My $1.95 dream

Yesterday I fullfilled a dream. I bought a copy of Peter Frampton's Comes Alive! at the Boys and Girls Club thrift store. The record  was $1.95.

I've had that dream since my breasts were two pink strawberries and my lips were too big for my face. This dream of mine  goes back to those  days when my mother hung saints over my bed to protect me from evil and to keep me away from sin.  I have to admit, I begged my parents for the Peter Frampton Comes Alive! record many times. But my cries at Woolworth's and at JC Penney went unheard as they never bought me the album.  Their ears didn't hear  beyond Vicente Fernandez and their wallets were not able to reach past frijoles and lentejas.

Peter Frampton was as close  as I ever got to  having my very own Justin Bieber. I didn't workship Peter. My bedroom walls were not decorated with Frampton posters. I didn't dream of licking his salty white skin at night. I didn't throw my Scoobie Doo panties at him, either. I didn't even like most of the songs in the album. However, I did workship one song,  Do You Feel Like We Do. I spent a great deal of time listening to this song that lacks a question mark at the end. Don't expect poetry in this song. The lyrics were  not written with the hands of the moon. You won't be able to queeze any light out. The song was mostly written with a wad of Bazooka gum inside a mouth.

Well, woke up this morning with a wine glass in my hand.
Whose wine? What wine? Where the hell did I dine?
Must have been a dream I don't believe where I've been.
Come on, let's do it again.

Later on in my life, I would discover that if I wanted to take the rock and roll hedonistic road, I would  prefer a morning with Jim Morrison and a beer in my hand, but, nonetheless, the question sang by Peter Frampton repeatedly,  Do You Feel Like We Do intrigued me. It fascinated my dizzy pre- adolescent brain.  I wanted to feel the answer. I wanted to drink from the answer.  I wanted to believe there was another world to feel other than my world at projects on 135 Eliza Court. I used to wait patiently for  KMET to play this song while listening to Fleetwood Mac and Ted Nugent dumb songs which was a small price to pay but I didn't care.  When the station finally played the song, I'd lay on my twin bed and allow the hands of rock and roll caress my brown legs. I let the music draw maps on my brain and dig deep into my heart. I used to close my eyes and beg the Virgen De Guadalupe for forgiveness for allowing this question to  reach under my skirt and blouse, kissing every dream it could find.

My father who worked 10 hours a day cutting celery under the California November rain.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

My mother who worked nights packing chiles in little boxes.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

My  homegirls at Haydock Junior High who longed for Colonia Chiques 13 tattoos on their arms.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

La Bright Eyes, pregant at 14.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

La Dimples, sent to juve at 13.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Juanita's papá standing drunk on the corner of Cooper and  McKinley.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Los illegals waiting for white men at 5 a.m. on Coloria Road to prostitute their hands and sweat.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Mr. Franklin, my algebra teacher who calls us dumb, dirty no good Mexicans.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Please, Virgen Santa, just this once,  I want to feel. I want to feel.

Part Two:



Part One: