Chapter Five
It didn’t used to be this way. When I was young, my family jammed itself into the small top-floor apartment in what had once been a brownstone.
All five of us lived there: my parents, my two younger sisters, and me, split unevenly among the three little bedrooms. My father’s salsa club, Besos, has always been a part of our lives; located just down the street from our home, it was where I practiced both piano and drums after school when my mother wasn’t teaching piano lessons to the neighborhood kids.
It wasn’t until I graduated from my very expensive college (even with the need-based financial aid and a handful of student loans to accompany my family’s help) that my parents bought the entire building when it went up for sale.
That wouldn’t have been possible without the help of well-timed inheritances from my abuelos.
These days, the bottom two units are rented out to families a lot like ours.
Now, we have some generational wealth to our names. Not bad for a bunch of second- and third-generation immigrants.
I adjust the bag on my shoulder as I call out, “Papi?”
There’s a ruckus in the kitchen, hidden by the swinging doors. A clatter of metal slices through the silence, followed by swearing in jumbled Spanish. Smiling to myself, I follow the noise and push through the double doors to find my father collecting a bunch of silverware off the floor.
“Bendición,” I try again, biting back a laugh.
It’s clear that I scare the shit out of him.
From his position on the floor, his entire body tenses before he looks over his shoulder, eyes wide, until he realizes it’s just me.
“Ay, dios mío, hija,” he says with a hint of exasperation.
“You trying to give your old man a heart attack? Dios te bendiga.”
I shake my head and bend down to help him gather the remaining silverware, tossing handfuls into the plastic tray as I go. “What happened here?”
“The new dishwasher left these in the machine overnight. When I lifted the tray out, the handle broke,” he says. He points to the plastic handle on one side of the tray, which has clearly snapped in half. “Now I have to run them through again.”
We finish up quickly. This time, my father lifts the big tray of now-dirty cutlery from the bottom before placing it into the commercial dishwasher and loading it up with detergent.
Once the machine kicks to life, he wipes his hands on his well-loved jeans and turns to face me.
A familiar grin stretches across his face, etched with gentle lines of age that only make him look brighter, warmer.
As if he’s a star, just entering the prime of its life.
In a way, he is. My father has only gotten better with age—not only as a parent, but also as a friend, a business owner, and a community member. José García is well-respected in Washington Heights.
Oliver Barlowe may have the legacy of his father, but I have mine, too.
“What brings you home today, hija?” he asks as he envelops me in a hug.
When we pull away, I find the anxious knot that formed over the last two days has lessened a little. “I need your advice.”
“Ah, one of those visits,” he says with a wink. “Come on, let’s make some coffee.”
I follow him back through the double doors, to the club floor, where he slips behind the bar.
I take a seat on the other side, directly in front of the espresso machine, and drop my tote bag onto the empty stool next to me.
Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by the comfort of such a simple, familiar action; I’ve done some iteration of this a million times in my life.
My sisters and I spent countless afternoons here, with them doing homework at one of the four tops while I practiced at the drums or piano.
That is, until one of them couldn’t take the pounding anymore and forced me off the stage.
Loud. Life has always been loud here. I’ve always loved it.
Today, however, it’s quiet, save for the rumbling traffic outside and the clicks and whirrs of the espresso machine.
Sunlight filters in through the slanted blinds, illuminating the dust motes that flit through the air like hundreds of tiny dancers.
They’re not unlike the real dancers that come here night after night, their bodies writhing and twisting to the rhythms of the salsa bands that play here regularly.
My father sets a fresh café con leche in front of me before taking a sip of his own. “What’s going on, hija? Everything okay?”
His dark eyes—an exact mirror of my own, from the color of our irises to the rounded shape—hold a poignant concern as he looks at me.
I take a sip of my coffee before I answer him.
“Yeah, everything’s good. I had dinner with a friend from college the other night.
You remember Rebecca? The one with the black hair? She played trumpet.”
My heart twists at the half-truth about my overall state of affairs.
I don’t want to tell my father about my financial and career troubles, not after my family sacrificed so much to put me through school to begin with.
He’s always been so proud of me, fully present for every milestone I hit, even when I first moved into my own place.
That’s the kind of celebration that urban parents living in an expensive city can understand.
If he even caught a whisper of my rent increase and financial instability, he would offer to help.
But I’m the oldest kid—in my thirties, no less—and I can’t bear the thought of that conversation. Of failing my parents and sisters in setting the example. Pressure cloaks my shoulders, neck, and chest.
In the few seconds that my father scans his memories, searching for any tangible mentions of Rebecca, I make a mental promise to myself: My family can never know just how close I am to falling behind.
To failing. My pride may not be my best asset, but at least I’ll know that whatever happens next is my responsibility.
“I think so. ?Qué pasa?” he finally asks.
“Well, she moved out to LA a few years ago and has been working as a music supervisor and editor. That’s someone who helps finalize the final score and soundtrack for a film.
” I hesitate for a beat, wondering if I should explain this further, but decide to charge ahead.
“Anyway, she offered me a job. Chris Ross is making a TV show—a big-budget one—and they need a composer.”
My father’s eyes go wide, his mouth slack as he comprehends this.
If there’s anyone in my life who understands what this means—what it could potentially mean—it’s José García III.
He’s the person who took me to my first movie, where I became so enamored with the music behind the family action-adventure story that we went out and bought the CD immediately after.
He’s the one who taught me how to read music and play the drums. He’s the reason I practiced as hard as I did.
He’s the one who kept me on track when adolescent woes about boys and school drama threatened to derail me.
Both of my parents sacrificed a great deal so that I could attend Juilliard.
“Hija…” The word is barely a whisper, as if he can hardly believe it. After all this time, here is the exact opportunity we’d both been waiting for. “That’s the guy who made that time-travel movie I didn’t understand, no?”
I nearly choke on my coffee as I struggle not to laugh. “Sí, the same one.”
“Celia, that’s great news!”
Always my cheerleader. I can’t help but smile at his genuine enthusiasm, at the pride radiating from his smile, at the way he slaps his hand on the bar top in triumph.
It’s almost enough to make me forget about all the worries that plague me.
But as exciting as this is, I came here for some perspective, too.
“Well, there’s a catch,” I caution. “Ross will only take someone junior if he gets two composers.”
This doesn’t faze my father at all. He simply shrugs, undeterred by this news. “So? You work with someone equally as great as you, and then BAM! Munequita’s dream comes true.”
His enthusiasm and term of endearment choke me with emotion. I’m on the verge of crying into my café con leche when I say, “Maybe. But the cocomposer is Oliver Barlowe.”
“The one who dressed like an abuelo?” my father asks. At this, I can’t help but laugh while I nod. “Well, so what? Even if he’s still a mierda, it’s nothing you can’t handle.”
I knew I complained about Oliver when I’d come home on weekends and breaks during school, but the fact that my father can recall him so easily surprises me a little.
My family only met Oliver in person once, after a performance.
I still cringe whenever that memory pops into my mind—like right now—because it could not have gone worse.
My father’s confidence in my ability to handle assholes lifts my spirits a little.
Still, there’s that anxious knot in my chest and the pressure threatening to smother me.
“I can handle Oliver, papi, but I’m worried.
” I have to take a deep breath to steady myself.
“What if I’m not good enough? What if I can’t do this? What if I fail?”
“Hija, you won’t fail. You are more than good enough.
” The lightness is gone from his voice now.
He reaches across the bar to take both of my hands in his, leaning forward as he does.
Rough fingers scrape across my wrists. “You’ve been making music since before you could read.
This is in your bones. We didn’t name you after one of the greats for nothing, you know. ”
“Celia Cruz was a salsa artist. This is playing with the big dogs, with the—”
He dismisses my argument with the shake of his head. “So? Life isn’t a dress rehearsal, hija. It’s the real performance. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”
“I know, I just… I don’t even have the tools to do this, you know?” I start. “I actually saw Oliver yesterday, and he said we can use his family’s studio, but I haven’t even worked on—”
“Celia, stop.” He shakes my hands to bring me back down to earth.
“You have the talent and skill to pull this off. Your friend Rebecca knows this, I know this, your mother and sisters know this. You’re getting ahead of yourself.
You’re the only thing standing between yourself and your dream right now. ”
I find myself nodding as he speaks. This is it—the pep talk, the pull-it-together moment I needed.
It doesn’t erase the lingering feelings of self-doubt that remain in my chest, but it helps alleviate some of the immediate pressure.
Hearing my father echo my own beliefs—that this is my moment—was what I needed.
“Thanks, papi. You’re right. I know you’re right.”
He releases my hands and cups my cheeks, just like he did when I was little.
The action makes me feel small as much as it makes me feel big—like I’m still his little girl who did a good job at her second recital, proud in a way that only comes from dedication and hard work.
Although my father and mother both gave me the gift of music, they also gave me this: the perseverance to keep going, even when it feels hard.
When he releases me, we each polish off our lukewarm coffee. I glance over my shoulder at the stage where I spent so many hours of my life and feel a tug somewhere low in my belly. “You mind if I play for a bit?” I ask when I turn around to face him.
“Be my guest, hija.”
I answer his smile with my own before hopping off my stool.
As I meander through the tables, I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of déjà vu so strong it nearly knocks the wind out of me.
For a brief moment, my steps falter, but then I’m climbing the small set of stairs onto the raised platform, weaving my body through the microphones and music stands until I’m seated at my usual stool.
That sense of déjà vu doesn’t dissipate when I grab the drumsticks and twirl them between my fingers. It’s bold enough that I’m almost having an out-of-body experience. But there’s something grounding me, keeping me tethered to this place that feels more like home than anywhere else in the world.
When my foot taps the bass drum pedal, I realize this is true—that making music is home, and it’s where I’m meant to be.
TODAY 3:13 PM
Celia
3:13 PM
Hey I know it’s Saturday but we should probably run our questions and research by each other right?
So we don’t end up doubling our efforts here
Or looking like assholes in the meeting
Oliver
3:46 PM
Yes
Celia
3:48 PM
Great. Obvi I want to know more about the story. I tried finding more info online but it’s just the same press releases I feel like that’s most important
3:49 PM
Also his process, how he likes to work
3:51 PM
wdyt?
Oliver
4:37 PM
wdyt? What does that mean?
Celia
4:41 PM
it means “what do you think”
TODAY 7:14 PM
Oliver
7:14 PM
Oh
Yes I think it’s important we ask these questions. I also want to know more about their visual ideas. I want to know what they envision for the audience to see and how our music might accompany that so see/hear are in harmony
Celia
7:20 PM
wow you’re like really smart. did you go to a really good school or something?
TODAY 8:33 PM
Oliver
8:33 PM
lol
Celia
8:36 PM
do you know what that means?
8:37 PM
sorry that was an asshole thing to say, meant it as a joke
TODAY 10:01 PM
Oliver
10:01 PM
Better to be an asshole now versus in the meeting
Celia
10:04 PM
lol true