Free Los Angeles Stories by Ry Cooder

survived. Dr. Chavez was mystified, but he told my grandmother I would be all right as long as I got enough to eat. This was not a problem since my uncle was a butcher, as I told you. So, we ate chicken! Yes, we ate chicken, and I remained healthy. My growth had nothing to do with tuberculosis. The Anglo doctors believed all Mexicans were born physically and morally tubercular, it explained all their problems. I no longer care to eat chicken, but I still visit the Mexican Hospital out of sentiment for my old doctor. Now, there are three doctors with Hispanic names there. Progress!
    It was my uncle Chuy who gave me music to go with the chicken ­plucking. Everyone listened to the radio program Los Madrugadores — The Early Risers . Music to get­ up ­at 5:00­ a.m. ­and ­hurry­ off­ to ­slave ­the ­day ­away ­by! Local musicians performed the popular Mexican tunes of the day. Uncle Chuy sang along as he singed each plucked chicken over a blue gas flame so as remove the pin feathers. He would say to me, “You have good hands, I will teach you.” But his guitar was too large for me, I couldn’t hold it properly. Uncle Chuy knew a requinto player on Olvera Street who had a second instrument. On my tenth birthday, T í o Chuy traded a dozen pollos for it. The requinto is about one third smaller than the guitar in size and one fifth higher in pitch. It was created specifically for trio arrangements. My future was sealed: “The boy is too small for work. Pero, es possible he could survive as a musician, con la mano de dios.” Yes, I survived. Often, I am in pain. My old doctor says my bones are weak. Often, I walk with difficulty. But I had a neighbor, a nurse, who lived at the Edmund Apartments. She had access to the medicine I needed. Morphine, it is called.
    My nurse was Italian. Rose was her name, she worked at General Hospital. Rose’s husband was killed in the war. Arriving home late, I sometimes heard accordion music coming from her apartment. Passing each other in the hallway one evening, we made introductions.
    â€œI’m a musician myself, I appreciate the accordion.”
    â€œMy husband played. Those are his records,” she said. We became acquainted, friendly. One day there was a knock at the door. I had been lying on the sofa for days, unable to move. She called out to me: Was I there? Was I all right? I called back that the door was unlocked. She knew what was wrong.
    â€œOsteoarthritis. In your case, nothing can be done, but there is a painkiller. It’s controlled, you shouldn’t tell anyone. I would lose my job, maybe jail.” Paradiso! Next to music and the cinema, the drug was the most wonderful thing. Life could be beautiful. Rose told me she liked Mexican music. She actually listened to Los Madrugadores before leaving for work in the morning. Later, it was a little while after the assassination of Salazar, she came to my room. I thought she was there to inject me, but it was something else.
    â€œArturo, I have a story for you,” she began. “I told you my husband was killed in Germany. He never fought in the war. He was killed by the police, right here in Los Angeles. My husband was a convinced Socialist and a union man, a printer. He worked against Mussolini. He had a comrade, a Filipino, who was trying to educate Filipinos about Fascism in Los Angeles. One night, there was a meeting on Temple Street. Someone informed and the police raided the meeting. They were looking for the leaders, particularly my husband’s friend. The police opened fire, and my husband was shot. No doctor would touch him. I did what I could, but he died in my arms. That was seven years ago. Now the Filipino is a patient in General Hospital. He still leads the group through me. I tell the others and they do the work. He wants to talk to you. I don’t know why, but it must be very important. The police don’t know he’s there,