How to Date a Flying Mexican Read online

  HOW TO DATE A FLYING MEXICAN

  NEW AND COLLECTED STORIES

  DANIEL A. OLIVAS

  UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA PRESS

  Reno & Las Vegas

  University of Nevada Press | Reno, Nevada 89557 USA

  www.unpress.nevada.edu

  Copyright © 2022 by Daniel A. Olivas

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Trudi Gershinov / TG Design

  Cover art © OlgaSka / Shutterstock.com

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Olivas, Daniel A., author.

  Title: How to date a flying Mexican: new and collected stories / Daniel A. Olivas.

  Description: Reno ; Las Vegas : University of Nevada Press, [2022] |

  Summary: “The book is a collection of Daniel A. Olivas’s distinct, Chicano short stories-sharing once again some of his best-loved, unforgettable and somewhat strange tales, and also introduces readers to new stories. The characters and episodes in the book explore worlds of magic, fairy tales, fables and dystopian futures, and confront questions of morality, justice, and self-determination while being deeply steeped in Chicano and Mexican culture” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021041559 | ISBN 9781647790363 (paperback) | ISBN 9781647790370 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mexican Americans—Fiction. | Hispanic Americans—Fiction. | Short stories, Mexican.

  Classification: LCC PS3615.L58 H69 2022 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021041559

  For my father,

  Michael Augustine Olivas (1932–2020)

  The simplest answer is

  you can’t footnote a dream.

  —LUIS ALBERTO URREA

  (from an interview with Daniel A. Olivas)

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  How to Date a Flying Mexican

  After the Revolution

  Elizondo Returns Home

  Good Things Happen at Tina’s Café

  Don de la Cruz and the Devil of Malibu

  Señor Sánchez

  Driving to Ventura

  Franz Kafka in Fresno

  The Fabricator

  Eurt

  The Fox

  Belén

  The Horned Toad

  Chock-Chock

  The Plumed Serpent of Los Angeles

  La Queenie

  Devil Talk

  Los Otros Coyotes

  The Chicano in You

  Permissions and Source Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  GIVING THANKS is fraught with peril because it is impossible to list every person who played a role in the birthing of a book. But I will try and, if your name does not appear here, you know who you are and I am deeply indebted to you.

  Many thanks to those passionate, brilliant editors of the presses, literary journals, and anthologies that published these stories for the first time. I specifically and proudly acknowledge your publications, by name, at the end of this book.

  I deeply appreciate the enthusiastic response I received from the fine folks at the University of Nevada Press when I submitted this manuscript for consideration. I know many proposals come in each day, so it meant that much more to me that you moved with such alacrity in completing the peer review process and then making the offer to publish. I have enjoyed reading your titles throughout the years. It’s a delight to be part of the family. And a million thanks to my copyeditor, Robin DuBlanc! I could not have asked for a sharper eye or a more thoughtful collaborator.

  A big Chicano abrazo to the many gifted and committed writers who have encouraged and inspired my literary life. And as I have done so often before, I offer additional thanks to my fellow bloggers at the online literary site La Bloga: You never fail to offer communal support for our curious vocation.

  As for my day job, I offer thanks to my friends at the California Department of Justice who have read my books and attended my various book readings. You continue to help me integrate my life as a lawyer with that of an author. You have also inspired some of the fiction in this collection, especially “Good Things Happen at Tina’s Café.” Together we have worked hard for the people of California, and we have watched our former boss take her seat in history as the first woman of color to become vice president of the United States. Sometimes dreams do become reality.

  I thank my parents, who always made certain that we were a family of books and that we freely used our library cards. You taught your children to love and appreciate reading, the arts, and our culture. I know that my father is looking down and smiling at his son who became a writer. I love and miss you, Pop.

  Finally, I thank my wife, Susan Formaker, and our son, Benjamin Formaker-Olivas. As I have said before, I am nothing without you. I hope that you enjoy my new book.

  INTRODUCTION

  AS I WRITE THIS, we are in the tenth month of sheltering in place while the pandemic wreaks havoc on our country. We also nervously await the inauguration of a new president as our nation’s Capitol is militarized in anticipation of further acts of insurrection.

  And I am still mourning the passing of my father, Michael Augustine Olivas, who was called back on September 23, 2020, after a long illness. The son of Mexican immigrants, my father had dreamed of publishing his fiction and poetry, but to no avail. He destroyed all of his writings and got on with his life of being a loving husband and father of five children. Though he never explained to me why he took such permanent drastic action, I suspect the rejection was just too much for my father, and he decided to snuff out all physical evidence of his literary dreams. But he took great pleasure in the fact that I became a published author, and my last visits with him were filled with joyous discussions about books and my latest literary projects.

  I am also a person with two lives. On the one hand, in my “day job” as a senior attorney with the California Department of Justice, I supervise a team of just under fifty attorneys and paralegals in the areas of land use, environmental enforcement, and affordable housing. My days are filled with video meetings, phone calls, memoranda, legal briefs, and assorted correspondence—all while I sit at our kitchen island as my wife also teleworks and supervises a team of administrative law judges from our home study. I work with committed, brilliant professionals who have “kept it together” despite being forced to work from home, sometimes with young children to care for and educate while juggling a demanding legal practice. And some of this legal work involves fighting the Trump administration’s policies targeting our immigrant communities with regard to basic needs such as housing. So in terms of my day job, my plate is full, as they say.

  In my other life, I write fiction, poetry, essays, author interviews, and plays. And after almost twenty-five years of writing short stories of various genres, I realized that many—though not all—of my narratives fell within the world of magic, fairy tales, fables, and dystopian futures. A few months ago, I decided to read through my published stories and select some of my favorite, more curious tales. Our strange times seemed to call for it. In compiling the stories that make up this volume, I noticed that many of them confronted—either directly or obliquely—questions of morality, justice, and self-determination while being deeply steeped in Chicano and Mexican culture. A few of my tales simply focused on the way that we, as people, often hurt those we love for reasons that are as cruel as they are confounding. And the final two stories in this collection represent my newest pieces, written in 2019, both of which confront Trump’s anti-immigrant rhetoric and policies; in one, I utilize a dystopian narrative that now seems a bit too close to reality, while
the other is imbued with magical realism.

  As I reread my stories and assembled this collection, I found myself falling back into memories of writing these tales throughout the last quarter century. Our son was quite young when I wrote many of these stories, and as he matured and became more sophisticated, I would like to think my storytelling abilities did so as well.

  I also pondered a question that I have explored in my dozens of published interviews with other authors: Why do I write? While many of the authors I have interviewed throughout the years eloquently explained what inspired them to become writers, I truly do not know why I must write. I do know that I attempt to express the beauty and complexities of my culture rooted in Mexico, the home of my grandparents. Moreover, inaccurate depictions of my culture are too common, and I believe I have a moral duty to correct those depictions through my own storytelling.

  You could say that when I write, I am making a political statement because I am adding my voice—my very Chicano voice—to the artistic conversation of our country. I think this inherently political element is inevitable for all writers who come from marginalized communities. And I know that my parents encouraged my siblings and me to express pride in our culture in whatever form we felt appropriate.

  Why did I choose “How to Date a Flying Mexican” as the title story? Two reasons. First, of all the stories I have read to audiences throughout the years, that is the one that has received the strongest response: in the form of laughter but also recognition of the cultural touchstones that it describes. Second, it was one of my late father’s favorite stories of mine. The title alone made him laugh—a laugh I miss more and more each day.

  My father was a proud Chicano who—along with my mother—made certain his children were exposed to Mexican art, literature, and culture. And this collection is imbued with that cultural pride. In one of my last conversations with my father, I told him I was working on this manuscript and that I had chosen his favorite piece as the title story. He smiled. He approved. A son could not ask for more.

  If you have read most of these stories before, I hope you enjoy them again. And if my stories are new to you, let me say: Welcome to my strange little world.

  HOW TO DATE A FLYING MEXICAN

  Rule 1 ~ Don’t Tell Anyone About the Flying Part

  AFTER THE SECOND NIGHT Conchita witnessed Moisés flying in his backyard under the moonlight, and after the first night they shared her bed (which happened to be the second night she witnessed him flying in his backyard under the moonlight), she realized that no one, not even her sister Julieta, could learn of her new novio’s extraordinary talent. What would people think? Certainly gossip would spread throughout the neighborhood, eventually migrating south out of Los Angeles and down below the border to Conchita’s hometown of Ocotlán via whispered phone calls, wisecracking emails, and even terse though revealing postcards. Yes, the chisme would most certainly creep out of the city limits, inexorably spreading like a noxious fog, finally reaching all of her friends and family, who would shake their collective head about poor Conchita Lozano de la Peña finally going loca. And, of course they would proclaim, such madness involved lust. See what happens when you don’t settle down like all good Catholic Mexican women and marry a man who can give you children and something to look forward to in old age! No God-fearing woman should enter her sixth decade of life—as Conchita had two years earlier—without having walked down the aisle to accept the sacrament of marriage. And it makes no matter that Conchita certainly doesn’t look her age—with skin as smooth as Indian pottery combined with a voluptuous figure that would knock the false teeth out of any mature (and eligible) man. But that’s the problem, you see. Too much fun, not enough pain. And now Conchita thinks she has fallen in love with a Mexican who can fly. ¡Ay Chihuahua!

  So, you see, no one can find out about her novio’s penchant for flying. Period. Conchita’s good fortune cannot be tarnished by this slightly odd behavior. While keeping this secret, she will proudly introduce him to her comadres at tardeadas, quinceañeras, and funerals even if they have already recognized Moisés Rojo as Conchita’s recently widowed but still vigorous next-door neighbor. And people will, indeed, nod with approval because this woman (¡finalmente!) has found a solid, handsome, and age-appropriate gentleman who maybe—just maybe—will ask her to marry him. And perhaps—they will say—Conchita will come to her senses after all these years of “dating” charming but useless men and allow the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church to bless their union in a proper Mexican wedding. Because in God’s eyes, it is never too late for sinners as long as they are still living and breathing and taking up space on this miraculous place we call Earth.

  When Conchita finally broached the subject with Moisés—about his flying, not marriage—he held up his right hand, palm out to his new love, and corrected her: “I do not fly, mi amor,” he said softly. “I levitate.”

  “And what exactly is the difference?” she asked.

  “Planes fly,” he explained. “Birds and mosquitoes and kites fly. People levitate.”

  “Oh,” said Conchita. “That’s clear. But what should I tell people?”

  Moisés only shrugged. A few minutes later, when Conchita attempted to return to the topic, Moisés grabbed her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. Conchita surrendered to his taste, smell, and touch as if this were their first kiss. Moisés pulled back and looked into his novia’s eyes. “Tell people whatever you wish,” he said. “To me it makes no difference.”

  And so it was: Conchita decided never to share her secret with anyone.

  Rule 2 ~ Don’t Try to Understand How He Does It

  OTHER THAN THE FLYING PART, Conchita found Moisés to be quite normal. He ate, slept, read the paper, and loved her as any ordinary man would. When Conchita asked him one day why she couldn’t fly unless she held his hand (in which case she would rise effortlessly from the Earth as if she were filled with helium), Moisés, of course, corrected her terminology (“I levitate, I don’t fly”) and then explained that after his wife died, he had fallen out of balance. So he took up yoga and transcendental meditation.

  “How did you learn of these things?” asked Conchita.

  “I went online and typed in: OUT OF BALANCE,” he said. “I found many excellent websites and articles.”

  “And?” Conchita pressed.

  “And after much study, I became a disciple.”

  “A disciple of what?”

  “Of balance, mi amor,” Moisés answered. “Balance.”

  “And if I studied yoga and transcendental meditation,” ventured Conchita, “I, too, could learn to fly?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I read nothing of levitation. It just happened one night as I sat in the lotus position while chanting my mantra.”

  Conchita skipped asking what a mantra was but nonetheless continued her cross-examination on the crucial issue at hand: “Must you have moonlight to fly?”

  “No, no,” said Moisés, betraying a bit of impatience. “This is not magic. It is pure physics.”

  “I knew it!” exclaimed Conchita. “No magic, just magnetic fields, right?”

  At this, Moisés simply sniffed and reached for his cup of coffee. Conchita stood at her kitchen sink waiting for an answer to her question.

  “You make the richest coffee I’ve ever tasted,” Moisés finally offered. “What do you do to make it so delicious?”

  “It’s my mother’s little secret,” she said, pleased by the compliment but annoyed at the evasion.

  Sensing Conchita’s conflicting emotions, Moisés said: “Magnetic fields could certainly be at work.”

  Conchita smiled and refilled her lover’s cup with fresh coffee.

  Rule 3 ~ Don’t Lie About It to Your Dead Mother

  ON THE THIRD NIGHT they shared her bed, Conchita’s late mother, Belén, appeared to her daughter. Moisés snored softly, curled up like a milk-drowsed baby, while Conchita sat by his side, propped up on two pillows, surveying her new and qui
te delightful situation. And then, in a blink, there stood Belén at the foot of her bed dressed in the pretty floral print she’d been buried in, holding a cup of coffee and puffing on a fat hand-rolled cigarette.

  “Ay, mija,” said Belén after she exhaled a large billow of white smoke. “Another man?”

  “Mamá,” whispered Conchita. “How long have you been watching?”

  “Oh, mija, I saw the whole thing.”

  “¡Ay Dios mío!” exclaimed Conchita through tight lips. “This is so embarrassing!”

  “Don’t worry, mija,” said Belén. “I’m dead. Nothing embarrasses me. You ought to see what your sisters do.”

  Conchita was partially placated by this thought but she wondered if, in fact, her younger sisters really enjoyed themselves with their men and whether they were having more fun than she. But her mother interrupted such musings.

  “So, mija, your new man flies, eh?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Mamá,” said Conchita as she crossed her arms and turned to gaze upon a slumbering Moisés.

  “Don’t lie to your mother,” said Belén. “The Fourth Commandment forbids it, as it is numbered by the Roman Catholic Church.”

  Silence.

  “It is useless anyway,” reasoned Belén. “I know all. Mothers always do.”

  Conchita knew that her mother spoke the truth.

  “So, otra vez, mija, I ask you: Does your new man fly?”

  “If mothers know all,” said Conchita with a sly smile, “why do you ask?”

  “Because mothers want their children to admit things,” she scolded. “Does your novio fly?”

  “No, Mamá, he levitates,” said Conchita as she turned to face her mother. “Planes fly. And so do mosquitoes and birds and other things. But people levitate.”

  “Ni modo,” said Belén with a wave of her cigarette. “It’s all the same. He’s up in the air like a plane or a bird or a mosquito or whatever.” With that, Belén sipped her coffee and let out a little burp.