Rolando: When Little Creatures Die
Editor’s note: This story was originally published at thethridcity.org a few years ago. Rolando read this piece at Stage 773 last night at the Liminality show.
I wasn’t in the ER when we received the paramedics’ call. But when the paramedics came rolling in, and I saw one of them pumping the gurney with two fingers, I knew what it was.
She couldn’t have been older than two. Her father found her face first in a half-filled bathtub on the second floor of their home.
Apparently, one of her older siblings had taken a bath earlier that afternoon and forgot to empty the tub.
Once the paramedics got the little girl to a room, The medic, who was performing chest compressions, carefully scooped her off his gurney, and placed her on our cart.
I looked at her.
She was soaking wet. Her hair was black and shiny. Her lips and skin were pale and blue. And her little hands were balled up into fists, as if in her last moments, she clenched them in one last effort to fight going into the black.
I paused as I stared at this little creature, my brain trying to make sense of what was going on.
It was too much.
I withdrew within my self. All the noise and organized chaos going on around me fell silent.
My brain couldn’t process it. And my normal reaction of reverting back to my training and getting on with the task at hand in these types of situations failed.
I felt like I was staring at her forever.
Then I was snapped out of my trance by the sound of the doctor’s voice calling for me to resume compressions.
I placed my two fingers on her tiny chest and pumped.
She was so small, I was afraid of collapsing her chest. But I kept working.
While we were working on the little girl, Her father stood by himself in the corner of the room. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even cry. He just kinda of watched in disbelief.
I thought about what could possibly be going on through his head….
This couldn’t be happening, right? My little girl isn’t dying. This is just a bad dream and when I wake up, I’ll open her bedroom door and see her asleep in bed….
I looked at him as I continued compressions and thought….
You poor bastard. Your little girl is dead, man. We’re not going to be able to bring her back. Everything you see us doing right now, is just for show. It’s something we have to do, just to say we tried to save your little girl’s life even though she’s already gone and your life will never be the same….
After about 30 minutes of working on her, the doc called out, “What time do we have?”
“13:05,” I said.
“Time of death, 13:05. Cease compressions and unhook her from the monitor,” she said as she turned and walked out of the room with tears in her eyes.
Nobody else left, though. We all stayed, staring at her as she lay lifeless, her tiny body too small for a cart that adults die on.
When the little girl’s mom arrived a few minutes later, we heard her screaming from the waiting room. When she entered the ER, she ran straight for her husband and fell into his arms.
He looked at her, and then looked up as if he were searching his brain for the right words to explain what just happened.
“She’s gone,” he said. “Our baby is gone.”
The mother let a nerve-wrenching cry and fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
All movement in the ER stopped as they mourned their little girl’s death. And for a moment, we all stayed silently mourning with them. Then we all left.
Hours later I went back to the room after the little girl’s parents left.
I had to bag her body.
But I couldn’t touch her right away. I just kind of hovered over her for a moment, not knowing where to start. She was so little and beautiful and she was dead.
I tried to picture her when she was alive. I imagined her walking with that little wobble that babies have when they are still unsure of themselves on their feet.
I imagined she must have had the most infectious laugh. I pictured her throwing tantrums when she didn’t get her way, stomping her feet, waving her hands. I smiled and laughed at that thought.
Then, I gently cleaned her, removed all the IV lines and bagged her body….
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Rolando: Sunny Days
It’s sunny out. So I decide to hop on the bike, take a ride and go write my Saturday post by the lake.
I pack my laptop and grab a couple of beers from my fridge.
Why not? I’m off and don’t have anything to do. I’ll knock a couple back at the lake with my shoes off and a full, sunny afternoon ahead of me.
I jump on the path by Foster Ave and start burning it, pedaling as fast as I can.
The sun is shining on my face. The wind is blowing against my body. Lake Michigan is shining bright blue and I can see boats in the distance traveling north and south.
I’m loving being a Chicagoan today. I’m feeling real good.
As I’m taking in the beautiful day, I start to think of things to write about. I’ve been doing a lot of humor stuff lately. I want to write about some other things.
My life isn’t all humor and fun.
I get to Milton L. Olive III park, just north of Navy Pier. I hop off my bike, kick my shoes off and set up on the lawn overlooking the lake.
I’m laying in the grass with my shoes off….
Plej’s “You” is playing on Pandora. It’s a smooth Swedish house track. I’m feeling it.
I start to write. Actually, I open up a blank page, stare at it for 15 minutes, but nothing comes out.
What should I write about?
God, it’s beautiful out.
Met a lovely lady the other day, maybe I’ll write about that.
Nah, write about something else.
She is a lovely lady, though.
How about that one thing my brother did a couple days back? Shit was funny as hell. Damn near busted a gut laughing at it.
Is that girl wearing a bikini on the beach? It’s beautiful out, but, damn, not that nice. Put some clothes on, chick. It’s 70 degrees out.
I’ll write about the Live King Conundrum show I just did. Nah, that The Legend of Milo bit I did tanked.
Man, those King Conundrum dudes are a wild bunch. And their parties are insane.
How about turning 30 or Benny Jay’s obsession with Iceberg Slim?
Did that already.
Gotan Project’s “Notas” is on now.
Damn I wish I spoke Spanish like the Argentineans. I have to plan a trip to Argentina.
I imagine myself in some park in Buenos Aires. Instead of cold beer, I’m sipping red wine and instead of the city’s skyline, I see wide, tree-lined boulevards with little cafes.
I’m set up somewhere along this boulevard….
Words start to pour out of me now. These words. The ones you’re reading right now.
The sun still shines, the weather is still beautiful, Chicago is summer-bound and I have words to share now.
Except I’m thinking of Buenos Aires, and life is good, only it’s not only Chicago, summertime good, it’s Buenos Aires, summertime good, too.
And the Chicago skyline is still glimmering in the early summer sunlight.
And I pack up my laptop, hop on my bike and ride home thinking of southern hemisphere summers.
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Rolando: Getting Old Ain’t Easy
So I have a big milestone coming up in my life next week: I”ll be turning 30.
Damn, it’s nearly as hard to say as it is to think about.
I got to say I’m having real trouble coming to terms with turning 30.
Now, it’s not only the fact that I’m turning 30 that bothers me, it’s really that I’ll be leaving my twenties behind.
Yeah, that’s where the problem is.
I liked my twenties, especially my early twenties. I could do dumb shit and get away with it on the count of me being in my early twenties. You know, being young, and all.
If it involves alcohol and fire, it’s probably dumb shit. But I did it….
Not so much in your thirties. Being in your thirties requires that you move on from all your doing-dumb-shit impulses.
Can’t be out all night partying. Can’t look at something that could be potentially reckless and life threatening and say, ‘That shit looks cool. I think I’ll give it a try.’
No, you gotta be safe and responsible.
You have kids in your thirties. Buy a house. You don’t party as much. There’s also the boring job, with benefits, retirement fund and yearly vacations to somewhere safe like Orlando or the Grand Canyon.
All of which I consider to be shoot-me-in-my-head boring.
It’s almost as if when you hit 30, you have to turn and look at your former twenty-something self, and tell it to fuck off.
All the “unproductive” things you’ve been doing for the last decade cannot transfer into the next decade.
And I got to tell you, my twenty-something self is feeling a little bitter about the whole thing.
I mean, it’s not like I can avoid it. But damn, couldn’t the transition be a little less painful?
One day I’m 29 and the next day I’ll be 30? Just like that?
Another thing that doesn’t help is that most of the people in my social circles are still, at the very least, two to three-years away from hitting 30. And they take every opportunity available to remind me of it.
“Got a birthday coming up, right?” Frankie, a close friend asked me the other day.
“Yeah, next week.”
“How old are you going to be?”
“Um, ugh, 30.”
“Oh shit, 30? That’s fucking ancient, bro. Dinosaur type shit.”
“Frankie, you’re going to be 29, asshole. You’re not far behind.”
“Still, not going to be 30, bro. Just give up on life and die already.”
Nina, another friend of mine, shared a similar view on my upcoming 30th birthday.
“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before,” she said.
“Seen one what?”
“A 30-year-old. Isn’t that around the age you start receiving AARP mags and wearing Depends?”
Still haven’t received any in the mail, yet….
“Kiss my ass, Nina. You’re 28.”
“Yeah, but I’m not 30, though. I actually feel sorry for you, old man.”
Perhaps the most shocking response I’ve received in breaking the news of my upcoming 30th birthday was from a volunteer at my work.
She’s young, around 19, I think.
When I told her I was turning 30, a mix of horror and disbelief came across her face, like she had seen the most incomprehensible thing in her young life.
“You’re going to be 30!” she exclaimed as she gasped. “Oh my God!”
I just shook my head yes and walked away.
What can I tell you? Getting old ain’t easy.
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Rolando: My Big Raise
Things have been moving along for me here at thethirdcity.org. It’s been almost two years since I submitted my first post, and since then, I’ve been contributing fairly regularly to the site. So much so, that I recently received my second promotion (I was demoted several months back, so technically it’s only one promotion.)
After some careful thought, Benny Jay was offering me my old regular staff writer job back.
I was more than happy to accept his offer. I mean, hell, being a staff writer for thethirdcity.org is great gig. There’s the wild parties Milo always throws at our plush Michigan Avenue offices, the company paid trips to Vegas and lets not even get started on what it can do for your sex life.
Our trips to Vegas usually look something like this….
So if Benny Jay’s offering you a gig, you accept.
He broke the news to me during a meeting we were having at his multimillion dollar north side mansion.
“So, you’ve been doing good,” he said, as he slowly rocked back and forth in chair in his living room, his feet up on a leg rest. “I mean, you’re writing good stuff.”
“Thanks, Benny,” I said.
“I’m serious. Funny shit. Milo thinks its great.”
“Well I’m trying, man.”
He paused for moment. He looked me in my eyes, squinted, and made the offer.
“So, you want your old job back? We can give you Saturdays.”
“Do I want my old job back? Fuck yeah I want my old job back, Benny.”
And with a handshake it was settled. I thanked him again and started to make my way out his living room when it hit me. He didn’t discuss a raise with this promotion.
I decided to bring it up. I stopped and turned to him.
“Hey, Benny, we didn’t talk about money.”
“What about it?” he said with out looking up at me.
“What do you mean ‘What about it?’ I’m talking about, you know, maybe a little something extra then what you’ve been giving me.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? We pay you a six-figure salary and you want ‘something extra?’”
Now he has a point. Writers for thethirdcity.org do make bank. But I figured the promotion should include a raise.
So I pressed him.
“Benny, this is the second promotion I’ve had in less than a year. You said your self, I’m doing good work. I want a raise.”
“You want a raise? Let’s see what Milo has to say about it,” he said as he picked up the phone and dialed.
After a few seconds, Milo picked up.
“Hey, Milo, fuck face here says he wants a raise. What do you think?”
He listened quietly for a good 30 seconds and nodded intently. Meanwhile, I tried to figure out how the hell Milo knew he was referring to me when he said “Fuck face.”
As he hung up he said:“Milo says fuck you. No raises for crazy Puerto Ricans.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said.
“Just consider yourself lucky to be getting this second premotion after that stunt you pulled last time.”
“Hey, I said I was sorry. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Not your fault? You drove the company Rolls Royce into Wrigley Field. You were actually on the field with the car.”
The company Rolls Royce….
“But, Benny….”
“When the cops got there they found you and six scantly-dressed women running the bases, laughing hysterically.”
“Benny….”
“In the car they found a case of champagne, six half-smoked joints and a baggy of coke in the glove compartment.”
“But it wasn’t….”
“You were running around in your thethirdcity.org boxers, Rolando. You‘re lucky we didn‘t fire your ass. Get the fuck out of here, asshole.”
I decided to let it go. I was fine with what I was making. But I still wanted to argue my case on what happened the last time.
So before I left I blurted out as quickly as I could manage: “All that wouldn’t have happened if Milo hadn’t thrown such a sick ass party, invited those fine ass ladies and hooked me up with his connect, Nickle Bag Bernie, and gave me the keys to Royce.”
“Get the fuck out of my house you damn maniac,” he screamed.
I ran out of his house as he hurled obscenities at me. I made it out of the door just as he was shouting: “Stupid Puerto Rican.”
Whatever. I got my job back. I’m making descent bank. Can’t complain.
Now if I can just get my hands on those keys to that Royce….
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Rolando: I Finally Got My Nod
Growing up I was always surrounded by music and musicians. All my best friends are musicians. I played drums and timbales when I was younger. And the group of us always spent most of our free time working on our chops or jamming together.
Now, of course, as we all got a little older, some of us got a lot better than the others at our craft.
I wasn’t one of them.
Some of my other friends began to show signs of being real bad boys on their instruments at a fairly young age.
But in Chicago, at least at that time, there was one place in particular you’d go to prove yourself if you were a Latin Jazz musician: Cafe Bolero.
Cafe Bolero is still open and cats are still jamming…
This tiny little Cuban restaurant/bar served as the meeting point for all of the bad ass Latin Jazz cats in the city. It’s located on Western Ave just south of Fullerton Ave.
Some real nasty dudes played there, and if you wanted any respect as a musician, you sat in with these guys and gave it your best.
So we’d go every Tuesday night to check out some music, maybe sneak a drink in or three. We were all under the age of 18, but the bartender knew us and served us anyway.
The bar, where the music was played, is a room no bigger than 30 x 30 feet. And that is including the full-service bar tucked into the corner. It has exposed brick walls and the lighting is always dimmed down low.
This was back when smoking in doors was allowed, so there would always be a smokey haze filling the room from all the cigar smoke.
The place would always be packed to capacity; standing room only. But we squirmed and wiggled our way up to the front so we could get a better view.
We always wanted to study the Chicago legends up front. Guys like the congero, who we referred to as The Ogie. There was Mike, a trumpet player who could blow the hell out of his horn.
The Ogie is the freaking man. Beastly on the congas. Hands like steel…
But then there was Richie, the band leader and bassist. A real son of a bitch. The guy didn’t smile. He didn’t like new kids coming in and trying to prove themselves–unless they really proved themselves–and he sure as hell didn’t like kids that came up to sit in with a false sense of confidence.
But to us, back then, he was the man. He ran the show, and if you could impress him, you were set.
When guys would sit in, Richie had this way of testing them. If you sucked, he just wrapped up the song and got you off of your instrument.
If a guy was somewhat good, he’d stop the music and let him go off on a solo. He’d give a slight nod to the rest of the band, and with the wave of a hand, the guy would be all alone.
“Go ahead,” he’d say.
And it was the guy, his instrument and the crowd, watching, seeing if he had the skill to impress.
The shit was terrifying, because that meant a guy had nothing to hide behind. Any mix up, any mistake or lack of skill, and he’d be exposed.
But if he pulled something off, and really impressed, he’d get a slight nod from Richie. That’s it. But it was enough to know that he hadn’t made a fool of himself.
I was always too terrified to go up. Some of my friends did, some tanked, some got the nod. But I couldn’t muster enough courage to sit in with these guys. I was 16 and hadn’t felt brave or comfortable enough to try.
More than a decade has passed and the place is still holding its Tuesday night Latin Jazz sessions.
Only the legends are gone and replaced by some of my friends who spent their teenage years there trying to make a name for themselves. Richie is still there leading it up from the bass.
I don’t play anymore, and I certainly don’t have the chops to keep up with my friends, but on a recent Tuesday night, I was put to the test. It was an old reunion of sorts. It was Richie’s birthday and all the old cats showed up.
The Ogie was there and a lot of older familiar faces.
The shit was jamming like it used to. Song after song, the boys kept the energy high and different musicians were switching out and sitting in. The old legends would sit in and the new cats would sit out and vice versa.
Then on one song, my childhood buddy, a real bad ass on timbales, handed me a pair of sticks and told me to jump in on a round of solos that different timbaleros were having.
Dennis Calito, the second half of the renowned percussionist duo, The Calito Brothers, handed me some sticks and said stop being a punk.
Now it was probably the drinks that I had on board, or maybe I just didn’t care, but I jumped in and let loose.
Greatest solo in the world? Probably not. But it wasn’t horrible. And it was fun. And a couple of weeks later when I was back at Bolero sitting at the bar Richie gave me his trademark nod.
He said, “Not bad, bro, for not having touched percussion in years.”
But he was quick to add: “Not great either.”
Fuck it. I’ll take it as a compliment. Richie was always hard to please.
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Rolando: Hector’s Bar–Part II
Months had passed since I first stepped into Hector’s bar, and things had progressed to the point where he look forward to my company.
He’d open the bar on more nights than he had before I first walked in. And whenever I brought a guest, he’d treat us like we were royalty.
One night, after sitting in my apartment with nothing to do, I decided to take a walk down to Hector’s bar, see what was going on with old man.
I walked in and he greeted me as he always did.
“Oye, Boriqua, que tal?”
I responded as I usually did, “Todo bien, Che, todo bien.”
He poured me a beer and we began to talk about Malaga’s soccer team and how they were doomed to be relegated down to the second division because of their poor performance during that year’s La Liga season.
The old man was passionate about his soccer, and aside from his country’s national team, Malaga was his second love. But they sucked.
Being from the north side of Chicago and knowing how it felt to know your hometown team sucked horribly, I could feel the old man’s pain.
I was trying to relate how my own experiences with the Cubs matched his with the Malaga Futbol Club when two thug looking dudes walked into the bar.
“Dos cervesas,” one of them said.
Hector, looking visibly shaken, hurried to pour them their two beers.
For a few minutes, we all sat silent, Hector, pretending to read his paper, the two guys, drinking their beers and watching Hector, and me, trying to process what the hell was going on.
One of the guys, he looked to be the younger of the two, walked up to me and offered me a cigarette.
Trying to ease the tension, I accepted. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack and handed me one.
I turned to Hector and asked him for a light.
“Che, tienes fuego?”
He grabbed a book of matches and lit my cigarette.
I inhaled deeply, thanked the man for the cigarette and introduced myself to the them. They both shook my hand but didn’t give me their names.
They offered to buy a round of shots and beers and we began talking.
They were brothers. The taller, older one did most of the talking, while the younger one–the one who had offered me the cigarette–just sat and listened.
We talked about everything. They wanted to know where I was from. I told them Chicago and they were immediately intrigued. That wanted to know about gangsters and the mob. They asked if it was like the movie, “The Untouchables” or if Italian mobsters still ran the city.
I told them no, that it wasn’t like that. But that it was kind of like that. I couldn’t get them to understand the complexity of our political machine system.
We kept drinking, them buying rounds in exchange for my information on Chicago.
The younger brother offered me a cigarette again, and not to be rude, I accepted.
It was a fucking Chesterfield, I didn’t know I’d get high…
Only this time, the shit got real weird after I smoked it. I began to hallucinate, and I couldn’t focus on what they were saying. I saw double and the pitch of their voices began to stretch and bend.
After about five minutes of them asking me questions and me being unable to answer, the older brother caught on.
He turned to his younger brother and asked if he had given me one of the special cigarettes.
The younger brother, scared, looked down into his cigarette box and said yes.
The fuckers had inadvertently drugged me with whatever they had been getting high on, and it wasn’t your typical Spanish cigarette laced with hash. The shit was way heavier.
Fearing that I would freak out on whatever they were smoking, and run to the police station that was a quarter of a mile away, the older brother grabbed me by my shoulder and began to walk me out of the bar.
Hector pleaded with me not to go with them. He said that they were bad guys, connected with the local crime scene.
I was too fucked to even fully comprehend what he was saying.
I ended up on the back of the younger brother’s motorbike. We were flying down the strip called Calle Bolivia, and he was saying we were going to a safe place. I was so out of it I didn’t care.
A stretch of Calle Bolivia…
All I could focus on was the sensation of the wind, combined with the smell of the saltiness of the sea, blowing on my face as we raced down the street.
When we got where we were going, the younger brother told me to jump off, and we all began walking down this darkened alley.
I started freaking out. I repeatedly asked them where the hell we were going. In my altered mind state, I couldn’t help but feel that death was near. And that these two thugs, rather than deal with a high foreigner and having to explain to the police how they inadvertently drugged me, would prefer to just kill me in that dark alley and avoid all the questions.
They assured me that everything was alright. I would be fine. They just needed to get me to this safe place.
We walked up to this large steel door. The older brother knocked on it, and it screeched open. This bad ass guy looked at him, looked at the younger brother, then looked at me, my eyes all dilated, my body covered in sweat, with the stink of fear emanating from me, and gave us the nod to come in.
Once in, I realized what they were talking about. It was a tiny bar, a club house, really, where they and their associates hung out. It was completely off the map.
We were greeted by their friends. I was introduced as, “El chico de Chicago.” And the questions about the gangs and the mob began flooding in from all directions.
The older brother saved me. He told them that his idiot younger brother had mistakenly given me the wrong cigarette, and that I was to hang out with them until I came off it.
It wasn’t until 6 a.m. that morning that I felt some what normal, we walked out of what they affectionaly called The Smoking Bar and the older brother gave me a ride home. The sweet, salty smell of the sea again invigorated my senses as we cruised back down Calle Bolivia towards my apartment.
The older brother dropped me off at my place, shook my hand and apologized. He told me his name was Osvaldo. And for the rest of my time in Malaga, I never saw him or his brother again, but I never had a problem with any of the local thugs.
Editor’s Note: This is the second part of a two part series.
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Rolando: The Toughest and Best Thing I’ve Ever Done
A close and trusted friend recently told me something that made me stop and think about some recent life choices I’ve made.
“You’re a sick, sadist idiot,” she told me.
I thought about that for a few seconds and realized she was right.
She was talking about my decision to run one of the toughest races out there this last Saturday.
The name of the race: Tough Mudder.
It is 12 miles of pure hell, just a lot colder. The race was designed by British Special Forces.
It has 22 obstacles that generally include running up in down muddy hills, fully submerging yourself in freezing cold water, climbing over 12-foot walls, trudging through muddy and swampy paths and sprinting or crawling through electrically charged wires.
We literally signed a death waiver…
The obstacles were designed to push you to your limits.
One of the obstacles, called Chernobyl Bath, was a jump into what amounted to a huge ice bath. Then a swim under a barrier to the other side of the container.
It was no more than 50 degrees out, by the way.
Another was a jump off a 20-foot platform into a ice cold lake and swim to shore.
The last obstacle was a real son-of-a bitch. After 12 miles of hell, we had to run through roughly 15 feet of live electrical wire, with up to 10,000 volts of electricity. I got zapped twice and it literally made me want to stop in my tracks.
Nothing like 10,000 volts after 12 miles of misery…
During the race we were cold, tired, our hands and feet were numb and we were covered from head to toe in mud.
I know, I know, it sounds sadistic and painful. And god was it painful. But it was fun, too.
We had a team of 9 men and women running this thing. And despite the pain, despite being freezing cold and miserable, it brought something out of us, something that I know we all will remember for the rest of our lives.
It showed that 9 individuals working together could dig deep, and through all the cold and misery and suffering, could accomplish this feat together.
When we crossed the finish line, we all shook hands and hugged, a great sense of relief and accomplishment spread through our team. We had spent the better part of 3 hours together, suffering through that course.
We supported each other. Helped each other over walls and through mud and freezing cold lakes and ponds, never leaving anyone behind.
It was a damn good day in the end. And it was the toughest and best thing I’ve ever done.
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Guest Blogger:
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Pull My Finger. Written by Milo. Read by Andy Orscheln, Lorenzo Toia, Joel Reitsma, Nels, Laura Korn and introducing Benny Jay as Rolando. Produced by King Conundrum.
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A wholly owned subsidiary of The Third City.
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