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Technically, they’re not subscribed to the local newspaper, but the paperboy usually tosses one onto the Pad’s stairway anyway. He’s a creature of habit.
Peter is the first one out the door that morning, as usual. He’s got a cup of orange juice in his hand and a soft whistle coming from his lips. He loves taking in the beach early in the morning before there’s people everywhere. It’s just him, a bit of breakfast and the soothing rhythm of the waves. He picks up the paper and gives a glance to the front page.
His glass shatters on the ground. He doesn’t even seem to notice as he runs back inside.
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The guys had fallen into a deep jam that lasted hours upon hours the night before, and according to the newspaper, Reverend Martin Luther King died right around when they really hit their flow. Peter feels like a complete idiot. He’s got to be the last black man in California to have found out.
Peter’s knees are nestled up under his chin as he sits in the kitchen and watches Walter Kronkite on their tiny television set. It’s still early and nothing the old man says really permeates Peter’s mind yet, aside from words like dead, murdered and the Reverend’s name. Peter hears the man’s name over and over again. It’s like Walter understands his viewers are in a state of shock, and he’s repeating the man’s name in an attempt to convince them all that this has actually happened. Strangely enough, Peter appreciates that.
“Hey Pete, what’s with the—ay Dios mio.” Peter recognizes Miguel’s drawl from the stairwell. Migí must have been with him, because he hears something having to call Coco to make sure she and the rest of la familia Díaz in LA were safe.
Miguel doesn’t say anything, just settles onto a wobbly old chair next to Peter, and then wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulder to watch the news with him. Peter is okay with that. Miguel always has the right words to say, but only when words are necessary. He’s aware that sometimes it’s better not to say anything at all.
Peter leans his head onto Miguel’s shoulder, quietly showing his gratitude.
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That afternoon, Migí tells Peter that his family is fine, that there haven’t been any riots, at least not yet. Migí is fidgety, but in a different way than usual. He says he keeps remembering what happened in Watts a few years ago and he worries it might happen again, possibly worse. Migí tells Peter that if he gets an urge to raise hell in the city and throw a brick or two through some windows, he’d completely understand and would be willing to come along.
Peter doesn’t throw bricks into windows. He throws small, flat rocks into the ocean instead. Two skips. Three. The more he throws, the more skips he manages to get. It puts his mind in a place where he’s not thinking about Memphis or Birmingham or Watts. He’s not thinking about anywhere, and after a while he doesn’t feel like he’s in any particular place either. He’s a disembodied presence on the beach. Just him and his rocks.
Peter’s so focused that he almost jumps when he sees the white family watching him out of the corner of his eye. He takes in the blond crew-cuts and furrowed brows. He hates being cynical, but he’s pretty certain he knows what they’re thinking. They had their basket and blanket all set for a picnic on the beach and gee, what if he was one of those hostile ones, and when did this beach desegregate anyway? Peter tries not to pay any attention to them. He doesn’t want to feel angry at them. He doesn’t want to feel angry at anyone. He wishes he didn’t have to be angry at all. Anger contradicted everything Peter stood for.
“Hey mister! The nigger beach is downtown!”
Peter darts his eyes in the kid’s direction. The kid shrugs and his face is almost blank, like he had just made some casual observation about the weather. Peter feels a thump in his heart and he is definitely no longer a disembodied presence. He feels like he’s weighted down with lead and he can’t understand why no one is saying anything and he’s suddenly hyperaware of his dark skin and thick hair and the drops of blood dripping between his fingers as he squeezes a small jagged rock in his fist.
Oh no. His fist.
He’s not actually making a fist at the white family, but he’s well aware of how it can be interpreted. He really doesn’t mean them any harm, but anything he wants to do at this point would likely be taken the wrong way.
Peter turns and flings the rock into the ocean. It only skips once.
The family stares at him as he walks off the beach. He makes sure to keep his shoulders back and head up like his dad taught him to do, but it doesn’t keep the mist from forming in his eyes.
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Peter usually felt better if he got himself caught up in music, but his bass doesn’t sound right today. It’s flat and empty, clunking like he’s playing underwater. He knows it’s just his emotions messing with him, but it still makes him uneasy.
He thinks about putting a record on. He decides on Richie Havens, in hopes that the voice of a fellow brother will make him feel some sort of ease. Everything is going relatively fine until the third track. Peter really should have known better. The last thing he needed was a song about the Klan.
And I cried
‘Sister raise my bloody head
It’s so lonesome to be dead…’
The vinyl pops and fizzes when he flicks the needle up in a panic. Great. Now he’s surrounded by silence…and even worse, his thoughts.
Peter just…lays there on the floor in his room. He thinks about how embarrassed he was when his mom held him close to her at the bus station, begging him one last time not to leave for the West Coast because Baby, the rest of the world isn’t like Connecticut. I really don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.
He wanted so much to prove her wrong. But sure enough, the rest of the world was not like Connecticut. The rest of the world had death and hatred and separate beaches and little kids who knew words that could stab a grown man in the heart. It was awful. He always tried to have so much faith in humanity but the world was just plain awful.
He can’t help but wonder if living at The Pad with the rest of Los Monos has sort of spoiled him. If two Latinos, a black man and an Indian Englishman could live together with relative success, why was it so difficult for everyone else?
Peter sees two small brown bare feet in the doorway from his spot on the floor. Davy. His friend had something with him that smelled amazing.
“Er, Peter? I know you’re having, like, a pretty rough day, so I thought you might like some tea. It’s certainly not my mum’s chai, but I think I did alright with what we have.”
Peter takes the mug, mumbles his thanks. The hot liquid makes him feel less numb, and it tastes as great as it smells. The cinnamon and milk reminds him of his mom’s homemade cookies.
Davy decides to join Peter on the floor of the room they share. “I, uh…I’m really sorry about what happened, Pete.”
Peter sort of laughs at that. “It’s okay, man. It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Davy shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m not sorry, mate. And it’s okay to feel how you feel. I wasn’t old enough to remember when Bapu was killed; I was only two or three. But my baba says he cried when he found out, and my baba’s not much one for showing too much emotion and his customers were so upset when he closed down the shop for…” Davy pauses, looks at his feet with a furrowed brow. “Oh. Wait. Bapu means Gandhi. I’m sorry, I should have said that. I’m not helping at all, am I?”
Peter shakes his head. “No, Davy. It’s okay. It feels good to have someone to talk to about…stuff like this.”
They end up in silence, but it’s a comfortable one. Peter quietly sips his new favorite hot beverage, and Davy traces the patterns embroidered on his Nehru shirt.
Migí enters the room quietly, holding a tall candle in a glass with Jesus painted on a side. “Peter? There’s a vigil going on at Vincent Van-Go-Go. They said to bring candles, but this is the only one I could find. You interested?”
Peter thinks for a moment. No, he doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay in the Pad with his friends, where he feels safe. He responds with a shake of his head, and pats a spot on the floor for Migí to join him and Davy. Migí lights his Jesus candle, and the boys arrange themselves around the tiny light.
When Miguel finds his friends, he leaves for a moment and returns with the photo of Martin Luther King that ran with the article in the day’s newspaper. He places it reverently under the candle and joins the others in their makeshift memorial.
Peter is finished with his chai, and he notices the moon outside his window. He’s made it through one of the toughest days of his life. He feels like he should say something.
“Hey fellas? Um, thanks. Thanks for everything.” It’s nothing profound or sentimental, but it works. The other Monos nod and smile, and after a while Migí blows out his candle and starts bugging Davy for a cup of chai.
Peter feels better. Things are still awful outside, but he’s got his friends, his band and his music. He’s got all he’s ever wanted, for the most part.
He’d still love for the harmony in the Pad to be reflected in the greater world, but Peter figures that he and his friends can pull it off, than the rest of the world is sure to follow soon.
Peter decides he can stay hopeful.