I turned on the movie and immediately he asks me “What the hell is this?”
“Killer of Sheep” I reply “An arthouse film…about a slaughterhouse worker in LA in the 70s.”
“Ah, look, that's the same alleyway from Blood In Blood Out”
“Or Boyz in the Hood”
“Yup, you're right”
I knew he wouldn’t stick around, his favorite movie is Rambo followed closely by Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo. On the other hand, I was willing to give this movie a chance. I like weird stuff and this movie looked a bit weird. Weird and disturbing. Weird and disturbing and promising.
But, he stuck around.
“That little girl looks like Aliyah, huh?”
“Ya, sure does. Singing the blues like TaTa, too”
“This movie is making my heart heavy.” I told him.
“Why, babydoll, it’s just a movie.”
“I mean, why are all these babies just outside without their moms? They could get hit by a car or raped or something.”
We were pretty quiet after that but he stayed there. Bored through the liquor store scene, I thought maybe he would abandon the movie to go play some Call of Duty on the PS3. No. He stayed.
“Um, why is he drinking out of that tiny ass tea cup?”
“Shut up and watch, stupid”
“Hey, you know what that building reminds me of,” he tells me a few minutes later.
“What?”
“The Bridgewater.”
“Ha! Hell yes, that looks exactly like the Bridgewater.”
“Yup. Remember that one time we saw that little boy there?”
“Ya, he came out and went and drank out of the Concho. Like, straight up drank that nasty ass water.”
“Ya, remember he had a cup and everything.”
“Damn.”
“You think those people are poorer than that kid or what.”
“Hell no, that little Mexican had it worse.”
“Ya, you’re right…”
By the end of the movie we were holding each other’s hand and had ceased to talk to one another.
Eric and I grew up in the same hood. We played together; at the Concho River, at the crumbling and abandoned Bridgewater Inn, and everywhere in between 23rd and 47th street. Years later, we saw ourselves raising our kids in that same hood.
One year and 800 miles removed from our life on 801 E. 40th street and this little arthouse film reminds us that we know the difference between poor and broke. We know all about working at the matanza and about the blues. About being bored and bored and there being no end to the boredom because our moms and dads do not have the money to take us to Six Flags or Corpus Christi or even to Burger King.
But it also reminds us that we are in the middle of rising above all of that. That one day we will take our kids to Disney World, dammit, and no one can stop us.
“Do you want to watch Tropic Thunder?” he asks me.
“Na, put on Joe Dirt.”
“Ah, good choice…”
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