THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



Flowers, to Soften the Blow...


In late summer 1981 I was terminated from my position as a loan agent at a local credit union in Vallejo, California. The cause: I allegedly promised a qualified lender a specific, lower interest rate on her flexible-line loan, a rate lower than our lowest offered rate at the time. She reported me as a “manipulative and untrustworthy sort, not fit to be a financial representative,” and my supervisor – a gentleman with whom maintained zero tolerance for individuals who upset borrowers of large – discharged me the following business day.

“Hector, I’ve been an innovative leader in this industry a good long while, and I’ve seen your type: you sell clients on bullshit APR’s and false promises then you sign the package with the actuals! It’s an old design, and frankly, I loathe such practice.”

“Mr. Mitchel, I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a mistake here. The client misunderstood my accent, and I certainly didn’t… ”

“Hector, consider yourself my example to the remaining junior members of staff. I expect you to clear your things by 8:00am.”

But I wasn’t a junior member; I was a seasoned loan officer. I just moved to the area, and I was trying my best to assimilate. The gentleman who fired me did so coldly and hurriedly. In hindsight, I’m certain he just didn’t like me, my accent, or the fact that I only had four dress shirts to wear to work and one pair of brown leather shoes, specific signs pointing to the financial status of my family and I at the time.  While I did my job and did it well – I even ironed the hell out of my four shirts, and my shoes never showed a scuff – the confusion about the interest rate was simply his instrument for removal.
*
After a long two years of processing taxes for middle-class families in San Mateo, my wife, Felise, and my small son and I fell on hard times and decided to move north, to Vallejo. We moved in with my wife’s elderly mother until I could get us back on our feet. Having very little things and only a handful of dollars for gasoline for our decaying gold Maverick, we packed up and left San Mateo behind. Within three days in Vallejo, I had secured the position in the credit union. It seemed like a wonderful start, but it only takes a single drop of poison to destroy a whole vat of wine.
*
On the way home, I contemplated the exchange of so few words with my supervisor; I contemplated the smoky Maverick on the 80; and, I contemplated just how I was to explain to Felise our new set of circumstances.
*
I have struggled greatly in these recent years. In fact, it seems that just when a man marries, just when he and his bride have children, just when he considers himself fortunate, things go awry. I’m a Mexicano and my wife is a Mexicana, so this, by default, fails to aid our endeavors in classic white California. In San Mateo, Felise worked as a cleaner in large office buildings – the very buildings that I worked my ass off in night school to work in myself one day. While going to school, I worked with an irrigation company, and I installed irrigation in both residential and commercial landscapes. Upon getting my Associates, I told Felise that she would clean restrooms in office buildings no longer. She argued, but upon getting to Vallejo, I insisted she stay home and care for our son and for her mother. Now look.
 *
I stopped the Maverick just outside the short chainlink gate to the house. The car sputtered quiet before I even touched the ignition off. On the way home, I bought 13 white carnations with red and pink tips: 6 for Felise, 6 for my mother-in-law, and one for my son. I picked them up; the crackling of the cellophane broke the silence in the Maverick. I placed them back upon the seat; I covered my face with my hands; and, I wept.

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