Dedicated to my dad. Happy 60th birthday!

“Feliz Cinco de Mayo, Victor!” my landlord, a white dude in a loud sombrero, shouts to me as we pass on the stairs.

Well, at least he’s trying to accomodate the Mexicans here, who’ve swarmed his cheap apartment complex in greater numbers than the cucaracha. He no doubt spotted the tequila bottle poking out from my satchel, and assumed I was celebrating.

Wrong. I hate Cinco de Mayo, but I’m not about to get into that whole thing with him. “Happy Cinco de Mayo, Danny.”

“You going through downtown?”

I nod. I don’t want to, but I have to. To go see my father.

“Be careful, amigo. There was a stabbing there last year.”

“Good to know. I’ll catch you later.”

Mexican people swarm Downtown Denver. I’m not sure what cruising around in lowriders has to do with our army’s historic victory, but the two seem to go hand in hand. Cholos swerve between lanes, tops down, riding on three wheels, and blasting frisco music. Rain was forecasted, but the clouds must not like trumpets blaring in their fluffy eardrums. Such weather is a blessing on any other day, but I pray for storms on Cinco de Mayo.

Rows of tents are set up with tacos, churros, enchiladas... but beer breath and body odors from the crowd, some folks testing how far their XL Broncos t-shirts can be stretched, far overpower the Mexican spices.

The most authentic thing here is the guy selling fake Ray-Bans. Now that’s Mexican. I buy a pair before heading to the bus stop. People get out of my way faster with the shades on. Maybe I fit the description of last year’s stabber. Tribal tattoos, baggy jeans, a bandana, and sunglasses… seems about right. The bus screeches to a halt and a throng of women, most of whom already multiple margaritas into the celebration, apparently, pour out. I join a sparsely packed bus, gracias a dios. As soon as I sit down, my phone vibrates against my thigh. It’s mama calling, an annual tradition.

“Hello, mi amor,” she says, sounding surprisingly good for Cinco de Mayo. Normally by this hour, she’d be talking through sobs and blowing her nose. “It’s that day again.”

“Yeah, it is. I’m heading to the cemetery now. I’ll see you at the grave?”

“Victor…” she sighs, long and deep. “Not this time. I’m just busy here with Abuela. Actually, we are mixing some margaritas.”

My mouth gapes open. I’m speechless.

“I’ll visit him tomorrow,” she continues, “I just can’t bring myself to go today. Your father loved Cinco de Mayo, remember?”

Memories flash of our family trips to Bluff Lake. He whizzes past me on his bike, a little Mexican flag flapping behind him, along with the Star-Spangled Banner, of course. A huge Hanes shirt clings to his sweat. If only he lost some weight. I can see his smile as he tells me to catch up. That pudgy face, round nose, and thick moustache are etched in my memory; so familiar, and at the same time, just like the Ray-Bans, a cheap fake next to the genuine thing. It’s the best my mind can do eight years later.

My mother sniffles. Here come the waterworks. “I don’t think he’d want us to be suffering when we should be celebrating. Cinco de Mayo is about perseverance in the face of adversity…”

She goes on and on. Philosophical rants usually follow her crying. This time, it ends with her saying, “we should use this day to spread hope.”

Maybe it’s the sun cooking me through the window, but my temperature rises. She’s not coming to see papa.

Clogged with snot, she giggles. “Are you listening? Anyway, when you’re done visiting him, will you come by? Abuela is making Carne Asada.”

I explode. “I don’t give a shit about Carne Asada! Are you serious? You have to be here!”

It must have been louder than expected because two ladies are staring at me, bug-eyed.

“Mi amor…”

I can’t believe it. It’s supposed to be a mother’s job to drag her son to important family events. “I’m spending today with dad!”

I hang up and request the driver to stop. If mama wants to see me, she knows where to find me.

The Rockies overlook the cemetery, a stairway to heaven for the souls here. I find the headstone with Santa Maria.

HECTOR GUERERO

Dec. 13, 1960 - May 5, 2012

I put my hand on the cool granite. I try, but can’t feel papa’s presence. Maybe he’s thirsty. I take the tequila out and pour some onto the earth.

“Feliz Cinco de Mayo, papa.”

It could be that he’s unhappy with me. I can almost hear his scolding.

“You’ve judged every stranger to cross your path. Why, because they are celebrating? And call your mama back and apologize. That’s not the way I raised you, hijo.”

“It just pisses me off,” I say to the headstone. “It’s been tough without you.”

“I know, Victor. But you can either let that anger devour you, or be stronger than it. Kinder.”

I nod, and take a swig from the bottle. Its bite stings without citrus juice or salt on hand. I text ‘sorry’ to my mother, and as I do, someone whimpers from across the graveyard. A blonde man lies in the grass near a freshly dug grave, hands over his eyes. Something pushes my back. My dad did that when I was too shy to approach someone.

“You okay?” I ask him.

His body tenses. He definitely wasn’t expecting me. “No. My sister...”

The grass all around him is matted, some blades are stuck to his face. He’s been here a while.

“You’ll make it through this,” I say and help him up.

He stumbles back, legs weak. He has to lean on his sister’s headstone. “I’m just so filled with anger.”

“You have to fight through that shit. Hey, my Abuela is making Carne Asada. You hungry?”