Out of the Ashes
Company member Michelle Banks could see the emergency lights two blocks away as she ran toward the theater. A police car was parked lengthwise across Damen at Wabansia, and an officer was rerouting traffic onto the side streets. A helicopter hovered over the intersection of Damen, North, and Milwaukee. Banks could hear snippets of conversation as she passed people on their way home from work:
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Che glared through the flames at Con Fusion, a tony restaurant across the street, as the building behind him threatened to topple. Banks had made the banner to advertise ¡Che-Che-Che! (A Latin Fugue in 5/8 Time). Originally Latino Chicago’s most successful production, it had been revived to celebrate the company’s tenth anniversary. Someone in the crowd said that the building’s second floor had collapsed into the auditorium. “Oh, God,” Banks whispered. Another member of the company put his arms around her and led her across the street, where a knot of her coworkers stood like an island among the bystanders, watching their theater burn.
A tall man watched from behind dark glasses. Juan Ramirez, Latino Chicago’s artistic director, had been one of the seven actors who started the group in 1979. He looked helpless, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket, the flashing lights reflecting off his shades.
In the ten years since then Latino Chicago had become an institution, one of only three Latino theater groups in the nation–and the only one in Chicago–to own its performance space. A number of smaller Latino troupes had used the space too, as did Prop Theatre and Powertap Productions. Latino Chicago had built a mecca for Latino theater, but tonight it seemed a house of cards. “We spilled our blood and guts on this stage,” said Davila. He shook his head and walked away.
When Raul Jaimes, an actor and light technician, heard this, he turned red and faced the restaurant, unleashing a torrent of profanity in Spanish on the unsuspecting diners. Someone put a calming hand on his arm. A huge bear of a firefighter approached the group, his helmet and greatcoat well-worn. He had once served at this firehouse. “It broke my heart,” he said. “When I got here, I went right up to where my old locker was.”
The Joyce Foundation called the day after the fire, unsolicited, and gave the company $10,000 to pay for supplies and a temporary office space. Ramirez announced that the company wanted to be up and running in the firehouse by September 1998. “We really won’t know until our architects and engineers get in there,” he said. “All of this is based on how quickly insurance matters are expedited. Structurally the building’s fine.”
