By Sheila Ortiz Taylor
It truly is 1983 in Coachella Valley and Yolanda Ram???rez, a lowly phlebotomist on the Palm Springs medical institution, has a droop. homosexual males, hemophiliacs, and girls scarred by way of plastic surgery are loss of life. secure blood, just like the water maintaining this barren region eco-friendly, is a lie.In the close by trailer, Isabel Ochoa Dreyfus disappears right into a new id: Marina Lomas. someplace in Iowa her businessman husband sits in the dead of night, watching his drink, promising by no means to hit her back, if merely he can song her down.Despite herself, Marina unearths companionship at Mac and Gil's annual Casa Diva style express. As glamorous males stride up and down a poolside runway, Yo awakens Marina's napping wish. in different places in Coachella, Yo's father Crescencio, a gardener, soothes Eliana Townsend, his mystery love, by means of coaxing existence from the earth outdoor her window. She is loss of life, probably from AIDS, yet nobody will inform her the reality. and during all of it Crescencio's sister, T???a Josie, retains the relatives regular with knowledge from the Rockford documents and her useless Cahuilla husband. Truths surge to the skin during this neighborhood of fake fronts and deep roots as readers are whisked towards the deafening end of Coachella, the most recent from certainly one of Chicano literature's best writers.
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Likes it whenever Sally Augustino is busy in the back and she can kind of pretendjust to herselfthat she, Biscuit Reed, is the librarian. She likes pressing the return date on all the books with the stamp, a way of expressing her belief that everything eventually would find its way back home again. The books and pamphlets would return, directed by the call numbers carefully stenciled on the spines, the codes identifying exactly where on the shelf they belonged. A shaft of sun makes its way past the date palm guarding the east window and lights up the young woman's hair so that to Biscuit it almost looks purple.
Her baby sleeps under a blanket on the double bed in the next room, guarded by a chair, two stacked suitcases. The woman stands in the doorway, sensing with her bare feet the uneven texture of the cheap checkerboard linoleum, worn, buckled, and ripped slightly under the strata of so many exits and entrances, people whose journeys continue somewhere else. She takes the sun of this winter morning on her face, holds a cup of coffee, breathes in the desert stillness, unaware of the man planting flowers in Palm Springs, the woman burying her dog in Desert Hot Springs.
No, he'd just look at you in that way of his. Ellie says Crescencio is always polite. And he is. Still, George sometimes feels judged by his own yardman. A man who would rather edge the damn grass with a machete while a perfectly good weed whacker stands in the garage collecting dust. Never get anywhere that way. Not that George was prejudiced. No, he has known some very smart Mexicans in his time, but most of themtruth to telldid things in this same half-assed way, everything one at a time. He had thought more than once about letting Crescencio go.