How My Quest for Fame Almost Ended My Life

Hello. My name is Esteban Luis Soto and I was almost famous. Three times, in fact. Although I have songs on the internet and have finished a full-length novel (which is being considered for publication), you’ve probably never heard of me. I don’t blame you though. There’s a lot of static in this world and, these days, I’m just part of that noise. However, those who pass me by in the grocery store or idle next to me at traffic lights, don’t know that, at one point, I was a blip on the radar of society (in my mind, at least). Although I’ve experienced a lot in my life, my life was also in danger several times. This is the story of the 1st time I was almost famous and everything in this story is true to life.

I was born on July 9th, of 1970 in the far West, border city of El Paso, Texas. Some would say that El Paso, with its desert, lunar-esque landscape, is the armpit of Texas but I disagree. I love El Paso and the majestic Franklin Mountains that surround it. It's where my most precious memories reside and where all my beloved family still lives to this day. It's culture and lifestyle is different and slow, for sure but, alluring all the same. It will always hold a special place in my heart.

My father was a successful Pharmacist, who worked hard to own his own business while my beautiful Mother stayed home to bring us up. I won’t give you a sob story about my upbringing because there is no sob story to tell. My Father made sure that we were provided for and, although we had several years of financial hardship, we were middle-class. I have two brothers (one of whom has since passed away) and one sister of whom I love dearly. I won’t bore you with all the details of my early childhood, so, let’s get right into the meat and potatoes of it all, shall we?

I was always small and skinny - something that I was painfully aware of. The bullies at the private, Catholic, all-boys schools that I attended, took advantage of this. They harassed and bullied me but, as slight as I was, I stood my ground. My father taught me boxing at an early age and I knew that, if it came to blows, I could at least give one of those bullies a deep, dark bruise on the shin or arm. I made it through the first two years of high school, mostly unscathed, save for a few skirmishes that fizzled out quickly.

For my junior year, I transferred to a public high school and this is where everything changed. There were beautiful girls and well-dressed guys. There were muscular jocks and homecoming queens all walking around me but, I might as well have been a ghost to them. Our eyes never met. My existence at J.M. Hanks High School consisted of homework with my name on it and a warm seat when I left the classroom. I was lonely and depressed. I longed to be part of that electricity that surged around me. I yearned to be part of something and laugh like all these kids my age were. I needed eyes to fall upon me - to validate that I was indeed alive.

Around this time, I began to notice a specific group of kids whose hair was hair-sprayed high and bushy with Aquanet. They wore baggy Z Cavaricci pants that they folded up at the bottom above flat, heel-less shoes without socks. I would observe as they listened to Freestyle (Latin Hip-Hop) from their cars that boomed with bass. This music, with its funky beats and melodic singing, resonated profoundly within me. It stirred something awake and I decided that I had to somehow be part of that. From that point forward, I made sure to take my lunch and sit on the bench closest to where they always gathered, daily.

As conspicuously as possible, I’d steal glances at them and try to catch the names of the songs that pulsed out of their dropped cars. From the corner of my eye, I’d marvel at these beautiful, dark-skinned Latina girls with their massive hairdos and dark eyeliner. I’d watch as their bountiful curves rippled beneath their thin, baggy rayon pants and tops as they danced to the music. A carnal yearning stirred within me then. You have to understand that I had yet to be with a woman, sexually, at that point. I had only been kissed for the first time, a year prior, by Angie Fierro behind an entertainment center shaped like a castle. Its name escapes me at the moment but, I digress.

One day a guy from the group approached me. He was of medium height and thin. His cheeks were bulbous and his hair was long and flowed over his shoulders in a semi-mullet style. “Hey man,” he said. “Wanna come hang with us? I see you hanging out here by yourself all the time. My friends are cool. Come on.” I followed sheepishly behind and was introduced to the group. They eyed me curiously but were friendly enough. My host’s name was Victor Palacios and he invited me to a party the next day at his house. I agreed to go but panicked the whole way home. After some convincing from my parents, I decided to attend the party. I tried my best to mimic the way they dressed but ended up looking like a K-Mart version of them.

When I pulled onto the street, it was packed with parked cars. I found a spot, on an adjacent street, and made my way towards the house that was bumping with bass. I walked in, mostly unnoticed, scanning the room for my host. Victor spotted me and quickly made me feel comfortable. He introduced me to his closest friends and then eventually to his sister, Sally. Wow. Sally Palacios was absolutely beautiful, to say the least. She greeted me warmly but with an air of nonchalance. I was instantly smitten but knew I hadn’t a chance with someone so stunning and popular but this didn’t stop my heart from fluttering every time she was in proximity of me.

Hours later, a guy entered the house who everybody seemed to know. He was dark-skinned, of slight stature and had black, slicked back hair that ended in a long, highlighted, rat tail that ran down his back. Man, this guy was fashionable. If I recall correctly, he was wearing black, Z Cavarrici’s rolled up at the bottom and complimented by a black, satin-ish jacket. He was flanked by a shy but beautiful girl that held his arm tightly, as if to let everybody know, “I’m with him”. Apparently he was good friends of Victor and he was eventually introduced to me. His name was Tury Q and we became fast friends.

*Side Note: If I may, I have to tell you something unique about Victor P that I found hilarious at the time. That guy was thin as a wire but boy he could eat! We all had little money at the time so he figured out a scheme to eat more for less. His target was always Whataburger because of their "no questions asked" customer service. So, he'd order a double Whataburger with everything on it. He'd eat a little less than half then take it back to the counter. "I told you guys no onions. I'm allergic to onions and I hope I don't get sick!" Of course, they'd quickly remake the burger without onions, apologizing the whole time. He'd return to the table, wink then dig in. Don't even get me started on his prized "Italian turtle leather shoes." Okay, back to the story.

In the months that followed, Victor, Tury Q and I became inseparable. They taught me how to dress and how to be more confident when at parties, etc. I became utterly fascinated with the Freestyle culture and especially with its music. Artists like Timmy T, George Lamonde, Debbie Debb, Johnny O, Cynthia, Shannon, Expose’, Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam, etc, stirred something awake within me. I loved the parties where all the Freestyle culture congregated - all of us sharing something in common. I felt as if I was finally part of something. Like I finally belonged. I began to shed my shy persona and the girls noticed. When at Freestyle parties, beautiful Latinas would whisper amongst themselves and throw glances my way. At one of these parties is where I met Sandy - my first love and my first sexual experience at seventeen years of age.

To put it simply, Sandy was beautiful. She had these big, hazel eyes and fair skin complimented by a saucy attitude. All the guys wanted her and I fell quickly for her, as one does with their “first”. However, our relationship ended shortly after with her devastating me. If I recall correctly, I went looking for her, one day, and found her walking around her neighborhood with some guy and with a plethora of hickies on her neck (that I hadn’t given her). I rebounded quickly, however, and moved on (although our paths crossed often after).

So, during one of our weekly group "meetings", which consisted of lots of drinking and dreaming, Tury said that he knew a guy named Hector Gutierrez and he wanted to bring him into the group. Of course, he needed our approval so we planned to meet him the following week. Being that I lived closest to him, I was designated to pick him up. When I pulled up to his house, he was standing outside in a complete, white Fila sweat suit, with the top zipped down to the middle of his chest. Man, this guy was cool. Not to mention he had chiseled features and a sly, James Dean-ish demeanor. At the meeting, everybody loved Hector and we quickly brought him in.

Weeks passed and all four of us became really close. We eventually decided that we needed to start one of those dance groups that everybody else was in. You have to understand that these groups were big in the Hispanic community at that time. If you weren't in a group, then you weren't shit, to put it plainly. After hours and hours of arguing about names, we came up with Boyz In Fashion. Not Boys with an S but with a Z. That one little letter change was going to make a huge difference, or so we thought.

Now that we had a group name, we needed monikers. I mean, come on, you can't be in a group without a moniker, right? So, Tury (President) stayed Tury Q, I (Vice President) became Steve In Effect, Victor (Treasurer) became EZ Luv and Hector (I forget his official title) became Ace 101. It was around this time that Tury Q, myself and Ace 101 decided we were getting out of our parent's house and into our very own apartment. How three kids were able to get a two bedroom apartment, baffles me but, we did it. The community was called Quail's Run but, let me tell you, not even a quail would dare run through there. It was bad and our apartment was even worse. We had no furniture, aside from the rickety beds in our bedrooms and all but two plates and one fork to eat with.

Needless to say, it became a den of debauchery with a constant rotating door of new girls, parties and various drugs. Month's on, even I couldn't handle it anymore and moved back into my parent's house, momentarily. Our lease ended when a rival group (somehow) threw a huge party there and completely ruined the apartment. My name was still on the lease so I was asked to come to the office. When the manager showed me the ruined apartment I was floored. Panties were all over the ceiling fans, cereal was strewn all over the carpet and there were holes in every room wall. Even Led Zeppelin couldn't have ruined a room better than those guys did.

Ruined apartment behind us, we focused on how to get money to buy new clothes. I mean, our group name dictated that we wear the latest fashion so we had to. Our meager jobs didn't provide enough money so we decided we were going to throw parties instead. We'd charge a cover charge, buy a few kegs of beer, hire an eager DJ and run with the money. The first party was okay being that it was promoted through word of mouth only but, we started to hear feedback like, "damn, those Boyz In Fashion know how to throw a party!" etc. Then we got serious about it and recruited an up-and-coming DJ called DJ Rafa. He was hot in the DJ community and when we asked him to join our group, he said yes. This took us to the next level. For the next party, we put a lot of time into a flier that we could pass out to all of the high schools. Flier done, we blanketed all the schools and a buzz was created.

The second party turned out much better than we expected. In fact, there was a line of cars all the way down the street that, eventually, grabbed the El Paso Police Department's attention. So much so that they raided the party, late on, and asked, "Who's in charge here?" Tury Q did the smart thing and ran off but, for some insane reason, I said, "That would be me, officer." I was briskly placed under arrest and charged with contributing to minors. In the cop car, the cop said, "We know all about you guys. Just tell me where the money is and I'll let you go." In which I responded, "You think I'm stupid? I got a couple of thousand dollars waiting for me when I get out tomorrow morning." He didn't like that response very much.

Our next few parties were huge and we threw the cops off by spelling the street address to the parties backwards and placed a small explanation in the middle of the "thanks to" section. They caught on to that, eventually, but not before we gained a lot of attention and money. With this new attention, however, came the envy of rival groups and these guys you didn't want to fuck with. We'd get tips from girlfriends of theirs saying that they planned to jump me or Tury Q next time they saw us but we always seemed to be ahead of the game until we weren't. Shortly after, I found myself in a very dangerous situation.

My parent's phone rang and I answered it. It was a guy named James that I had briefly met at one of our parties. I have no idea how he got my number but, he asked (or rather dictated) that I take him somewhere. He gave me directions and, when I pulled into the destination, my heart thudded wildly. It was the Kennedy Apartments, AKA The Kennedy Projects. They were known for being violent and were avoided at all costs. I contemplated turning back but knew that he'd come after me if I did.

I knocked on the door and when it opened, I was greeted by James and beyond him were three menacing cholo types who laughed upon seeing me. "Calma," James said to them. "This is the guy with the van." Two of the guys got up and greeted me, one saying, "El Tripper. Puro fatherless, ese!" He threw a gang sign at me. That word, fatherless, hit me like a bolt of lightning. They were a well-known and well-avoided lower East-side gang known for their extreme violence and brutality. If I recall correctly, I think I peed myself then. Seriously.

The third, stick-thin guy wouldn't greet me. He only glared at me, his eyes wild and vibrating. When we headed to our destination, I could hear muffled conversations in the back of the van followed by a hissing sound and the smell of paint. Fuck! These guys are sniffing paint in the back of the van! I'm fucked! I eventually parked outside a decrepit home and they all exited except for the guy with the wild eyes. "Hey, take it easy, alright?" James said to him but he didn't respond. I could feel his glare boring into the back of my skull. He suddenly jumped into the passenger seat and faced me.

"How the fuck do you know James, ese?" he snarled and I could smell something chemical on his breath. Something ominous.

"I...I met him at a party," I stuttered in response.

"Did he tell you why we came here?" he asked, his leg twitching.

"No. He just said he needed a ride," I responded, beads of sweat forming on my brow. He was quiet for a few moments, breathing heavily.

"You fuckin' know, don't you, ese? Yeah, you fuckin' know," he said reaching into his back pocket. I figured this was it. I envisioned being stabbed to death and thrown into an irrigation ditch somewhere, watching the van speed off as life drained from me. I envisioned my body being found the next day by an old Mexican lady on her way to church. I gulped.

"I promise that I..." my response was interrupted by the passenger door opening.

"Hey bro, I told you to take it easy, man," James said to wild eyes, pushing him towards the back of the van. I peed myself a little more. I dropped them back off and James slipped a $20 bill into my hand, when exiting the van. "Thanks, bro. I'll talk to you soon." I learned several years later, from James, that Wild Eyes was arrested for murder and sent to La Tuna Prison for life. I escaped that one but there were more to come.

At this point, we decided to expand the group. We brought in "Soup", a buff black guy with super-high hair and an ever-present smile on his face and an affinity for all things "soupy". Next was Adrian, "Def-A", a good-looking guy who had an unhealthy habit of drinking huge quantities of orange juice. He was followed by Paul (I forget his moniker), a handsome, feminine guy from California who had all our girlfriend's eyeing him secretly (or so they thought). Next was Art (moniker forgotten), a towering, stoic guy with a maniacal, infectious laugh and who was the protector of the group. Richard P, I think, was the only semi-white guy we brought into the group. He held his own with his Latino brothers though.

Finally, there were the two, pudgy brothers, also from California who didn't stay with us for long. They were ejected from the group after an incident in Ez Luv's car. In a somewhat initiation ritual, we asked that they moon a car that we were passing. They both dropped their pants and we all scowled. "One of you fuckers didn't wipe your ass!" I recall Tury Q saying, in which the two brothers began punching each other, accusing the other of the offending smell. Apparently, stinky asses weren't allowed in the BIF so they had to go.

Our girlfriend's decided that they were going to start a group too. Tabby was Tury Q's girlfriend so, naturally she'd be the president. Emily (the fighter) was my girlfriend and she'd be vice president, followed by Sonny, who was Ez Luv's girlfriend. Then there was Esther, Angie, Annette, Yvonne, Diane, April, Cybil and Jen (who I maintain a very strong friendship with to this day). They called themselves, naturally, The Ladiez In Fashion. These girls were hot but they were also very savvy. The founding members knew how to promote and when we collaborated on parties, the attendance almost doubled in size. Emily was the beautiful, but fiery, protector of the group and she knew how to fight. In fact, one time, she was beating a girl so viciously, that I had to say, "Jesus Christ, Tabby, stop her before she kills that poor girl!"

With the help of the LIF, our popularity soared to a point where Dave Williams, the top DJ at the famous Power 102 radio station, asked us to be on his show every Friday night. "Yeah, we can squeeze that in," I think I recall Tury Q saying into a payphone as we crowded around him. Right after the call, we jumped up and down, crammed in Ez Luv's Karmann Ghia, hooping and hollering. "Calm the fuck down!" Ez Luv said, "You're gonna make me crash!" The Power 102 gig consisted of us introducing ourselves and then a song each. Dave was a middle-aged, bearded white guy with an incredible personality and demeanor. For some reason, he really loved this group of Hispanic, well-dressed kids that would, otherwise, have nothing in common with him. We loved him too and quickly established a strong bond with him. Being in that studio was electric and so exciting. We even had girls calling in to say hi to us, once in a while. It was surreal.

This is the point that things began to get dangerous for us. Rumors of opposing groups putting us on "hit lists" began to surface. Satisfaction was one of them. In our early days, we had been friendly with them but, once we became more popular than them, they hated us. This was typically the case in a machismo environment like El Paso. They targeted Tury Q and I in particular. We heard stories of them sitting around, drinking and arguing who was going to get to fuck up Tury Q and me first. Chivis was their leader but it was Danny who was the most feared. His reputation for being able to inflict heavy, bodily damage was well-known and he was the one that was after me and he was relentless.

*Side Note: Ace 101 once encountered Chivis, by himself (which was rare) outside of Ace 101's workplace. Chivis was in his car and Ace 101 approached to confront him about them putting us on a hit-list. Chivis saw him coming in the side-view mirror and quickly reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a gun. He placed it outside the driver's side door and made an, "uh, uh, uh," gesture with it. Smart move on Chivis' part because, although he was a lover and not a fighter, Ace 101 could have easily made him unrecognizable to his Mama.

After months of slipping through their fingers, Satisfaction finally got their chance at us. It was a Sunday and "Teen Night" at Mustang Sally's. All the BIF were there and the place was packed. After a few hours, people began approaching me saying, "Satisfaction is here! Satisfaction is here!" I'll admit that I was a bit scared but not a pussy. I was taught by my dad to hold my ground and only fight when it's absolutely necessary. If Danny attacked, then I'd fight back to the best of my ability. I passed him, in the crowd, shortly after. He smirked at me and said, "I'm gonna fuck that pretty face up, ese." I shrugged my shoulders and that pissed him off even more.

The place finally closed up for the night and I wasn't able to delay it anymore. We gathered up the gang and headed out the door. Apparently word had gotten around because there was a large crowd gathered near Danny, who was huffing and puffing and peering at me. I walked right up to him, with heart pounding, and said, "I'm not gonna fight you, Danny." The crowd murmured quietly.

"What?! Why the fuck not?!" he responded, almost stunned by my statement.

"Because I just don't see the point. I'm not gonna fight you." I walked away and he followed behind me.

"Ah come on, man, just one hit! Just let me hit you once, pleeease," he said in an almost childlike fashion. The crowd laughed as we got into the car and drove away. In many ways, I feel that, in not fighting him, I was the victorious one in that fight. However, even more were soon to come. To save time, I'll summarize two of the three other instances below, saving the worst one for the end.

1) While cruising Ysleta High School, during lunch, one afternoon, I caught site of a black guy named Rod D. I didn't know him too well but he was waving me over to the McDonald's parking lot. I pulled in and parked. Three of his guys quickly surrounded my car. I rolled down the window and he rested his elbows on the car door. "What's up, man?" he said, before pulling back and striking me on the jaw. My ears rang and I was dazed but otherwise okay. Before I could make sense of it all, he struck me again. This time I saw stars and I looked to my buddy, Javier, who was in the passenger seat. Fear and bewilderment were plastered across his face. Rod D struck me again and I just stared at him. "That's for putting my homie in the hospital, mother fucker!" I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn't respond. Finally, he leaned back, chuckled and said, "Get the fuck outta here, man." I gladly obliged.

We drove back to school quiet and dazed. I distinctly remember going to Biology class and not remembering a thing the teacher said. Years later, incidentally, I ran into Rod D at Cielo Vista Mall. As he approached me, I braced myself. "Nah, it's all good, man," he said, extending his hand. "It was all a misunderstanding. We good?" I nodded. "I gotta say, though, you can take one hell of a punch," he said and I nodded. "Yeah, well, I really don't want to prove that statement anymore in the future," I responded. We both laughed.

2) Juarez, Mexico had become our home away from home and, we were there most weekends. Our usual haunts were Copacabana, The Old West and Sarawak. We made friends with all the doormen and DJ's at these places but especially at Sarawak. On Saturday's, either Tury Q, me or EZ Luv would walk into the DJ booth, grab the microphone and say, "Aqui estamos con suh, suh, Sarawak!" Well, one evening, I decided to leave on my own, which was a huge mistake. As I walked the dangerous streets of Juarez towards the border crossing, I noticed three guys walking close behind me. They weren't talking to each other and focused on me. I braced myself for what I knew was coming. Before I knew it, all three of them jumped me and began pounding me with fists and feet. I began swinging wildly and managed to get a few solid shots in. As a matter of fact, I staggered one of them with a jaw shot but, I was worse for the wear. Luckily, this was happening near Copacabana and the doorman, Fernando, took notice and yelled at them. They quickly ran off in the opposite direction. Fernando made sure I was okay before I crossed the border bleeding and with my right eye swelling shut. I sat in my car stunned and wondering what would've happened if Fernando hadn't of been there.

As the months progressed, our parties got bigger and bigger still. This was helped by the fact that Dave Williams would let us call in, live on the air, and say where our party was happening at. We started renting out ballrooms where we took 100% of the door. An unadvertised and unspoken policy of BYOB was implemented. Hey, if the cops came, we had no idea whose liquor that was. Besides, our trusted door guy would always give us a heads up when the cops pulled up. Most times, we'd run out the back door and hide until the cops left. DJ Rafa and his younger brother, DJ Fast Jimmy, really knew how to work the crowd. They played all the latest Freestyle hits and people danced until we had to literally kick them out. Those were good times, let me tell you but, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

I remember the night all too well. It was a Saturday and we were at our home spot, Sarawak, in Juarez. All the gang was there, wearing our matching, fluffy, white embroidered jackets, including the Ladiez In Fashion. Spirits were high. My girlfriend, Emily, attacked some girl who she thought was moving in on me (which she probably wasn't). This may or may not have contributed to what was to happen later. Who knows. Anyway, throughout the night, we all danced our usual, signature dance move - The Hitchhiker. We got on the microphone and did our usual, "Aqui estamos con, suh, suh, Sarawak!" greeting. We did shots of horrible tequila and laughed. Life was good.

Towards closing time, I noticed a shift in the air. An air of impending doom, if you will. I remember Tury Q saying, "Let's go," and we all gathered our girlfriends and headed towards the door. A mass of people headed towards the exit as well. Then I heard something like, "Fuck you, Boyz In Fashion!" from somewhere near Tury Q, who was just a bit in front of me. I saw a flash of metal and then I saw Tury Q grab his neck. A punch hit me in the back of the head and then chaos ensued. Fists were flying everywhere and I could feel myself being pulled down by Emily. She was pushing me towards the exit, crawling. Somehow, Tury Q and I made it outside, surrounded by our friends and girlfriends. I looked behind me to see Tury Q holding his neck. His white jacket was completely soaked in blood. Tabby was in a panic. "Get the fuck out of here!" I remember EZ Luv saying and we all scattered in different directions. Tabby managed to find a tiny medical clinic in the vicinity that stitched Tury Q's neck up before they headed back to El Paso, shaken.

That night shook us all up. Through various sources, they told us that a gang (who they wouldn't name specifically) had planned on cutting us up really good or even killing us, if they could. When we first started the BIF, this is not the direction we wanted to go. We just wanted to throw parties, make some money and have fun and now we had serious targets on our backs. The straw that finally broke the camel's back was when an acquaintance of ours was shot in the head outside of Sarawak. Earlier in the night, somebody heard the gunman say to him, "Have fun tonight because it's your last." We disbanded, soon after, but remained very good friends. Now to the almost famous part.

Tury Q, Victor and I had always talked about making music. We had no idea how to play any instruments (besides a basic understanding of keyboard) but we all had decent singing voices. We decided to make a song. We asked around and found a recording studio called, El Adobe. I had been playing around with a melody in my head called, "Running Away From My Love," and we decided that's the song we would go with. When we arrived at the recording studio, it was just as the name suggested - an adobe building. We walked in and the guy at the front made small talk with us. "This is where Juan Gabriel records," he said and we all looked to each other and shrugged. Yes, we were that young and ignorant of Juan Ga's immense popularity at the time.

Our producer, George Espino (who I would work with much more later), was maybe a few years older than us, pale-skinned and well-dressed. He was a to-the-point, all-business, professional kind of guy and we appreciated that. We slapped the wad of cash into his hand and got to work. Espino was brilliant and talented to the point where I simply sang the song to him and he created the whole backing music. If I recall correctly, he completed it in two days and we recorded the vocals soon after. Look, the song wasn't going to win any awards but it was good enough. We were ecstatic. We showed it to all our friends and, whether truthful or not, they claimed to like it. However, we had no idea what to do with it. This is where Gil Briones comes in.

I had met Gil through a mutual friend. Gil was a bit older than me, stout and rugged but in a good looking kind of way. He was shifty-eyed and boy did he have a thing for the ladies. He had this weird way of applying chap stick to his lips while he looked a girl up and down and smirked. Anyway, incidentally he worked in sales for Power 102. Dave Williams had since left the station so we had no connections there anymore. We convinced him to show the song to the program director, as long as we got him some ladies, he said. We agreed. A few days later, he called me to say that it was a go. We were incredulous. Power 102 was going to play our song! Power 102! As far as we were concerned, we were going to be big stars from then on.

I remember the exact day the song was played on the radio. Tury Q, Victor and their dates were packed into the backseat of my Ford Escort GT, while I drove with my date, Liz Lopez, in the passenger seat. The time was approaching for the song to play. Finally, the DJ said, "And now we have a song from a local band called Mode'! Here's Running Away From My Love on Power 102!" We were wide-eyed and quiet while the song played. When it ended, we hooped and hollered and slapped each other on the shoulders. "We're gonna be famous, guys!" I think I recall Victor saying. Our elation was short-lived.

I got a call from Gil the next day. He was somber. "What's going on, man?" I asked.

"I got fired," he responded.

"What?! Why?"

"Well, I kinda lied about your song being approved for playing. I told the DJ that the Program Director had approved it. He didn't so, they fired me," Gil said and my shoulders slumped. I deflated. I was so incredibly down then, and when I broke the news to the guys, they were as well. Our song would no longer be played on the radio and we were at point zero again. Where do we go now? Incidentally, Tury Q up and moved to San Diego, suddenly. Needing to get away from El Paso for a bit, a week later, I gathered up some money and bought a ticket to San Diego. I had hoped that maybe we could start fresh with the song in a whole new environment.

Wow, what a difference San Diego was from El Paso. It was absolutely beautiful and intoxicating. Somehow, a few days later, Tury Q got us a gig in Tijuana, Mexico. We hurried to get some female backup dancers and succeeded. The show was less than stellar, however - marred by audio issues and a really bad promoter. Again, we were deflated. My vacation was soon coming to an end as were my dreams of becoming a star.

After a night of heavy partying, I was woken by Tury Q's aunt. She said we had a phone call. My head was pulsating and I was nauseated by too many shots of bad, Tijuana tequila. "Tell them to call back, please," I murmured. "Are you sure? Sounds kind of important," she responded. I grumbled something and pushed my head back into the pillow. She left the room. Hours later, Tury Q and I woke up and found his aunt in the kitchen cooking lunch.

"Well, good afternoon," she said, sarcastically. We grumbled. "Oh, the lady that called said she was Patti La Belle's manager and she wanted to talk to you guys about some talent contest they have coming up. Somebody told her that they heard your song on the radio or something like that. Said she'd call back," Tury Q's aunt said, nonchalantly while washing dishes. Tury Q and I looked to each other wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"What?! When? I mean, when did she say she'd call back?!" Tury Q said.

"She didn't say. Just said she'd call back." Tury Q's aunt didn't have caller ID so we couldn't call back that way. We paced the house, relentlessly, trying desperately to figure out a way to call this lady back. We didn't have smart phones or computers at that time so our resources were very limited, to say the least. Hours and hours passed. The call never came and my vacation was to end the next day. We were devastated, yet again. On the plane the next day, I almost wished that I could open the escape door and be sucked into oblivion. We were never able to figure out how Patti La Belle's manager got Tury Q's aunt's number, nor did it matter anymore at that point.

Well, there you have it. The first time I was almost famous. There were two more to come (soon to follow this story) but this period in my life created that spark. That need to leave an imprint in this world of blurs and insignificance. I still talk to most of the people in this story. As a matter of fact, Tury Q and I live in the same city (Austin) but we don't hang out as much as we should. Tury Q also had some significant fame with music he created on his own and even had a song produced by Frankie J.

I'll leave you with the picture below. For some reason, this pic really gets me. I believe we were maybe 1 or 2 years removed from the epic Boyz In Fashion era of the late 80's. Our stoic expressions - perhaps a quiet acknowledgement of profound friendships soon to drift apart? Or maybe it was the tail end of the beautiful, torrid romance between two in the picture? Who knows. Either way, I'm lucky to have such great memories with you guys. I miss and love you all. Thank you for reading. Until the next time.

Esteban Luis Soto

Hey, if you like my story, let's be Facebook friends. Why the heck not? ;)