A few years ago, my old boss called to say Salvador died. I loved Sal though it’d been seven years since we last spoke. We worked together at a vinyl record plant in Canoga Park. Sal headed the warehouse while I toiled in marketing and sales. He was born in Mexico and came to the States as an infant. He was divorced with three kids. His ex-wife lived in his old house while he slept above his mom’s garage in Whittier.
Sal died of a heart attack. His father and grandfather died from cardiac problems. When I knew him, Sal was about 40 pounds overweight. He’d chosen to have kids early in life for fear he wouldn’t live into old age.
We had little in common. He was Catholic, I’m Jewish. He was a proud Republican, I’m liberal. His arms were covered with tattoos, mine with body hair. We bonded over the Lakers and our admiration for Kobe Bryant.
Sal saved my tail at work several times. One Friday we were filling an LCD Soundsystem order for Capital Records. When the truck arrived, the product was still in packaging. The driver left and we were stuck with two pallets of vinyl records that had to be delivered the next day since the band was in town for a concert. Sal met me at the plant on Saturday morning with a rented truck. He operated the lift gate and drove the vehicle to Hollywood to help deliver the product. Afterwards, I bought him lunch and he told me about his marriage difficulties. He said his wife was addicted to Facebook and obsessed with conspiracy theories. He didn’t want a divorce but he saw no viable way to save his marriage.
Now he was gone.
The memorial took place at Sal’s ex-wife’s house in Pico Rivera. I grabbed directions from MapQuest then took the 5 Freeway to Washington Boulevard. The area was filled with aging mini-malls, graffiti-strewn warehouses and family-style Mexican restaurants.
I entered a blue-collar neighborhood with old homes and dozens of pickup trucks. I parked outside a stucco house with several pickups parked on the front lawn. A Ford Ranger had a “Stop the Steal” bumper sticker. I grabbed the flowers I’d purchased from Trader Joe’s that morning and donned my Covid mask. A man with several neck tattoos greeted me at the front door.
“Welcome,” he said. “I’m Mario, Sal’s brother-in-law.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
I offered my closed hand for a fist bump. Mario extended his open hand for a shake. We had a momentary standoff until I relented and we shook hands. He pointed to my face mask.
“We don’t do that here,” he said.
“What, the mask?”
“Yeah. No facial diapers. Out of respect for Sal.”
I didn’t know what he meant but removed the mask and stuffed it in my back pocket. He gestured for me to enter the house.
The home was filled with flowers, lit candles and photos of Sal. Paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary dotted the walls. On the back wall was an image of an American flag with the caption “Pray For Our Troops.” I signed the guest book and deposited the flowers on a table. The mourners were largely Hispanic except for a small contingent of white guys standing around a table of chips and salsa. These were my old record company workmates. I sauntered over and greeted them.
“Hey guys.”
“What’s up Double-O,” they replied. (Double-O was my record company nickname due to my large nose that supposedly used double the oxygen.)
“Bummer about Sal,” graphic designer Jim said. “The good ones always go first,” sales manager Dave offered. Audio engineer Tom (who I always suspected was autistic) added, “Sal told me his ex-wife was a bitch but she seemed nice to me.” He pointed to a 40ish woman dressed in black standing with a teenage girl in the living room. I introduced myself.
“I’m so sorry about Sal,” I said. “We worked together at the record plant.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Candice, Sal’s wife. This is my daughter Raquel.”
Raquel looked about 17. She dropped her gaze, clearly devastated.
“I loved your dad. We always talked about the Lakers. He was a huge Kobe fan.”
“I know,” Raquel said. She showed me a Kobe tattoo on her right shoulder. “My dad and I each got one for my 16th birthday.”
“Awesome,” I said.
I noticed my old boss Rick engaged in conversation with a blue-haired millennial across the room. His arms were folded behind his back. This was our workplace signal to rescue him from unwanted conversation. I excused myself and walked into the living room. I caught the tail end of the blue-hair’s words.
“The real father is Obama’s gay lover, the one you always see in those Facebook pics. The mother of course is unknown. I’ve heard she’s from Somalia or some other African shithole.”
I put a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to let you know I’m here.”
“Double-O,” Rick said. He shook my hand. “This is Yvonne, she works with Sal’s wife at the hair salon.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Mind if I steal my friend?”
“No problem. We’ll catch up later,” she said to Rick with a suggestive smile.
“What was that,” I asked.
“Apparently Michelle Obama is a man and Barack Obama is gay. It’s all over the internet.”
“Who knew?”
Mario directed everyone into the backyard. We walked outside to find several dozen folding chairs facing a standup microphone. Rick and I sat with the record company crew in the back row. It was hot and smoggy, the kind of day that makes you want to leave Los Angeles for good. A Mariachi guitarist played a Mexican dirge. When he was done, Candice approached the microphone.
“Thank you all for coming. This is a sad day but Sal would be happy to see you here. Sal and I had our challenges over the years. But I loved him. I’ll always love him. He was my partner and the father of my children.”
She pointed to Raquel and two teenage boys in the first row.
“What happened to Sal is a tragedy. I lost a husband.”
“Ex-husband,” semi-autistic Tom whispered.
“My kids lost a daddy. I’m sad but I’m also angry. We all know what really happened. Sal got the vaccine. I told him not to do it but he wouldn’t listen. It gave him an enlarged heart that killed him. Even the Russians know to avoid the vaccines.”
“What do the Russians have to do with anything,” I whispered to Rick.
He shrugged.
“I know I shouldn’t be discussing politics but this has been a nightmare. Sal should be here today.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Mario walked over and put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t get vaccinated,” she continued. “Don’t be brainwashed. Fauci is a liar.”
Mario led Candice to a chair beside her children.
“She’s probably in shock,” Rick whispered.
Mario stepped to the microphone.
“My sister is heartbroken. So are my niece and nephews. Sal was special. Too trusting maybe, but that’s what made him such a great guy. We tried getting him on the Keto diet but he loved his cerveza and masa too much. Almost as much as he loved his kids.”
Everyone laughed.
“If anyone wants to come up and share a story about Sal, please feel free.”
A Hispanic woman in her 50s approached the microphone.
“Hi, I’m Monica. I live next door. I first met Sal after the election was stolen. I was anxious like everybody else, you know, thinking there goes our country. Candice invited me over for a barbecue and this big bear of a man came up, gave me a hug and said, ‘I’m Sal. Who are you?’ He smiled and told jokes and next thing you know I forgot all my worries. He was a great guy, you know. We love you, Sal.”
Monica sat down. A bulky Hispanic man was next to speak.
“I’m Alex. I’m president of the local Latino Americans for Trump. Sal was one of our most enthusiastic members. I last saw him six weeks ago. He didn’t tell me he was sick.
We spent the day putting anti-Biden stickers on gas pumps. It was hot but he never complained. Sal was Buen Vato, a good dude. I’m sorry he won’t be around to see Trump kick ass in November. Saludo, Sal.”
For the next half-hour, friends and family shared memories of Sal. There were mentions of fake news, libtards and the China virus. Afterwards, Mario fired up the barbecue and brought out coolers of Modelo beer. I mingled among the guests expressing my condolences. Despite the solemnity of the day, people were quick to gossip about Sal. A narrative slowly emerged.
When the record plant closed in 2019, Sal was devastated. He found a job working security at a music venue in Whittier but it shut down during the pandemic. He grew depressed and started drinking. He asked Candice if he could move back in with her and the kids. Because of his drinking, she said no. The 2020 election put him over the edge, convinced the election was stolen. He stopped talking to friends. According to his third cousin, a woman from Hacienda Heights, he started spewing all kinds of crazy stuff.
“Like what,” I asked.
“Like Biden was letting illegals into the country so they’d vote for him. Sal thought it was part of a racist conspiracy to weaken the power of white people.”
“But Sal wasn’t white,” I said.
“Yes, but he still thought there were too many illegals invading the country.”
“He said that?”
“He said migrant workers make it harder for people like him to find decent-paying work.
They also give American Hispanics a bad name since they commit crimes and live off government handouts. Sal was proud to be American. He didn’t want people to view him as illegal.”
I spoke with a woman who briefly dated Sal during this period. She said Sal started buying guns. “He took me to a firing range in San Bernardino. When we got back to his place, he showed me the AR-15 rifle he kept under his bed. This freaked me out. Why do you need a gun like that?”
“Did you ask him?”
“He thought there was going to be a race war. That’s what his Facebook friends said. He belonged to these weird MAGA groups. Most were anti-Mexican. I told him it wasn’t healthy, but he said he needed to know what was coming. So he could prepare.”
I asked Rick when he last spoke with Sal.
“About six months ago. He sounded tired. I should’ve visited him but I had no idea what he was going through. I think the plant closing really affected him. He worked there for 30 years. It kept him grounded. When the pandemic hit, well you know, it messed a lot of people up.”
The Sal I was learning about was not the Sal I remembered. I recalled the day I voted for Barack Obama in 2008. He joked with me saying, “Did you vote for the Islamic terrorist?” I shot back, “Did you vote for the party of fake wars and stock market crashes?” We jibed each other constantly, but it was all in fun.
After a few hours, I said my goodbyes. As I approached my car in front of the house, I noticed Sal’s 12-year-old boy Raymond sitting in the bed of a pickup drinking a Coke. I told him I was going to miss his dad. “Me too,” he replied.
“Your dad always talked about you and your brother and sister. He loved you more than anything in the world. I looked up to him. Everybody did. I’m sorry to hear he was going through such a hard time.”
Raymond proved to be mature beyond his years.
“When people are scared sometimes they get angry,” he said. “You know, to cover up how much they’re hurting.”
“Where’d you learn that,” I asked.
“My siblings and I do a lot of talking. We’ve been worried about dad for a long time. He was taking pills for his heart and his anxiety. He couldn’t sleep. He spent too much time on Facebook. It turned him into a different person.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said.
“Thank you for being friends with my dad.”
I gave Raymond a hug and said goodbye. I got in my car and headed back toward Los Angeles. All the way home I thought of Sal and how frail human beings can be.