Sandoval was a scary guy.  And not just because he ran the Mexican Mafia in our area.  Though I expect that would be enough for most people.   But no, there was more to it than that, and it lay in the way he smiled.  

If you were someone who just skimmed the surface of people, as so many of us do, you’d see a man, good-natured and jolly.  That was his face, and that’s what people saw.  

Not me.  I learned early that it was in the eyes that people lived.  And Sandoval’s were deep and dark and still.  His were eyes that watched everything.  That studied, took notes, and considered.  And might make decisions that shook the world.

And I thought it was important to hate him.  I was a kid.  And He was a Bad Guy.  The world is simple for children.  

And it was disheartening as all heck to know my father worked for him.  

Hell, my father worshiped the guy.  He basked in a glow whenever he spoke of Sandoval and his works.  And this caused me difficulties.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to think of my father as bad as Fathers are supposed to be good.  So, I compromised, at a very early age, and decided that my father was stupid instead.  No doubt this would have pissed off my father had he known.   But stupid was easier to deal with, in my child’s mind, then “my father is a bad, bad man.”

These days, I know better.  And perhaps because it was so much a part of my world view growing up, I still think of my father as an incredibly stupid man.  Evil and stupidity, linked together forever whenever I remember him.  And just between you and me, I think he was.  To this day, I am baffled how he survived working for Sandoval, so many years, Baffoon that he was, to die, finally of the big C, and not from a slit throat, or a bullet in the back of his head.  But Sandoval really seemed to like my Father.  I have no idea why.

But my story today is about The Dinner.  I was older, maybe twelve years old.  My father was definitely in the glow, because Sandoval had come up with a “fucking brilliant idea”.  

There was to be a Charity Dinner for a Great Cause I’ve long forgotten about.  Steak Dinners, for one hundred dollars a plate.  And the brilliant part?  That was easy, and nothing unusual to my mind –  Sandoval would take a slice off the top of the profits, a full 50 percent.  The Charity would get the rest, and be happy for it because half is still more than zero.  And what a Win it would be for Sandoval.  “He’ll make a fucking fortune!” Father gushed.  He was so impressed.

We were less so.  For us, it meant work.  No big surprise there.  Father worked us in his mobile snack bar at every function he could find.  Five hours on school days, and up to ten on the weekends.  And we didn’t complain, because work meant that we also got to eat.  

See. Father was a bit shaky on his understanding of Fatherhood.  In his mind, family was about what we could do for HIM, and he didn’t like shelling out cash to feed us, unless we earned our keep.  So we worked.  

This was going to be a long day, no question.  And I hated it.  We all did.  But we kept our eyes lowered, and we demurred and did as we were told.  

We arrived at the building at 7am and began cleaning and wrapping potatoes.  We chopped veggies for the salad bar, and cleaned the huge dining room.  We set out the tables, table cloths, and centerpieces.

Around 3pm, a man arrived with a huge barbecue, and began the grilling of the steaks.  The glitterati began arriving shortly after, with their Ben Franklins and empty stomachs.  We served the food and cleared away plates and trash as needed.  

At 6 pm, most were done.   Though the fun and frolic continued, because of the Bar, and a bit of gambling.  

We were absolutely famished by that time.  As the norm, we’d had absolutely nothing to eat all day, and the smell of the cooked steaks and the toasty baked potatoes, and the sight of the salad bar was hard to bare.  But we knew how it worked.  We do our job, and get food after.  We just had to wait.  That’s what Mom said to us quietly, back in the kitchen, when we began complaining that we were hungry.  “Just be patient.”


I looked at my little brother, who had begun to cry, and snapped.  I told my mother if she would not ask Father for food, than I would, and headed for the door.  She made a quick grab for me, but I  side-stepped her and was out of the kitchen before she could stop me without making a scene.


When I stepped up, my father’s smile slipped and fell.  “What do you want?  Why aren’t you in the kitchen, cleaning up?”

If I had courage, I felt it go the way of Father’s smile.  I lowered my head, meek and mild, and said, “We’re hungry. Can we have something to eat?”

Father leaned back in his chair and chuckled.  “Eat?  You want something to eat?  Do you have a hundred dollar bill?  I paid a hundred dollars for my meal.  Where’s your money?  What?  You want to eat free, when everybody else had to pay?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sandoval’s smile disappear too.  His eyes taking in everything.

“But,” I said, feeling as if I was getting smaller with every word, but trying to stand my ground anyway, “we haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

There was a change, right there, in the air.  My father shifted in his seat to say something withering, but Sandoval beat him to it.  He said, words smooth and silky and dangerous, “you haven’t eaten all day?”

My eyes skittered to his face.  “Yes, sir.  And we got here at 7am.”

Sandoval looked at my father, “they haven’t eaten all day?”  

My father looked completely caught off guard, and babbled something like, “well, I might have forgotten, in all the work and…”

Sandoval looked at me, and without touching, seemed to lift my chin.  “I’m sure there’s plenty left over.  Go ahead and eat.”

My father quickly added, “no steaks though, they’re expensive.  But you can have potatoes and bread.”

Sandoval smiled at my father.  I wonder if he noticed the lack of smile in Sandoval’s eyes.  “No.  You can each have a steak too.  You did, after all, work all day.”

And with that, I was dismissed, and left tittering on the edge of great confusion, as I stared at the Bad Bad Man,.  

Sandoval offered us food when we were hungry, and Father would not feed us.  And I knew, that now, I liked him, just a little bit for that.  And what was I to do with that tiny, bit of warm feeling toward the man I believed was Evil?  I could no longer hate him.

The world turns on moments like this.  And mine had come on the price of a meal.