viejo, Eusébio Sanchez, who was always at the Mission Theatre, waited restlessly in a patio chair by the curb, his wife Antonia next to him shewing away children blocking their view. When he barked a command to her, she dutifully gathered her heavy skirts and with sorrowful eyes disappeared into the crowd. With his cane he tapped a child in front of him and motioned for him to move, then with unsteady hands, pulled cigarette papers and tobacco from his pocket, poured tobacco onto the paper and sealed it into a cigarette, then luxuriantly inhaled and exhaled rich blue smoke.
        When Antonia returned with a glass of lemonade, he growled at her, then sipped the cool liquid and took another drag from his cigarette as she sat and resumed her brooding.
        The earsplitting pop of a firecracker went off nearby. Antonia winced and covered her ears but Eusébio was amused by the young people’s joke and watched them laugh and accuse one another of being the instigator, even turning to Antonia and smiling, revealing his pink tongue and gums.
        Then there was applause down the street and the young brown men craned to see. “Here comes the Spirit!” someone shouted in Spanish. “Tha Speereet!” All eyes turned and everyone pressed closer. Finally, the young flamenco dancer, the Spirit of Fiesta, came into view, looking beautiful, dancing proudly, smiling and waving. When she reached the viejo, she stopped and danced in place, waiting, as he stood up and walked unsteadily toward her. The crowd roared as he draped a colorful bead necklace over her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek, then continued cheering until he returned to his chair.
        Then came the flamenco band, the six horsemen, the grand marshal, the Western Bank float, the high school marching band, the Chumash descendants float, more horsemen, and finally Eusébio Sanchez’ own Sanchez family float. When it reached him, he repeated his routine, walking out to the float and placing bead necklaces over the shoulders of each of the four smiling flamenco dancers, unaware that one girl, Maya, was missing.
        While the parade marched along, Maya’s mother led her back to their apartment building several blocks away. Maya was silent as her mother muttered angrily under her breath. Both were oblivious to the blue Pacific Ocean to their left and the colorful hotels and restaurants to their right, and the spectacle they must be making, a disconsolate young girl in flamenco attire being led away from the parade by a disgruntled woman.
        At their apartment building, they climbed the outer steps and traversed the landing to their door. Inside, Maya walked straight to her bedroom, slammed the door shut, collapsed onto the bed, and laid quietly, no longer crying, now just being