did. He..." My brain goes blank. I can't remember a single word of the conversation we had. All I remember was standing there thinking 'I am talking to John Gillespie. This is the coolest day of my life. Will he be pissed if I point out he's shorter than he looks on screen?'.
Rebeca raises an eyebrow and passes a dish of rice to Pops.
"Okay, he didn't," I said. "Uncle Steve introduced me..."
I can see her eyes widen in warning and I know I've fucked up. "Esteban!" says Pops. "Your Uncle Esteban . That's his name - I gave it to him. All this 'Steve' and 'Jimmy' - what's with the self-hate?"
Shit. "I was born here, Pops."
"It's easier to find work, abuelito," says Rebeca, who was ever the suck-up of the family. "They don't hire you if you sound too Latin - who gets the most work out of Emilio Estevez and Charlie Sheen, right?"
"Charlie Sheen," says Pops. "The last I heard he'd gone crazy and started yelling about tiger blood and cocaine."
"That was years ago," says Jo, my younger brother.
"Years fly by in a minute when you're an old man like me. You'll find out. And what are you doing with those coins at the dinner table?"
"Magic," says Jo, turning red. "I need to practice my back-palm."
"You need more practice," says Rebeca, fishing a dime out of the salsa. "Chuy could choke - don't you fire those things in the baby food."
Jo's elbow lands in my ribs. "Laugh it up, Jaime - quincinearas are gonna be the new bar mitzvahs. I'll be in huge demand..."
"...and playing Vegas by the time you're twenty-five," says Mom, sailing in with the empanadas. "We've heard it. Maybe shoot for thirty-five, baby. It's more realistic."
"Thirty-five? I'll be nearly dead by then."
"And he still won't have learned Spanish," says Pops.
Jo turns to me. "You can get me in, right? You and Uncle S...Esteban."
"What do you mean, in?"
"Hollywood, man. You're hanging with the A-list now, right?"
I laugh. "I've done two days at the Gillespie place. Two. I don't think I'm joining the movers and shakers any time soon."
"You gotta have a screenplay," says Beca, hoisting Chuy out of his high chair and into her lap. His face has that squishy, red look that usually means if he doesn't get exactly what he wants he's going to bust out howling. Unfortunately none of us speak Chuy's language. "Isn't that how it goes? You're writing a screenplay or you're hustling for a test. Everyone's an actor, writer, frustrated director - kinda Sunset Boulevard only without the crazy old lady in the big house." She jiggles the baby on her lap but he's having none of it.
"I'll take him," says Mom.
"No, Mama - I got him. Eat. I've had mine." She carries him off into the sitting room to walk him around. Little dude's probably just full and gassy.
"Doesn't he live up Laurel Canyon way?" asks Jo.
"Olympia, I think."
"Shit, dude - that area's got some spooky-ass history going on. Wonderland and the Manson murders - that whole deal."
"Wasn't there something with the daughter?" says Mom. "John Gillespie's daughter, I mean."
"What about her?" I didn't see her. Uncle Steve showed me her 'rooms' from the outside - a whole part of the house big enough for a family, all for one skinny little white girl. Well, I don't know about skinny, but this is Hollywood we're talking about. I was given to understand that most of those rich girls trained their gag reflexes as soon as they could stick a finger down their throats.
"I don't know exactly," says Mom. "There was some scandal. An accident. Probably drugs. You know what these kids are like - too much money and not enough sense."
"I'll give you the too much money part," I say. "She has her own swimming pool."
"I bet she can't cook." Rebeca's voice floats through from the other room, and I know where this is going. Emily, Emily, Emily - it's all she's talked about lately. Emily is the greatest cook, the greatest dancer. She has the blackest eye, the whitest smile and the cutest figure of all the girls in the room at any given
Rebeca raises an eyebrow and passes a dish of rice to Pops.
"Okay, he didn't," I said. "Uncle Steve introduced me..."
I can see her eyes widen in warning and I know I've fucked up. "Esteban!" says Pops. "Your Uncle Esteban . That's his name - I gave it to him. All this 'Steve' and 'Jimmy' - what's with the self-hate?"
Shit. "I was born here, Pops."
"It's easier to find work, abuelito," says Rebeca, who was ever the suck-up of the family. "They don't hire you if you sound too Latin - who gets the most work out of Emilio Estevez and Charlie Sheen, right?"
"Charlie Sheen," says Pops. "The last I heard he'd gone crazy and started yelling about tiger blood and cocaine."
"That was years ago," says Jo, my younger brother.
"Years fly by in a minute when you're an old man like me. You'll find out. And what are you doing with those coins at the dinner table?"
"Magic," says Jo, turning red. "I need to practice my back-palm."
"You need more practice," says Rebeca, fishing a dime out of the salsa. "Chuy could choke - don't you fire those things in the baby food."
Jo's elbow lands in my ribs. "Laugh it up, Jaime - quincinearas are gonna be the new bar mitzvahs. I'll be in huge demand..."
"...and playing Vegas by the time you're twenty-five," says Mom, sailing in with the empanadas. "We've heard it. Maybe shoot for thirty-five, baby. It's more realistic."
"Thirty-five? I'll be nearly dead by then."
"And he still won't have learned Spanish," says Pops.
Jo turns to me. "You can get me in, right? You and Uncle S...Esteban."
"What do you mean, in?"
"Hollywood, man. You're hanging with the A-list now, right?"
I laugh. "I've done two days at the Gillespie place. Two. I don't think I'm joining the movers and shakers any time soon."
"You gotta have a screenplay," says Beca, hoisting Chuy out of his high chair and into her lap. His face has that squishy, red look that usually means if he doesn't get exactly what he wants he's going to bust out howling. Unfortunately none of us speak Chuy's language. "Isn't that how it goes? You're writing a screenplay or you're hustling for a test. Everyone's an actor, writer, frustrated director - kinda Sunset Boulevard only without the crazy old lady in the big house." She jiggles the baby on her lap but he's having none of it.
"I'll take him," says Mom.
"No, Mama - I got him. Eat. I've had mine." She carries him off into the sitting room to walk him around. Little dude's probably just full and gassy.
"Doesn't he live up Laurel Canyon way?" asks Jo.
"Olympia, I think."
"Shit, dude - that area's got some spooky-ass history going on. Wonderland and the Manson murders - that whole deal."
"Wasn't there something with the daughter?" says Mom. "John Gillespie's daughter, I mean."
"What about her?" I didn't see her. Uncle Steve showed me her 'rooms' from the outside - a whole part of the house big enough for a family, all for one skinny little white girl. Well, I don't know about skinny, but this is Hollywood we're talking about. I was given to understand that most of those rich girls trained their gag reflexes as soon as they could stick a finger down their throats.
"I don't know exactly," says Mom. "There was some scandal. An accident. Probably drugs. You know what these kids are like - too much money and not enough sense."
"I'll give you the too much money part," I say. "She has her own swimming pool."
"I bet she can't cook." Rebeca's voice floats through from the other room, and I know where this is going. Emily, Emily, Emily - it's all she's talked about lately. Emily is the greatest cook, the greatest dancer. She has the blackest eye, the whitest smile and the cutest figure of all the girls in the room at any given
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