Rolando Colorado turned up for the march. Pilsen badly needed a new high school, but the Board always funded wealthier areas of the city, where residents demanded better facilities. Our group’s appearance at the Board was an attempt to compete for funding. I wore a suit and tie. While, in reality, I was a young artist, I knew it was important that the group appear to have wide ranging support in the community, from the newest immigrants to established business owners. That’s what I wanted to look like: an established business owner. Rolando wore something representing the other end of the dress code spectrum. We chatted a bit before the meeting. I’m sure he could speak street language, but, with me, he spoke business English. He told me he was a Vietnam Vet. I guessed he was only a year or so my senior, but he looked far older, worn out at thirty.

When our group returned to 19th Street from the protest, Rolando mentioned that, because he was a Vietnam Vet and the war was very controversial, he found it hard to get a job. Instead, he was starting out on his own with an exterminating business. Would I like to hire him, he asked, to get rid of the cockroaches in the garden level apartment of my three-flat? That apartment was rented to a family recently immigrated to Chicago from Mexico, the Pinedas. I liked Juan and Blanca a lot. The Pinedas had been living in the building before my wife Molly and I moved in above them. We had recently purchased the four story brick house, built in the Seventies (the 1870s) for $7,000. Knowing the neighborhood, Rolando assumed there was a problem with unwanted insects in the building, and he was right. I did have trouble keeping the cockroaches under control, even in the upper floors where, in addition to our living space, I had room for my studio. Generally, my roaches were well behaved. They came out after we‘d retired for the night and returned to their caves at dawn.

The list of things that were wrong with our building was very long. Getting rid of the insects wasn’t anywhere close to the top of my priorities, until the evening we had a dinner party for Beth and Danny, a wealthy, professional couple, both on their third marriages. Beth was an art consultant, with plans to open a gallery. Part of that plan included exhibiting my work, which she was already selling in her role as an art consultant. We hadn’t previously entertained socialites. To serve them dinner in the live/work space I had crudely renovated (without permits) took some courage. Among many things I had done poorly were the gas pipes. They leaked badly for years, but our old windows leaked worse, so we didn’t blow up the block.

What has any of this to do with Rolando. It’s this: Molly noticed that, as she brought the beautifully plated dinner to table, the food on Beth’s glistening white, wedding-gift China, shared space with a beautiful, dark-brown, two-inch cockroach. Standing just behind Beth, in order to serve her, Molly flicked the animal across the room into the shadows of our candlelit loft. Danny and Beth either saw nothing or were very cool. Rolando’s offer to reduce the building’s insect population suddenly seemed attractive. His rates were below market. I hired him.

The Pinedas, a large, extended family of several married couples, their siblings, children, babies, and at least one charming ne’er-dowell, all lived in an apartment with four very small bedrooms. A 19th-century bedroom was the size of today’s average closet. Between them all, many jobs were held and they were spread out amongst all three shifts. This is what made it possible for so many people to live in such a small apartment. Only on a Saint’s Days were they all home at once. There was almost no time when the apartment was completely vacant. The extermination process required a six-hour stretch when no one could be inside. It had been up to me to interview the Family Pineda to discover a safe time for Rolando to do his work. I had made the date for 9 o’clock that following Monday morning, and waited for Mr. Colorado to show up. He was late. By ten, he wasn’t yet on the job. This was costing me time in my studio. I was anxious for him to get his show on the road. I wondered if there had been some confusion about which Monday the job was to be done. The next Monday, I hung out on the front steps at 8 o’clock. At 9:30, I resigned myself to another no-show day for Rolando.

I went off to buy wood for stretcher bars. I was back in an hour. As I carried the wood up my stairs, I noticed Pinedas’ front door ajar. I’d never seen them leave the door like that at any time, and this was Monday, when everyone was supposedly out. I knocked. I called out to Blanca. I thought she would be the likeliest to be home. Someone inside pushed the door closed without answering my greeting. Perhaps Rolando had shown up after all, but was doing a different job. Keeping my eye on the front door, I walked backward across the street into Vavrik Brothers Cartage, whose garage door was open. I asked Jim Vavrick, a man nearly as large as his truck, to watch the front door of Pineda’s. I went upstairs and called the police. From my desk at the other end of the building, I would see anyone who exited the back door. I described the situation to a dispatcher, and, before the call was concluded, Rolando appeared below, with a well-stuffed pillowcase over his shoulder. I told the officer that Rolando was heading west, down the alley. I hopped in my safety-orange, stripped-down, three-on-the-tree, 6 cylinder ’73 Suburban and caught up to Rolando on 18th Place. He heard me coming and turned. As quickly as Molly had flicked that cockroach, Rolando stowed his pillowcase between two parked cars. He stepped into the street to greet me, as I pulled up, my window down. He apologized for having missed his appointment the previous week, recounting several sob stories that constituted his excuses. He suggested another date to do the work. I was sympathetic and prolonged our visit with some neighborhood chitchat. When a squad car entered the block at the other end, disregarding the one-way sign, Rolando kept his cool, not knowing whether anyone knew about his morning activities. When the squad car nosed up to mine, I pointed at Rolando. Offering no resistance, he was handcuffed and off on a ride to the district station. His pillowcase full of “valuables” was also taken, for evidence. I returned home, thanked the Vavrik Brothers for their help, and went about my business. I watched for the first of the Pinedas to arrive home, so I could tell them about the theft and make my apologies for having created the set-up.

Eventually, I got notice of a court date. I drove the few miles to the courthouse on California Avenue. Rolando was angry with me, so I tried to avoid eye contact. He seemed amazingly familiar with court procedure. Before I knew what had transpired, the judge had granted a continuance. I was free to go. So was Rolando.

Soon, I was notified of the next court date, a month later. Shortly before that day, I got a call from the arresting officer. He was an old school, middle-aged White guy and showed unhealthy signs of his years in a squad car. He offered to pick me up and drive me to the courthouse for the next appearance. This surprised me. On the other hand, I was new to city life, so what did I know? A pattern emerged. I would ride to the courthouse with the officer, wait for Rolando’s case to be called, hear his request for a continuance be granted, then get a lift back to my studio. On the way, the officer explained that Rolando hoped to wear me down with continuances. If I failed to show on any court date, the case would be dismissed.

Between court dates, I received some unusual phone calls. Muffled voices suggested it would be better for me if I didn’t testify. I’m not sure why I was stubborn about it. If I hadn’t known Rolando before the robbery, I don’t think I would have pursued it. But, my tenants had been victimized and I was to blame. Perhaps I thought I could redeem myself by getting Rolando convicted. No doubt the Pinedas didn’t really care. Their losses weren’t great. In those days, junkies were so numerous that half the neighborhood had been robbed. The M.O. for a junkie was to make a quick entry into a poorly secured home, grab a few easy to carry items, and get out. The clock radios, costume jewelry, cheap watches, hair dryers and coffee pots could be sold quickly for a few dollars. Five dollars might have been enough to get the next bag of white powder.

After six months of trips to the court house, I got yet another ride to court, with a small difference. The officer began a long tale of woe about the plight of the White American Male. He said that everyone was concerned about Negroes, Mexicans, Women, and the Poor, without using that exact nomenclature. The long suffering, hard working, American White men, who made our country great, were getting the short end of the stick. He was starting an organization to promote the welfare of White men like him and me. He wanted me on his board, perhaps even as Treasurer. Board members, of course, needed to support the organization financially. He named an appropriate donation. I said I would think about it and thanked him for offering me a position of such importance.

It occurred to me that these free rides might turn out to be rather expensive. Nine months from the date of the arrest, the judge called me. He explained that Mr. Colorado had a long arrest record. At the time of the burglary, Rolando was on parole. Technically, the judge should sentence him to jail. However, during the months of continuances, Rolando had talked his way into what the judge called “the best drug rehab program in Chicago.” Would I object to allowing Mr. Colorado to complete the program, with court monitoring? Rolando’s sentence would be suspended, as long as the program was completed successfully. I had no objection, though I didn’t relish the idea of seeing my erstwhile exterminator around the neighborhood. I didn’t want to become an object of his skills.

Rolando disappeared from my life. The whole experience faded into the background. After the court appearances were over, I had called the commanding officer and told him of his officer’s venture into the not-for-profit world of social justice. I suggested that this enterprising man might be better employed in a desk job, entailing less contact with the public. The commanding officer got my drift. He chuckled a little, saying he would definitely take care of this in a discreet way. I did not want two men in the neighborhood out to get me.

Two years passed. I had a new body of work packed and on the sidewalk, ready to transport to an exhibit in Omaha or New York, I can’t recall. Maybe it was Cincinnati. I was loading them into the back of my orange workhorse, with the morning sun at my back. The autumn air was clear and crisp. I was looking forward to the road trip and the excitement of the upcoming exhibition. I heard someone behind me call “Hey, John!” I stopped pushing cartons on the tailgate, turned, and saw Rolando Colorado. My heart stopped. I could almost feel the knife piercing my fine artist’s skin. He clapped me on the shoulder and told me he wanted to thank me for pursuing his case. While he’d been angry with me at first, he realized I’d forced him to join a great rehab program. He’d completed it with such effectiveness that he’d been hired by the agency. He’d been working there the past year. I nodded, to show that I was listening, but I was still recovering from the initial shock and couldn’t yet speak. He said he’d decided he couldn’t live in Chicago and stay clean: too many connections with the wrong sorts of friends and old habits. He was moving to Alaska, to continue his work in social services. I was beginning to relax and able to speak. I congratulated him on his success, said I admired him for his determination to change, and wished him the best. I didn’t want to push my luck by prolonging the conversation. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “Just wanted to tell you that. Thanks again. I’ll be on my way.” He continued on, in the direction in which he’d been walking. I felt the slight pulse of a smile cross my face and was surprised by a drop of moisture in each eye. Then, I got my show on the road.