‘Chubascos, Tios and The Doors’ by Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith

My friend told me this: she named her dog Jim Morrison.
Learning this detail I walked home like a spaced
out kid. My tios used to play “Light My Fire”
all of the time, filling that small house in Douglas, Arizona
with the sounds of Southern California. The ocean
above the bookshelves. The Hollywood sign
filling up the ceiling space.

It must have been this: to Ariel, Roberto, Ricardo
and even Pepe, who was just four years older than me,
Jim Morrison’s songs were a type of escape.

Because summer nights
in Douglas when the chubascos rolled through were
glorious. The thunder and lightning creating a show
that thrilled the entire huge dark sky. It was easy
seeing the tequila infused Pancho Villa rampaging
through the Sulfer Springs Valley as the sky exploded.
My grandfather was a refugee (the Mexican Revolution,
or as my mother insists to the sky, the
beginning of the modern), believed
in Southern Arizona and work at the railyard.

Pero sabes que? Douglas was also a rusty chain. A road that
finished in an arroyo full of mining slag. Mis tios would put
on the Doors, sit at the table with their algebra, history,
and English school books, teasing each other
in Spanish (boracho, feo, tonto). All of the words ending
in that sad “O” sound. The noise of chains dragging in the dust
coming in through the screen door with las moscas.

The record ending with some guitar riff crescendo and
none of my tios wanting to be the one to turn over the LP.
Signaling the end of some magical event that might
transport any of them onto the highway
up the Sulfer Springs valley
leaving the railyard, leaving the mine, crossing
over the divide and into some place
where no one was living
without a crush, without desire,
without a song, without a destiny.

Author Bio:

Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith was born in Merida, Yucatan, grew up in Tucson, Arizona and taught English at Tucson High School for 27 years. Much of his work explores growing up near the border, being raised biracial/bilingual and teaching in a large urban school where 70% of the students are American/Mexican. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his writings will appear in Drunk Monkeys, Bear Paw Arts Journal and have been published in Sky Island Journal, Muse, Discretionary Love and other places too. His wife, Kelly, sometimes edits his work, and the two cats seem happy.