"The Rope"

                                         Tales from the Simons Brickyard

By kiki

Around 1950, some people down the block from my house in the Simons Brickyard were having an adult party, and we young teenagers, 13-14 years old at the time, wanted to go to the party. We thought we were chingones, in other words, "bad to the bone," and thought; that we should be allowed to attend the party so that we could dance cheek to cheek with some of the older rucas (ladies), not to mention eating their birria (goat meat), and of course, sneak in a beer or two. But, we were turned away at the door by the host. He said we were too young to attend his party. 

We left, went to one of my friend's houses, and got a long rope. We then went back to the party and tied one end of the rope to the white picket fence and the other to the rear bumper of a 1930's era car park in front of the house. We then waited in the dark until the party was over; around midnight, the people that owned the car came out to go home; they said their goodbyes to the host and his wife, then got in the car and drove away, taking the fence with them. "compa! Compa!! Mi cerca"!! Yelled the party host; as his compa droved off with his white picket fence.

“Looking for a Good Barber”

By kiki

Moving to La Puente in 1968 from East Los Angeles, I needed to decide where I was going to get a haircut: find a new barber in La Puente or keep going to Manuel's Barber Shop on Brooklyn Ave, just west of the Maravilla Projects, in ELA, where I had gotten my haircuts for the last few years, I've decided to keep going to Manuel's and did so for the next three or four years. Then Manuel died. He was only about 32 years old.

Soon after Manuel died, I talked to my cousin Henry and told him how I needed an excellent barber. Henry told me to go see Jimmy at 'Jimmy's Scissor-cut' on Valley Blvd and Puente Ave and to be sure to tell Jimmy that "Big Henry" sent me. I think Henry was looking to get ten percent of whatever business he sent Jimmy's way or at least a free haircut. Jimmy and his son, One Eye Dino, were two great barbers. From the early '70s till around 1998, when Jimmy died and the shop was closed, they were my barbers. One Eye Dino died a year after his dad. Back in the days of T.V. network boxing. Jimmy's Scissor-Cut was the place for boxing fans to go see the fights and drink beer…Man! How I miss those by-gone days at Jimmy's

I now go to an old barber on Main Street in Old Town La Puente. But sometimes he doesn't show up; he is, after all, in his early 80's, I think. So I have to look around for a barber when the old guy doesn't show up. To be sure, there are a few barbershops in town, but the ones cutting hair in those shops are not barbers. I've been to a few of them, and the first thing I do is ask the barber to let me see their's barber's license. If they don't have one, I walk!! And I've done lots of walking. Maybe I should call the migra! Naw, I wouldn't do that.

One time I let one of them "barbers" cut my hair, man! Did he mess me up? I left the barber shop-I'm going to get a bit salty here, looking like a "fresh-f*^ked Tom Cat" When I got home, and Connie saw my haircut, she started laughing hard, I think she wet her pants. How could that lady be so cold and mean?! I stayed indoors for over two weeks waiting for my hair to grow back before I would go out in public again!!

Some people have told me, "Hey, it's just hair, it'll grow back" I tell them, "yes, but it's my hair"! Besides some good and bad memories, my hair is all I have left from my youth. So hell yes!! I'm picky about my hair!!!

"Tacho and His Fence"

By kiki

This was our age of innocence!

 When we lived in the Simons brickyard (Montebello, California) in the late 1940's-early-'50s, my friends and I used to light up a lumbrita (small fire) in the evenings. When we ran out of wood to burn, we would go to plan B: to go to the rackas (racks) and dump the bricks drying on wooden paletas (pallets). We would take the paletas and use them for firewood. We needed to hide them because the night watchman would sometimes sneak up on us to see if he could catch us burning paletas. That was a big no-no in Simons; you didn't burn Simons Brickyard paletas without getting your ass in trouble with the local Chota (sheriff/watchman) Genaro Prado, not to mention the ass-whipping at home.

When the Chota kept a close eye on us, we would go to Plan C: to rip the wooden fences from the nearby houses; hey! We needed firewood, didn't we? Tacho's house was the one nearest to us. Tacho, at least once a week, was fixing his fence. One day, my dad walked by and saw Tacho working on his white fence; my dad asked him, "fixing that fence again?" "Eso's cabrones (meaning us) keep burning my fence," replied Tacho,

                                                 La Chota: Genaro Prado



UPDATED: 3-21-2013

I mention above about the Chota, Genaro Prado, keeping an eye on us to keep us from burning the paletas. So we kids came up with an idea to get back at him for chasing us when he would bust us burning paletas. So we came up with the bright idea of digging a hole for the Chota to fall in as he chased us. So about four or five of us kids dug a hole about four feet deep and four feet wide; I say "about" four by four because I am not really sure how deep or how wide it was, but I do know that it was deep enough that at its deepest end, if one of us jumped in the hole, we couldn't get out on our own, we had to be helped out.

We dug the hole about twenty feet away from la lumbrita. We would dig some, and when it was time to go home, we would cover it up with a couple of thin plywood sheets; put some dirt/grass on top of the plywood to keep it from being seen. 

One night with the hole covered up, we were hanging around la lumbrita when Genaro came running towards the fire, yelling at the top of his lungs, "cabrones, quemedo paletas!!" (burning pallets). As soon as we heard him, we all ran towards the hole, and as we ran around the hole, he ran over the hole and hit the thin plywood at top speed, and as he disappeared into the bottomless pit of darkness, we could hear him yell "Cabrones!!"

I don't know how he got out, but he needed help. The chisme (the gossip) around the brickyard was the next day, "did you hear what happened to the Chota last night? No? He said the earth opened up and tried to swallow him!"

"Cabrones!"

“Hell! He Isn’t Dead, He’s Just Asleep!”

By kiki

Circa 1980, there was a rumor going around the boxing gyms in Southern California that I had died. John Bayrooty, the boxing writer for the now-defunct Los Angeles Herald-Examiner, even ran a piece on the paper “Frank Baltazar, father of boxers Frankie and Tony Baltazar has died” etc., etc.

It all started as far as I know, with the late Johnny Cabrera (matchmaker for Don Fraser); Johnny told somebody that I had died from kidney failure. And from there, the rumor spread like wildfire. 

People started calling the house asking about funeral services. Connie or whoever answered the phone would tell the callers that I was not dead.

My friend Dub Huntley called, and this he told me later. He didn’t want to ask about services, so when Connie answered the phone, he asked her if I was home; Connie told him that yes I was home but that I was asleep; Dub told her not to wake me up, that he would call later.

Dub got on the phone and called as many people as he could and told them, “Hell! He isn’t dead, he’s just asleep”!!

When Dub called me, I asked him how the rumor had gotten started; he said that it had started with Johnny Cabrera as far as he knew. I then called Johnny, and when he answered, I said, “Johnny, this is Frank Baltazar” he then, in a low voice, asked me, “Frank, where are you calling me from?” “From hell”!! I replied. I hope he was sitting down!!...LOL!!