I Attended a Hispanic MAGA Memorial
My old boss called to say Salvador had died. I loved Sal though it had been seven years since we last spoke. We worked together at a vinyl record plant in Canoga Park. Sal headed the warehouse while I toiled in marketing and sales. He was born in Mexico and came to the states as an infant. He was divorced with three kids. His ex-wife lived in his old house while he slept above his mom’s garage in Whittier.
Sal died of a heart attack. He’d once told me about the history of heart trouble in his family. Both his father and his father’s father died due to cardiac problems. When I knew him, Sal was about 40-pounds overweight. He’d chosen to have kids early in life for fear he wouldn’t live into old age.
We had little in common. He was Catholic, I’m Jewish. He was a proud Republican, I’m liberal. His arms were covered with tattoos, mine with body hair. We bonded over the Lakers and our mutual admiration for Kobe Bryant.
Sal saved my tail at work several times. One Friday we were filling an LCD Soundsystem order for Capital Records. When the truck arrived, the product was still in packaging. The driver left and we were stuck with two pallets of vinyl records that had to be delivered the next day since the band was in town for a concert. Sal met me at the plant on Saturday morning with a rented truck. He operated the lift gate and drove…
