and Arthur who had long ago tossed aside his juguetes, saw that the former neighbor still had the bearing of one who is addressing a travieso. She looked at him as if he needed a haircut and had a noodle hanging from the side of his mouth.

Great day, huh? said Arthur, unintentionally annoying.

I can’t say. I haven’t been outside.

I wanted to stop by and make sure you’re well. You know, pay my respects. My father told me to.

You did. I heard. I saw. Now go.

Another pause.

How is life in Los Angeles? then said Arthur. I’ve been away at schools in just about every state.

I hate it even though I’ve been here since five-cent beer. Now…

Oh. Yeah, some gente feel that way. Throw in Prohibition, and a crowded city is not much fun. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I could live here or any place.

The reason I don’t like it here— began Sandra, reining in her coraje.

I like it, said Arthur. I always have fun here. I’m treated like a movie star. I went to Pacoima to visit relatives and all the Mejicanos wanted me to meet their hijas and the Mejicanas were crying for me to hold their babies. It was nice. I could have been a rich tío from somewhere. I think El Pueblo de Los Angeles and surroundings was a great idea. Of course, they know my dad is a big, fat lawyer.

Why did you come, anyway? said Sandra, not moved by the song of praise to L.A. and its surroundings.

I came to swim. In a competition, you see.

¿Que? yipped Sandra. You’re a man and should be doing grownup business. Do you spend all your time swimming like a pollywog?

Nah. I play basketball, football, baseball and handball now and then.

Doesn’t your father get on you to do something that means something?

He’s starting. I might make my first move here shortly. And he advised me to find an esposa. A Mejicana.

He advises the truth.

I’ll bet Samuela has someone lined up, said Arthur.

Sandra did a modified boogie-woogie.

¿Por qué dices eso?

Huh?

Why did you just say what you just said?

Well, she is a mushy type. I remember her from back in the old neighborhood. Wore glasses and the neatest trenzas that I used to pull and…I hear you still write poems I’ll bet she eats them up. I’ll bet she is writing some. About love, marriage.

No. She likes being alone. Has no males with hanging tongues coming around.

Arthur had heard all this and felt bad. He had always liked his childhood friend and as older primos, brothers, amigos often do, he felt protective of her huesos and heart; plus he felt that if Samuela had not come to live with a tìa some considered the Reina de Solteronas, Samuela would be collecting marriage proposals like some girls collect pimples.

He remembered when they attended grammar school and part of junior high, she had not been the darling of boys’ attention, but she did have a spark that one or two chavalos found attractive. He remembers teasing one of those boys until his ears turned red.

In recent years, however, and unknown to Arthur, Samuela, now a young woman, played piano at one of her tìa’s early poetry readings. She drew the adoring eyes of women and lustful eyes of a few men, some old, some young, and some very married. Samuela had great potential and it was a gran làstima that family circumstances forced her to be sheltered away from enlightenment in this dark house belonging to a woman who had shunned men like la gripe.

Samuela is going to San Francisco, continued Sandra. She said this with some gusto mixed with Mejicana triste. She had not been apart from her niece since Samuela was in grammar school; and she would have hoped to keep her with her until she completed her education and found a good man. Samuela’s mother was getting married (again) and wanted her daughter to live with her and her newest marido.

Sandra Listora’s hope to have Samuela be with her for a few more years was evaporating. It wasn’t meant to be.

It was further distressing since it was important that while Sandra went on poetry readings, Samuela and her pet chango (given to her by a vecina who could no longer see what the monkey was up to) would be home to watch the house. Alicia tended to forget important issues and neglect the house. She let dust gather on everything, the floor got dirty and the neighborhood cats took over her yard, front and back.

She is catching the Daylight Limited this Sabado.

San Francisco! I’m going up there for a swimming meet. I’ll ride with her. She has lived with you for years. Why is she going up there?

Her mother, my sister Esmeralda Tinosa, has just found another one and wants her to go live with her.

Another what?

Husband, slug. She collects them like some women collect handbags. As usual, my sister does things without thinking them out. Her and her latest have a hotel room with only one bed.

Husband, slug. She collects them like some women collect handbags. As usual, my sister does things without thinking them out. She and her latest have a hotel room with only one bed.

Then where is Samuela going to be staying when she gets there?

Well, not under their bed. She is staying at my casita in Santa Cruz. Where else?

I thought you rented it?

Sandra gawked.

Renting my bungalow! She talked to him as if she were talking to an ape, a bien loco one. What gave you that loony idea?

My àpa heard that you were renting the place to some artist.

Ni modo.

Arthur felt his old vecina was extra sensitive to something that was perfectly natural to say given the information he had on hand. He just didn’t know that renting the Santa Cruz bungalow was a sore point with her. He also was not aware that there was a stream of inquiries from gente to rent or buy it.

Arthur felt his old vecina was extra sensitive to something perfectly natural to say given the information he had on hand. He just didn’t know that renting the Santa Cruz bungalow was a sore point with her. He also was not aware that there was a stream of inquiries from gente to rent or buy it.

There was this gordo, a Mejicano, Joe Milago, who owned an aguacate importing business, and whom Sandra met on a train to San Francisco. She was on her way to hear a lecture on the writings of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, a Seventeenth Century Mejicana poet and nun; and also to visit her sister Esmeralda.

Once there, Sandra invited Joe Milago to visit her at her bungalow with a Pacific view in Santa Cruz. He saw it was empty a good part of the year and wanted to rent, lease or buy it and told her that she could name her price. He called her, wired her and even knocked on her door in East L.A. like a pursuing amante. He had pushed an amigo and fat business man (seller of handmade boots), Fred Pistillo, to coordinate the pursuit.

This very morning she saw among her letters, one from Joe Milago in a green envelope, which caused her a moment of nausea. She opened the letter and read. Within the first few lines, she paled. He had again referenced her beloved casita by the beach in Santa Cruz. It caused the author of numerous romantic and inspirational poems to become spiteful and sad in her own right.

I will never lease, rent or sell my bungalow, she said, shooting up like a park paloma startled by a yap-yap dog. Arthur, sensing the interview was over, also rose from his chair. He was relieved it was