Looking at some pictures of folks from my hometown, who passed some years ago, this anecdote came to my mind. I decided to turn it into a story.

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Dangerous Quinceañera Party

Mr. Martinez was a family man, by all means. He liked his privacy and the monotony of his work as well as the tranquility of his me-time at home. He never liked crowds, even in solemn occasions like masses, burials, or any other public gatherings. He spent enough time every day confined in his car with five, sometimes six, people, usually strangers. From 5 am to about 7 pm, every day but Sundays, he worked on his 1980 Malibu taking passengers back and forth a nearby city. He was a good driver; the safest one in town, even if that also made him the slowest. Driving is dangerous enough, he’d say; I don’t need to get any extra lottery tickets.

He was an exemplar provider. Every evening he would bring hot bread and cold coke to his home, along with good cheese and ham. Not exactly what the average home in that small rural town would have for dinner or breakfast. By their standards, the Martinez were well-to-do.

On Sundays, Mr. Martinez liked to walk to the market and on his way back home he’d get the Sunday papers, which given how little spare time he had, usually provided him with reading material for the whole week. He might not have been the most talkative man in the world, but with a couple beers or a bottle of rum you might get him to talk about baseball, cars, or women. He was not a disciplinarian like most men back then, but he was respected by all his children and the kids in the neighborhood.

He had five sons and one daughter, the apple of his eyes. And when this one daughter turned 15, Mr. Martinez decided that he’d “throw the house out of the window,” as they said. Nora deserved the best Quinceañera Party the whole town had seen. So, he gave her full authority to make all the arrangements she wanted for her birthday party. He’d be a good sports and if needed, he’d sleep somewhere else that night.

What Mr. Martinez did not know, was that Nora was obsessed with a famous Miniteca called Peligro (Danger). In Mr. Martinez’s time the youth had fun in private or public parties entertained by live music provided by the bands of the time, local or “imported” from other towns. In extraordinarily special occasions the town would hire a national band with all the fanfare their reputation would demand. In Nora’s time, the minitecas have substituted the live bands that played salsa and merengue. These itinerant discos would take all their noise, smoke, and lights wherever there were people willing to pay for it. They would transform any environment into the most amazing urban pandemonium.

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Peligro, was the most popular Miniteca in the region. They became famous by providing audiences with the most recent musical hits as well as shocking experiences and surprises in sound effects, lighting, and stage designs. Mr. Martinez was obviously oblivious to anything related to this fad. He actually hated the hammering PUM-PUM echo produced by a far-away Miniteca occasionally playing somewhere downtown. He never slept well when one of those were playing. He had never seen or experienced one from inside.

So, the night of the Quinceañera party, a Friday evening, when Mr. Martinez entered his street he felt there was something wrong going on. The street had been blocked. There were big strange men dressed in black, checking all passersby. They looked like special agents from a spy movie. He had to explain that he lived down the street and that he needed to get home. The fact of the matter was that, oblivious as he was to many things, consumed by the monotony of his life, he had completely forgotten Nora’s birthday. He got very nervous when he approached his house and saw the most unusual amount of people around it. There were chairs all over. That could not be good. In this town people had chairs outside the houses only for funerals. He had to hunk his horn several times to force people make room for his car. He was upset already. He stormed out of his car and two of his sons came to him and held him tight. Dad, they said, what are you doing here so early? They are still setting things up. Setting what up? He asked furiously. Take it easy, Dad, just don’t get inside the house yet. What? That’s my house. No one can tell me when I can enter my house. What the fuck is wrong with you boys?

Mr. Martinez had never experienced this kind of anger. For a sedentary man that can never be a good thing. When he entered the living room his wife jumped on him, embraced him and begged him not to get scared. It was then that he saw it. The coffin. Sitting in the middle of his otherwise warm and cozy living room, a frightening coffin surrounded by all the wake paraphernalia had darkened his usually bright and peaceful night. Tears came to the old man’s eyes. Nora! Where is Nora? He screamed. What happened to my baby? The efforts of his wife and children to calm him down did not work. The mind of a desperate man can play horrible tricks. He did not hear Nora’s voice begging, calm down, Daddy, I’m here; I’m ok. He did not hear his elder’s son’s voice saying it’s just the Miniteca’s decoration; there’s no one in the coffin, just the record players, the platters, you see?

Mr. Martinez woke up in the hospital the next day. It was better that way. His panic-induced stupor allowed him to miss all the noise and the mess of what surely became a memorable party. His daughter was happy after she was assured by the doctor that he had not suffered a heart attack or stroke and that he’d be ok. He could still hear the PUM PUM, though. It accompanied him all night long as an ominous reminder that life was short and could end any time. He would not live his any other way, though. He was already exposed to danger driving his car. Minitecas remained banned from his house for good. He did not need more danger in his living room, even if it came with the best lights and sound.

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