The Greasers

By Ronald Teel

The 1970s. Austin, Texas. In which two Mexican brothers from South Tejas move to Austin to seek a degree from the famous University of Texas. While there, they become radically sensitive to the separation of “whites” and browns” in the overall scheme of things. Finally, the younger of the two brothers decides to do something about it. He travels deep into Mexico and locates an ancient and most unusual formula. Once he has tried it out for himself, the young Chicano decides to bring it back to Austin where it will be tried out on selected “gringos.” Then before anyone realizes it, the entire structure of Austin begins to change. Gringos turn into Chicanos. That is, their Anglo-American thinking, their passions, and eventually their lifestyles become “Mexican.” No one is exempt—doctors, politicians, city councilmen, border patrolmen, state troopers, the chief-of-police, the mayor, and even the governor of Texas! All of them turn “brown” with the end result of radical changes in Texas politics and the uplifting of the status of Mexican Americans…which, in the end, is felt all the way to the White House!

This book has lowriders in it, and Little Joe, and Pulido, and lots of others….and some friends of mine seem to think this book would make a fine movie. So do I.

Viva el brown tidal wave!

Firmamente,

El Rone

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781648016370

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The Greasers

Ronald Teel

Copyright © 2020 Ronald Teel

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

This book was retrieved from a flood in 2015!

ISBN 978-1-64801-636-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64801-637-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

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

Dedication

While pondering to whom I should dedicate this book, I finally decided that it could be none other than my good friend, Ed Miller, alias Sancho de Houston.

Ed, I remember well our days spent together working on those hot, grimy diesel engines.

I think with delight at the evenings spent hanging out with the Fort Worth winos.

Now that was an experience!

Let me quote you here.

You said so often that it’s all just a big joke, brother. That’s all it is. Everythings just a big joke! And so is this book.

So to you, Ed, my fondest regards. May God bless you.

You too, Debrah, for encouraging me to write it.

Preface

Several friends have read this little book. They described it as being (1) bizarre, (2) strange, (3) ill, very ill, and (4) deflicted. (Whatever that means, Debrah!) To my friends, I say, Thank you. It is all of these. But I had hoped, somehow, that it would be more. Of course, when you consider the source of its inception, then you may more easily grasp its contents.

This little book was written over a period of several months… Cold, lonely nights working an evening shift in the centrifuge building of a large, metropolitan sewer plant. It was written beneath the ominous presence of both methane and hydrogen sulfide gases. Perhaps this too will: explain its grotesque configuration. Nonetheless, I will insert a warning here. After reading this book, you will be different. Parts of it will stick with you. The city of Austin will never be the same for you either. I mean it.

And even though these are fictitious characters, with names that aren’t real either, you will recognize someone you know in here, perhaps even yourself. And if you cannot identify with at least one of these figures, let’s pray that, someday, you may be able to. In other words, if you cannot identify with this story in any way, then you need to change. El Mentiroso would say you are a long way from becoming. In any event, I like my little book, and being a Gemini, I can be almost anyone I want to be in here. I guess, though, if I had my choice, I would be El Mentiroso. He’s a liar, of course, but sometimes he makes sense. This book of lies can make sense if you will let it. I think we all long for a taste of the revenge from time to time. At least, I hope so.

The slang in this book may offend some. People are funny. I tried to include everybody. I actually lived in Austin in the 1970’s, ate amazing tacos on Eastside, attended Austin seminary, delivered the morning paper to the governor’s office, and experienced the birth of my beautiful daughter, Heather.

In the 1980’s, I worked for Lowrider Magazine, had a lowrider shop in Arlington, TX, and daily drove a lowrider show-car. All of this being said, I have learned one thing; when memories fade, one thing remains: Jesus es todo.

Firmamente,

EI Rone

Tamales

William Sydney Porter (O. Henry)

This is the Mexican

Don Jose Calderon

One of God’s countrymen.

Land of the buzzard

Cheap silver dollar, and

Cacti and murderers.

Why has he left his land?

Land of the lazy man,

Land of the pulque

Land of the bull fight,

Fleas and revolution.

This is the reason,

Hark to the wherefore;

Listen and tremble.

One of his ancestors,

Ancient and garlicky

Probably grandfather,

Died with his boots on.

Killed by the Texans,

Texans with big guns,

At San Jacinto.

Died without benefit

Of priest or clergy;

Died full of minie balls,

Mescal and pepper.

Don Jose Calderon

Heard of the tragedy.

Heard of it, thought of it,

Vowed a deep vengeance.

Vowed retribution

On the Americans,

Murderous gringos,

Especially Texans.

"Valgame Dios! Que

Ladrones, diablos,

Matadores, mentidores,

Carracos y perros,

Voy a matarles,

Con solo mis manos,

Toditas sin falta."

Thus swore the Hidalgo

Don Jose Calderon.

He hied him to Austin.

Bought him a basket,

A barrel of pepper,

And another of garlic,

Also a rope he bought.

That was his stock in trade.

Nothing else had he.

Nor was he rated in

Dun or in Bradstreet,

Though he meant business.

Don Jose Calderon,

Champion of Mexico,

Don Jose Calderon,

Seeker of vengeance.

With his stout lariat,

Then he caught swiftly

Tomcats and puppy dogs,

Caught them and cooked them,

Don Jose Calderon,

Vower of vengeance.

Now on the sidewalk

Sits the avenger

Selling Tamales to

Innocent purchasers.

Dire is thy vengeance,

Oh, Jose Calderon,

Pitiless Nemesis

Fearful Redresser

Of the wrongs done to thy

Sainted grandfather.

Now the doomed Texans,

Rashly hilarious,

Buy of the deadly wares,

Buy and devour.

Rounders at midnight,

Citizens solid,

Bankers and newsboys,

Bootjacks and preachers,

Rashly importunate,

Courting destruction,

Buy and devour.

Beautiful maidens

Buy and devour,

Gentle society youths

Buy and devour.

Buy and devour

This thing called Tamale.

Made of rat terrier,

Spitz dog and poodle,

Maltese cat, boarding house

Steak and red pepper,

Garlic and tallow,

Corn meal and shucks.

Buy without shame

Sit on store steps and eat,

Stand on the street and eat,

Ride on the cars and eat,

Strewing the shucks around

Over creation.

Dire is thy vengeance,

Don Jose Calderon,

For the slight thing we did

Killing thy grandfather.

What boots it if we killed

Only one greaser,

Don Jose Calderon?

This is your deep revenge,

You have greased all of us,

Greased a whole nation

With your Tamales,

Don Jose Calderon.

Santos Esperitos,

Vicente Camillo,

Quitana de Rios,

De Rosa y Ribera.

Author’s Suggestion

Go get yourself a six pack before you read any more of this thing.

All my friends have agreed that a six pack brings this stuff into focus.

Chapter 1

Don Jose was buried quietly beneath the large mesquite tree behind his home, a tree which Don Jose called his tree. It was near the stock pond where he had always loved to fish when he came home from work in the evening. All the family was at the funeral, and they were a big family indeed. They had come from all over the Quemado Valley. Don Jose was a farm worker. He had been a farm worker all his life. Don Jose slipped across the Rio Bravo once (some call it the Rio Grande), and he had carried his young wife atop his broad shoulders. They had agreed to settle in Texas, and it was there where they raised children and grandchildren. Don Jose’s family respected him very much. He had sufferred a great deal, they knew, all those years, especially in his dealings with the gringos. There were times when he would work for two or three weeks getting a crop harvested, and then, when it came time to get his pay, he would see the pinche gringos, as he called them, move their equipment on somewhere else and not pay him anything. Don Jose was often shortchanged, and even in later years, when the Farm Workers Movements created changes in the politics of South Texas, Don Jose and others still made below the minimum wage. (Wetbacks were meant to be poor… Well, all Mexicans for that matter. They’re happy living the way they do. See, you give ’em money, and they just lose it. A wetbacks a wetback, that’s all!) Some gringo said that years ago, and other gringos took up the chant.

Joe and Ruben were ready to leave. They had said their goodbyes to everyone and were waiting for their ride. Soon, their dad’s pickup truck pulled through the gate and into the yard. Vamanos, he said. Joe and Ruben climbed in and waved one last time. Everyone in the family started waving and calling to them. Several of their aunts began crying. Their father quickly backed out onto the country highway and headed toward Eagle Pass. Remember what I told you, boys, he began. Your grandfather worked real hard just to raise all of us. You know how I tried to get an education in order to get a better job and make it a little easier for you guys. Only I didn’t get too far. Now, it’s your turn, God willing. He paused. You have done well. I finished the sixth grade… Thats all. But I am proud of my sons. You went all the way through high school, and now you’re entering college! No one in our family has ever done that. Their father was quiet for a moment, thinking. Just don’t give up, okay? Like Little Joe says, ‘You can make it…if you try!’

We’re gonna make it, Dad. You’ll see, said Ruben. Joe didn’t say anything. He knew all too well why they were headed for the University at Austin. He and Ruben were token browns. The University of Texas always gave annual scholarships to Mexican students throughout South Texas just so a required number of Hispanics would fill the fall enrollment lists.

Damn, thought Joe. Some of these Mexicans could barely read, and they were sending them to the university! But Ruben and I were lucky to be chosen. We’ll give it our best. We’ve got to show those stupid Gringos. Orale! They have killed men like my grandfather long enough. Joe was always thinking. Sometimes maybe he thought too much. (Let it be noted that Joe will become the catalyst in this story. Ruben is the level-headed one. Joe? Well, Joe is unique!)

The bus dropped Joe and Ruben in downtown Austin. Long hours had passed since their father had said goodbye to them in Eagle Pass. They were excited about their first visit to Capitol City, however. As Joe and Ruben picked up their luggage and stepped onto Main Street, Joe’s eyes marveled at the many-colored taxis, the traffic, the people dressed in business suits, and especially at the large building on Capitol Hill.

Ruben, Joe asked. What do you think?

Ruben looked around. I’ve gotta take a leak, he replied, and stepped into the nearest alley.

***

They phoned their cousin, Adrian. A few minutes later, he pulled up in his smoking ’54 chevy. Hey, home boys, he called. Hop in! Joe and Ruben soon loosened up and began laughing at Adrian’s jokes as he whisked them on a quick tour of Austin. And right here, Adrian said as they crossed under Highway 35, is where the real barrio starts. This is Eastside, homes, he said proudly. Joe and Ruben didn’t say anything. They merely took everything in. Eastside seemed all right.

This is more like it, said Joe, finally. Almost everyone they saw here was Chicano. The setting looked familiar, even down to the chovalos weaving along the streets on lowrider bikes and the graffiti spray-painted on the sides of the supermarkets.

Adrian stopped in front of a grey boarding house. This is where you will be staying, primos, he said. Joe and Ruben quietly unloaded their bags. Once inside, they were introduced to Mrs. Ramirez, who would be their landlady. She greeted them politely, and then she explained her house rules.

No drinking except for beer. No smoking of marijuana. No loud radios or stereo music. No cooking in the room! Any questions? she asked. Neither of the brothers said anything.

Oh, also. She winked. No rucas. If you get a girlfriend, you go over to her house. I want my place to stay respectable. Entendiendes?

"Si, answered Joe with a smile. No problema."

Okay, she smiled back. Welcome to mi casa. I need your deposit, and then I will serve supper at five thirty.

After Joe and Ruben had paid her, they began to look around. They checked out the room. It wasn’t really too bad. They were on the second floor and could look down on 7th Street below, where the action was. Adrian told them that the river park was also just a few blocks away.

Hey, Joe, called Ruben from over by the window. Check it out!

Joe walked over and looked outside. There below them was a ’65 Chevrolet which had been pulled over. Two police cars stood behind it, their blue and white lights flashing. Soon, a third vehicle, a police van, pulled up, and four young lowriders were led, handcuffed, into it. Following just behind came a city wrecker which quickly hooked up the ’65 and towed it away. Joe suddenly turned toward the door and headed downstairs.

Joe! called Ruben, Where are you going?

Joe did not answer.

Don’t be stupid, man Ruben yelled to him in Spanish. Those cops may get you!

But Joe knew what he was doing. Once outside, he slowed his pace and walked up to a policeman who was writing out a report. Excuse me, sir, Joe began. The policeman stopped writing and stared at him.

I only want a minute of your time, if you don’t mind, Joe continued.

Yeah? said the cop. Whatcha want?

Well, began Joe, I am with the Eastside Hispanics for Community Awareness… He hesitated. And as you may well know, we want the Mexicans over here to ‘straighten up.’ We also want to work with the Austin law-enforcement officers like yourself. What I was wondering was… Joe took a deep breath. Are those ‘lowriders’ causing trouble again? If so, we want to know about it. For instance, this dude you just pulled over… Is he one of the bad ones?

Well, said the cop as he put his pencil behind his ear. Let’s just say he is ‘typical.’

In what way? asked Joe.

Why, man, said the cop. He didn’t have no insurance on that car.

Is that why you pulled him over? continued Joe.

No, we pulled him over because he had a burned-out tail light.

And then you found that he had no insurance? asked Joe.

Right, said the cop.

And so you took him to jail! snapped Joe.

The policeman smiled at Joe as if he were talking to a child. You see, son, the policeman explained, that boy was driving a car illegally on two counts. First, the taillight, and second, no insurance. But what about the others? pressed Joe. What crimes did they commit?

One of ’em, replied the cop, lowering his voice as if to reveal some dark secret. Is on probation! I mean, it’s clear as day.

What’s clear? asked Joe.

Hell, he’s keeping bad company, responded the cop as if annoyed. And those other two… Well, let’s just say we’ve taken them down for questioning.

Joe, by this time, was becoming angry. And all of this, Joe interjected, for a burned-out tail light?

Yeah, said the cop as he looked suspiciously at Joe. Hey, he questioned. Who are you with again?

The Eastside Committee for Affirmative Action, said Joe, forcing a smile, and then he replied, Thank you, officer and he walked away.

No sweat, said the cop and he pulled the pencil from behind his ear. He then scribbled out a note about the discussion with Joe. Talked with some Mexican about the trouble with lowriders. Said he was with the Eastside Community Center.

Several days later, Joe and Ruben went through the interminable University of Texas enrollment and orientation process. Toward the end of the week, Joe and Ruben found themselves still standing in another of many long registration lines.

Man, I’m tired of this! said Joe. We don’t even know if we’re going to get the classes we want until somebody runs our cards through a computer or something.

I know, agreed Ruben. But we’re here, bro. We’re here! It’ll be better when we learn more about what’s going on.

Maybe, said Joe sullenly. Here, hold my place in line. I’m gonna get a drink. Then Joe walked over to the water fountain. A moment later, he lit a cigarette and stood gazing out the window as hundreds of students worked through their busy afternoon carrying stacks of papers in their hands.

Excuse me, someone said, and Joe felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned around. There, in front of him, stood a beautiful blonde coed. She was wearing a short skirt and flashy, new-wave sunglasses. Can you tell me where the ladies room is? She giggled.

What? said Joe, very much surprised.

Por favor, Señor, she stammered, Donde es la…bano? she blurted.

Joe just looked at her. Hey, babe, he replied, I don’t know. See, I just got here myself. Why don’t you look downstairs?

Oh, she exclaimed, You speak english… That’s good! Gracias, I mean, thank you. And she bounded away down the stairs to the basement.

Now what was that all about? Joe wondered and took his place back in line.

What did the gavacha say to you? asked Ruben.

Nothing much, murmured Joe. She was lost. I think maybe she was in the wrong building.

Oh, said Ruben.

What a weird chick, thought Joe. And then he noticed something he had not seen before. Where he had been standing, next to the window, someone had left a broom, a mop, and a mop bucket.

Well, I’ll be…, mused Joe. She thought I was the janitor! Gracias to you, gringa, thought Joe. You just pissed me off!

***

During the weeks that followed, Joe and Ruben learned much about Austin. For one thing, it was steeped in history. Also, a lot of important people lived there. You really couldn’t tell much about what a person did by the clothes he wore. Doctors, lawyers, and congressmen often sported cowboy boots, Levi’s, and drove jeeps. Bankers took their Jordache-jeaned wives out to hear Willie Nelson, and college professors put on T-shirts and corduroys, listened to jazz in the late afternoon, and drank absinthe down on the river. University students, as often as not, wore business suits. Dropped-out students lived in cut-offs and Harley-Davidson sweatshirts, and seminary students dressed like all of the above. And what about the Chicanos? Joe and Ruben learned that Chicanos on campus fell into two groups. By far, the majority of them dressed preppy and were involved in a myriad of university happenings. A lesser number, which included Joe and Ruben, wore their usual khakis and jeans, boots or Stacies, and different types of windbreakers and school jackets.

Joe and Ruben’s friends lived, for the most part, either in or near varrio Eastside. The other Chicanos lived in expensive apartments near campus. Those cocos, Joe would often remark, don’t know the difference between rancheras and Califas ‘salsa.’ They are only into ‘reggae’ and ‘new-wave.’

Don’t be so hard on them, Joe, Ruben would reprimand. They are still Raza, man.

Simon, agreed Joe. But a lot of them sure don’t act like it. Some of those batos wouldn’t stand a chance in Quemado, man. Someone would spot them on sight and would run those sissies back to Gabacho Acres or wherever it is they stay!

Joe, Joe… Ruben laughed. Let’s get back to our studies. Don’t you have a test tomorrow?

Sure, said Joe. We have tests in that class every Friday. But I’ll study in a minute. I’m gonna get us some birongas.

Joe walked to the supermarket across the street and bought some beer and a newspaper. Two hours and a twelve-pack later, Joe and Ruben gave up studying and found themselves in a park on Eastside. They were soon listening to a public debate, which Joe had learned about through the newspaper. When the debate ended and everyone was leaving, Ruben turned to Joe. Do you think this did any good, I mean, for the Eastside?

I think people over here are beginning to ask questions, reasoned Joe. And that old dude… What’s his name?

Larry Garcia, replied Ruben.

Yeah, that’s him. He’s tough said Joe. It looks like he has been the main one arguing with the city council for years about improving the Eastside. Man, they do need work done on the streets and better lighting and better sanitation service and extended bus lines. That old guy is right, and maybe people will begin to listen to him!

You know what I feel…, said Ruben. You and I, we’re outsiders, Joe. We’re not really a part of all this, and yet we want to be. Do you know what I mean?

Joe didn’t answer.

Do you think that university life is ‘radicalizing’ us, Joe? Ruben continued.

Joe shrugged his shoulders and did a quick dance step on the sidewalk. Not me, homes, he said. I can’t get that serious. I’ve always been a pachuco, por vida. Dame rucas y birongas…solamente! and he struck the pose of El Pachuco, one foot in front of the other and with his back arched.

You’re nuts. Ruben laughed.

No se, tu, retorted Joe.

Joe and Ruben had one class together which both of them loved. Hispanics, Their History and Settlement in the American Southwest. The class was racially mixed, about half white and half Chicano. Their professor was dynamic. He purposely kept both the class lectures and the discussions at a fever pitch. He also demanded that the students, both white and brown, ‘feel’ what had caused the Hispanic influence to remain viable over the centuries. It was due to this class that Joe and Ruben would make a great discovery. This discovery would not only change their lives, but it would change Capitol City. This discovery would, in fact, change all of Texas. Without realizing it, Joe and his brother Ruben were on the threshold of becoming…the Greasers.

Chapter 2

One evening, Joe walked up and down the aisles of the library looking for something different to do a report on. The Hispanic history class instructor required every student to turn in a report on some aspect of Chicano history each week. Bored, Joe continued looking through