Jorge Delgado is 27. His parents both come from Mexican descent but their families each had taken root in what is now Los Angeles generations before the families of our friends at UCLA Law came to this country. Our mostly white friends, whose families entered the United States through Ellis Island. Families like mine, but not.  

Jorge is built like a NFL linebacker, the product of shedding extra weight he carried while playing offensive line in high school and adding some muscle. His hair is cut to a high fade with a hard part made permanent by the can of Suavecito he applies any time he leaves the house.  

In a Ben Davis work shirt and black jeans, Jorge is standing, at a high-top table, at O’Hara’s, just south of campus. Always facing the entrance like he’s fucking CIA or something. He’s holding court with our classmates as they all drink liter mugs of light beer when we spot each other.  

We have a large group of friends, but none of those people understood us. None of them really knew anything about the two dudes that loved to party but also really loved the debrief over some eggs and bacon the next morning.  

The hangover was a familiar feeling for us both – a lifetime of waking up after another night of spending time with our people. It’s not that we’re not proud, but their expectations – what’s right for us – all that weighs us down. Some traditions are everlasting, and some have long outlived their time.   

It was cool to have someone else to process the details of another one for the books the night before. That didn’t happen often growing up. And now it seemed like everyone else just shrugged it off and moved on. But at least Jorge is always there to recount the highs and lows.   

There were others that had similar stories, and we’re all cool. But they tended to keep their circle pretty tight. Jorge loved to mingle. I want to say he is a natural politician but that sounds offensive. He’s just a good dude and loves people. I want to compare him to a puppy but he’s not that cute.   

You had to work hard and party hard to keep up. But he also loved a real conversation on a couch drinking beers and smoking some cigs. Said he got that habit from the kitchen but it was inevitable if you ever stayed for the late game of dominos with all the Tios at the end of any family gathering that seemed to happen every week for the Delgados. Late night booze, smoke, and gambling with the uncles was not an unfamiliar scene for me, either. 

But for the most part, I’m not like that. I mean I almost never miss a night out with Jorge but it’s not exactly the same. Studying those books takes the fucking life out of me. Drafting responses to discovery in patent litigation fucking kills me. So, I need get my energy from tangible excitement to refuel. 

I’ve always been like this. First it was shooting, climbing, riding bikes, then dirt bikes. Then hardcore shows. Then racing cross-country and hardcore. But as I’ve gotten older, it’s just more of this. Sharing war stories, drinking away problems, or creating new ones to distract. 

Well, that’s my point. Others drink sorrows away, Jorge and me, were trying to work things out.  

ADHD or something.   

For both of us, all the traditions were fine. Most of them at least. But growing up, we weren’t allowed to disagree. And we both do love the party.  

And now she’s back in the restaurant seven days a week.

—

Each of us was born to families with rich histories in America. Each family passed on traditions and values, and that shit matters.

Jorge’s ancestors farmed the land in California long before it joined the Union, and they continued to do so once they became citizens of the country that claimed the family’s land as its own. Their world was surrounded by food and so it was a natural transition when his maternal grandparents opened a restaurant in Boyle Heights after retirement sometime in the 1970’s. Nothing like authentic Mexican cuisine served to customers in the cushy red booths of the former Jewish deli they purchased and moved to long after Peloncito outgrew its original Eastside home with its tiny 400 square foot dining room.  

The restaurant was named after Jorge’s uncle who allegedly did not grow hair on his head until he was six. Jorge says he’s seen pictures.  

The move was actually his dad’s idea after Jorge’s parents bought Peloncito out from the rest of his mom’s siblings. Hardwired though, her siblings all took an entrepreneurial spirit to other businesses, all nonetheless backbreaking.  

Jorge’s family pursued a tradition of relentless hard work to achieve the American Dream. Another tradition they maintained: producing large families to work the many roles the family businesses required. Jorge was the seventh of eight and was influenced most by his oldest sister, Elena, who would drop him off at kindergarten on her way East L.A. College; and then showed him around UC Irvine when she transferred there. 

She was the first in the Delgado or Martinez family to earn a bachelor’s degree, and Jorge is the only one in his family to ever pursue a graduate degree. His mom was always proud of her mijo and his dad was too, even if he hoped Jorge would still return to run the restaurant and take it to new heights with his smarts and business savvy. A small strain on their otherwise close relationship. But Jorge wanted something else. Something that provided an opportunity to avoid the long sweaty nights in the kitchen, and the grease stains, and the smell of cooked meat and lard, he tried so hard to wash out of his clothes. His family had made a comfortable living; but Jorge wanted more than to pay his mortgage and to set up a college fund for his kids. He wanted to ascend to a position of influence like so many of his classmates’ parents and bring the perspective of his underrepresented people to make a positive impact on his community beyond his family. If his dad wanted to see new heights, Jorge had a vision to get there but it had to be on his terms.   

My paternal lineage originated in Great Brittain but left hard times behind and sought the opportunities offered in America less than 50 years after declaring independence. They originally settled in Pennsylvania but moved west to California shortly after gold was discovered by James Marshall in 1848. The fact that the Eatons first laid roots in Placerville, located in El Dorado County where the Gold Rush officially started, emphasizes the purpose for the move. My dad, Tom, moved one county south to Amador when Grandpa opened a general store on old Highway 88 in Jackson. Today, it is an Ace Hardware Store and just sold out of the family two years ago. I had no interest in taking over and Dad was ready to see what retirement had in store for him.     

My mom, Cheryl, was born a Vukovich and eternally proud of her Serbian roots. She is a leader in the community as a board member at the St. Sava Orthodox Church. In a town of 4,000, it takes some real character to remain so well respected for so long. My disagreement with some of the practices at the church was one of the few subjects upon which mom and I butted heads. Me and dad, we’re more like two rams locked in battle.  

Mom’s great-grandfather left his work in Montenegro in 1892 and traveled by train to California after sailing into New York. He was one of the hundreds of Serbs who emigrated to Louisiana and California as part of a labor migration just before the end of the 19^th century. Her father, Papa Joe, opened an insurance brokerage which is still the primary insurer of the buildings that line Main Street and the homes of her neighbors in town. Her brother Beau “bought out” the business after Papa Joe retired early but he really started taking over when he returned from Chico State with a BS in business administration about 15 years before that. Mom inherited the small bed and breakfast her grandparents established the year after she was born. The Cottage.  

I liked working the Cottage more than the Ace, but Dad was pushing Mom to sell that also since I made it clear I wasn’t coming back for it either. The family also had a bait and tackle shop in Ione that Papa Joe opened a couple year’s after retirement got boring. It was expanded to a sporting goods store when Cheryl’s brother, Bart, took over after Papa Joe retired for good. He passed away less than a month later.    

The work ethic of miners and farmers creates callouses – to strengthen hard, beaten skin and to strengthen resolve against the discomforts of hard work that make most others quit. The Eatons, like the Delgados, were not accustomed to making excuses for circumstances, they just got the fucking work done.  

“When you can’t do it, make yourself do it.” 

— 

After depositing my wallet in my back pocket, I give a head nod to the table. Jorge flashes his movie star smile at me, and…awkwardly, I flip him off. He’s my best friend, my only real friend here, even if the only thing we had in common was going to school together.    

I approach the table and greet each one of our classmates, our friends, before getting to the far side of the table and hugging Jorge who had already begun to speak. 

“Patrick Eaton, your white ass owes me a shot of Patron!” 

“Cuervo.” I respond. 

Jorge pushes me away before announcing, “I’d like to say I won’t drink that shit, but who am I kidding?” As we laugh, Jorge wraps his heavy right arm over my shoulders and escorts me to the bar. 

I flag the bartender down and ask for “two Patron, please.” 

“My man!” Jorge once again flashes that megawatt smile at me. As the bartender turns around to grab the bottle of Patron, Jorge asks me, “any chance I can change your mind about Mexico?” 

I shake my head as the bartender brings the shots and say, “I told myself, when I decided to do law school over getting an MFA, I would find a way to finish my novel. I thought doing I.P. and working with other creatives would inspire me. Now, almost three years later, and I haven’t even opened the manuscript.” 

I pick up our shots and hand one to Jorge and continue, “I figure a week without distractions is just what I need.”   

We clang glasses and take our drinks, each of us closing our eyes for a just a second before stoically returning to the room as the liquid burns down our chests. 

Jorge punches me lightly in the chest. “Pretty cool that you still have dreams, man. This place stole those and about $200k from me. Cheers brother. Can’t wait to read the book when it’s ready.” 

I gesture to the bartender for a liter of beer like my friends and then return to the conversation with Jorge. “Sometimes it feels like that’s all it is: a dream. Can’t let my dad be right about that.” As I place my credit card on the bar, I splay my fingers to the bartender indicating to keep the tab open.  

Jorge responds, “I swear white people always have daddy issues,” and I almost spit my first sip of beer out. We throw our heads back in laughter and walk back to the table.  

One last bar review.