Chapter 7: The Outcast and the Forgotten
It didn't take Héctor and Coco long to descend into the depths of the city. Coco noted that there seemed to be a city hierarchy based on elevation. The older, more rundown parts of the city were near ground level, while all the middle and upper class structures towered above everything else.
"Where exactly are we going, Papá? Coco asked.
"Paying some friends a visit," Héctor answered.
"You haven't been staying in the slums, have you?"
Héctor shrugged. "Eh...well...off and on. See, when you don't have a photo on an ofrenda, people immediately assume you're nearly forgotten, and they don't like to look at those people, you know?"
Coco gave him an annoyed look. "Still alive, remember, Papá? I don't know anything about this world."
"Oh, right," Héctor conceded. As he led Coco down a rickety old bridge, he explained the workings of the Land of the Dead. "This place runs on memories. If you're well remembered, people put up your photo, you get to cross the bridge on Dia de Muertos, bring back offerings, and generally live comfortably. You can even move up in your career, like Ceci did. But once those who remember you in life start dying, you start to fade. Your bones get looser, you start getting tremors, and people stop putting your photo up. And once there's no one left alive who remembers you...you fade completely. It happens to everyone eventually, but the dead don't like to be reminded of it. So those of us without photos or who are showing obvious signs of being forgotten get pushed aside. Even if, like me, someone is still pretty well remembered, it's hard to hold down a decent job once everyone finds out you can't cross the bridge."
"So is that what happened to your tour bus job?" Coco asked. "Your boss fired you because you had no photo?"
Héctor cocked his head. "I...may have let that slip during one of my little comedy routines one shift."
"That hardly seems fair. It's not your fault if you have no photo. It's not your fault if you're forgotten."
"Well, death's not fair," Héctor replied. "Keep up, mija," he called, dropping comically off the end of the dock.
Coco watched, amazed, as Héctor dropped a full story, his bones scattering on the ground. He quickly reassembled himself and directed her to a steep staircase.
Coco joined him at the bottom of the dock. "Why do you do that?" she asked. "It's gotta hurt."
"Eh, it's not too bad," Héctor said. "Besides, your face was priceless." He emphasized his point by playfully poking her in the ribs, drawing a giggle from her.
Pepita followed close behind, stopping abruptly when a rabbit-toad hybrid jumped in front of her, prompting her to hiss at it. It ignored her completely, croaking out, "Alebrije, alebrije, alebrije," as it hopped past, disappearing into the river.
They continued on their way, passing underneath an old stone arch. Graffiti covered the arch, depicting winged skeletons fading into orange swirls. Coco heard a phonograph playing beyond the gate. Once inside the gateway, she saw that the docks diverged various ways, winding around dilapidated shacks. Skeletons mingled around metal barrels with fires in them. Three older skeleton women sat around an overturned wooden crate, laughing, smoking and playing cards. They all had ashen and yellowed bones, and looked like they could fall apart at any moment. One of them looked up and recognized Héctor.
"Cousin Héctor!" she called.
"Hey, Tia Chelo!" Héctor called back. He leaned down and grabbed a bottle of tequila along the way.
Other skeletons greeted him by the same title, and he responded with various familial titles.
"These people can't all be related to you," Coco said.
"Not exactly," Héctor said. "We're all the ones with no photos on ofrendas or no families to go home to. Nearly forgotten. So we all call each other cousin or tia, or whatever."
"You're not nearly forgotten."
"You know that and I know that, and everyone here knows it. But most of the well-remembered don't know that. Or want to know it. This is...kind of the only place I'm always welcome."
Héctor used his teeth to pull the cork out of the tequila bottle, pouring it into glasses for the three women.
"Who's this girl, Héctor?" one of the women asked. "She that wife you keep raving about?"
Héctor laughed. "Oh, no no no, not her. She's...well, she's actually the daughter I keep raving about. She's a bit of a special case. Doesn't belong anywhere here, either among the remembered or down here in ol' Shantytown. Gotta get her home to her mamá."
Two of the skeleton women gasped. "Alive?" one said. "Here?"
"Not here for long. She asked for a tour, and right after that she's going home. Nothing to worry about; we've got it all under control."
Tia Chelo put down her cigarette and studied Coco. "She looks like you, Héctor. Poor niña."
"Yeah, thanks a lot, Tia Chelo," Héctor griped, a smile on his face. "So is Chicharrón around?"
Coco didn't miss the worry that passed over Héctor's face for a moment.
"In the bungalow," Chelo answered, gesturing in that direction. "I don't know if he's in the mood for visitors," she warned.
Héctor laughed. "Who doesn't like a visit from Cousin Héctor?" He pushed his way into the bungalow, gesturing for Coco to follow.
The two had to navigate their way around stacks of boxes. This Chicharrón appeared to be a hoarder. The items in the boxes looked to Coco like they were mostly junk, but a few antiques stood out. Perhaps these were offerings from when this man had family to remember him, once upon a time.
Héctor made his way over to a hammock filled with junk, on top of which sat a sombrero. He poured some tequila into two shot glasses, picked one up, and then lifted the sombrero to reveal a cranky old skull whose facial carvings had long since faded.
"Hola, Cheech," Héctor greeted.
"I don't want to see your stupid face, Héctor!" Cheech spat.
"Oh, come on, amigo, it's Dia de Muertos!" he held up the shot glass. "I brought you a little offering."
"Get out!"
"I would, Cheech, but me and my girl, here...we really need to borrow your guitar."
Cheech grabbed the instrument and held it close. "My guitar? My prized, beloved guitar?"
"I promise we'll bring it right back," Héctor begged.
"Like the time you promised to bring back my truck? Or my ice box? My lasso? My good napkins? My femur?!"
Héctor winced at the mention of each loaned item, flinching away when Cheech stuck out his leg to reveal a pipe where the femur bone should've been. "Ah...about that..."
Cheech grabbed Héctor's tie and yanked him close so he could get in the taller man's face. "Where's my femur, you—nrrrrgh!" Cheech collapsed suddenly as a shimmer of gold light reverberated throughout his body. He let go of Héctor and sank back into his hammock, winded.
Concern was etched all over Héctor's face. "Hey, you alright, amigo?"
"I'm fading," Cheech wheezed. "I can feel it." He gestured to the guitar. "I couldn't play that thing if I wanted to. You...play me something."
"No, you...you know I don't really play anymore, Cheech," Héctor said. He turned and glanced at Coco. "I mean...I don't really...I'm not..."
"If you want it, you've got to earn it," Cheech said sternly.
Héctor sighed. "Well...for you, old friend." He gently took the guitar out of the hammock and placed it on his lap, leaning against the edge of the hammock as he plucked strings and turned tuning pegs. "Any requests?"
Cheech chuckled. "You know my favorite."
A moment or two of extra tuning, and Héctor plucked out a melody. Coco took a seat on a nearby crate, Pepita jumping onto her lap. This would be the first time since she was a little girl that Coco had heard her papá sing and play, and she planned on soaking up every moment. Héctor gave her a tender smile and began to sing.
"Well, everyone knows Juanita, her eyes each a different color."
Cheech settled contentedly into his hammock.
"Her teeth stick out and her chin goes in," Héctor continued. "And her..." he paused for a moment, glancing nervously at Coco, who gave him a confused look. "Knuckles, they drag on the floor," Héctor continued, the altered lyric obvious.
"Those aren't the words!" Cheech protested.
"There are children present," Héctor said, nodding toward Coco.
Coco simply rolled her eyes. "I'm a grown woman, Papá, with children of my own."
"You're still my baby girl," Héctor said fondly.
"Just play your song," Coco scolded, though she couldn't help smiling.
Héctor continued, "Her hair is like a brier. She stands in a bowlegged stance. And if I weren't so ugly...she'd possibly give me a chance."
The song ended on a high, light note. Cheech chuckled again, removing his sombrero and holding it across his chest.
"Brings back memories," he said. With that, he seemed to fall unconscious. Golden and red light enveloped his body, and Coco watched as his bones dissolved into a shimmering dust, carried away on air currents across the river.
Héctor sadly stood, picked up a shot glass and, raising it to Cheech, swiftly drank, setting the empty glass upside down next to the remaining full glass. He then turned and began making his way back outside.
"Wait, Papá, what happened?" Coco asked as she stood to follow, hugging Pepita close for comfort.
"He's been forgotten," Héctor explained. "When there's no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. We call it the Final Death."
"Where...where did he go?"
"No one knows."
"Is it too late, then? Is there a way to remember him and bring him back? Perhaps, now that I've met him..."
"No, it doesn't work like that, mija," Héctor said sadly. "Once we're gone, we're gone. Our memories...they have to be passed down by those who knew us in life. In the stories they tell about us. But there's no one left to pass down Cheech's stories."
Coco glanced back at the hammock, noticing that the pipe that had taken the place of Cheech's missing femure still stood out among the junk. She looked around the room again, taking in the objects that clearly once had value.
Cheech was well remembered at one time. But once he began to be forgotten, he was pushed away, into this ramshackle hut, to await his ultimate fate.
"You said this happens to everyone eventually," Coco said.
"It sure does," Héctor confirmed. "Well, except maybe Montezuma."
"But if being forgotten here is basically the same as growing old, why aren't people allowed to do so with dignity?" Coco protested. "Why aren't they surrounded by their deceased loved ones, in comfort as they pass, the way the living surround their dying loved ones? Do the dead really fear being forgotten so much that they'll treat those on the brink as though they've already vanished? That they'll behave so coldly and callously toward those most in need of compassion? They threw you out and barred you from working just because someone tore up the only photo we had of you. This is more than just unfair, Papá. It's just plain wrong! There's no excuse to treat people so poorly just because they remind us that we could just as easily be in their shoes ourselves."
Héctor blinked. His daughter had all the makings of a fine motivational speaker. He smiled at her, proud that she'd grown into such a compassionate woman, unafraid to vocalize her concerns for those less fortunate than herself.
"Well...maybe, just maybe, we can do something about that," he said. "But it'll have to wait until after that contest. Come on, mija, we've got a crowd of de la Cruz worshipers to school!"
Coco nodded. If she knew her father, once his picture was on the ofrenda and de la Cruz's crimes were exposed, he would use his newfound good fortune to make life better for those he'd befriended in Shantytown. They would be helped soon...if her mission was successful. She followed her father out of the bungalow, more determined than ever to complete her mission. It wasn't just about her father or her family anymore. She had to help these people too.
AN: Yes, I'm playing with the canon timeline here. But I can do that with characters like Cheech and Chelo. So I've moved their timeline up for my story. I didn't have the same creative liberty with Frida Kahlo, who is a historical domain character. She's still very much alive at this point, which is why she will not be appearing at all. Cheech's role in this story isn't foreshadowing what could happen to Héctor. He's simply going to provide a reason for the stakes to be increased. Coco now wants to help more than just her father. She's now obligated herself to all of Shantytown. She's basically making herself the hero archetype.
