Danny Trejo
How a prison badass became one of cinema’s most iconic killers
“Where I grew up, you were either going to be a construction worker, a drug addict or an armed robber. There weren’t too many choices so I started using drugs and hanging around with my Uncle Gilbert. He was my Willie Mays, my Pancho Gonzales — he was my hero! When I was 14 years old he handed me a pistol and said ‘Come on, you need a career!’ In my neighbourhood you were judged by the size of your gun.
I saw people working hard, sweating and not being able to pay the bills. So I dreamt of being a badass gangster. When I went to juvenile hall it was the ultimate test of testosterone. Prison and jail is a place where you’re either predator or prey, the choice is yours. You wanna be a predator? Prove it. If you wanna be the prey, don’t worry, they’ll prove it. It’s that simple.
In prison your reputation precedes you. They’re already waiting for you. Being a good boxer got me through the penitentiary. I was the lightweight and welterweight champion at every penitentiary I was in. The funny part is that they used to bring some of the army and navy and some of the pros into San Quentin3 to box with us. It was supposed to be an exhibition bout, but I had 3,000 Mexicans betting on me. I had to tell each guy, ‘Hey look, they got money on me so go for what you know.’ We had some pretty good fights.
I had no idea back then that I was going to become an actor. I was kind of resolved to my life. My uncle did 20-something years. That was our lives; we went in and out of prison. But in 1968 I had a revelation. It was alleged that me and two friends had started a prison riot where a lieutenant got hit in the head with a rock and two other people got badly hit too. Drawing blood from an officer — you’re dead. It’s either life in prison or the gas chamber.
“I went into the hole with about three gas chamber offences and remember saying ‘God, if you’re there it’ll be all right. If you’re not, I’m fucked.’ That was my prayer; I couldn’t really muster up anything else.”
I went into the hole with about three gas chamber offences and remember saying ‘God, if you’re there it’ll be all right. If you’re not, I’m fucked.’ That was my prayer; I couldn’t really muster up anything else. I sat in the hole from May till August. When I got out the charges had been dropped because the lieutenant couldn’t say which one of us did it. That let us off the hook. It was a miracle we didn’t go to the gas chamber. When I came out of the hole I can remember thinking, ‘Okay, you’re there, so now what do I do?’ So I stopped drinking and I stopped using drugs. When I was in the hole I kicked my heroin habit.
I stayed clean and sober for a year. I went to AA and started an NA meeting. I just stayed out of trouble. When I went to the parole board they said, ‘Well, we’re gonna give you a chance to spread your wings. We’re gonna let out this motherfucker and bring us back a life sentence.’ They let me go free because they knew I was coming back. And if I came back again I’d bring ’em more time and they wouldn’t have to bother with me ever again.
Instead I decided to dedicate my life to helping other people. This was in 1969/1970 and I began to take out old people’s trash. People would be scared to death that I was coming in their yard at first, but good things started happening. Everything good that has happened to me has happened as a direct result of helping someone else, everything.
I got into the movies through being a drug counsellor. I was about 41 years old, trying to make ends meet. I was counselling this kid and one night he called me up in tears and said, ‘I know it’s late but I think I’m gonna use, there’s so much blow here at my job, can you come and hang out with me?’ I didn’t want to, Johnny Carson was coming on and I loved Carson, but I went down to hang out with him anyway. He turned out to be a PA on a movie called Runaway Train with Jon Voight and Eric Roberts.
“A guy came up to me and said, “Can you act like a convict?” I said, ‘I’ve been in every penitentiary in the State of California, I’ll give it a shot.’”
It was the first time I’d been on a movie set. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen because all these youngsters were dressed like little convicts. I kept smearing their tattoos — I was like, ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that it smeared.’ A guy came up to me and said, “Can you act like a convict?” I said, ‘I’ve been in every penitentiary in the State of California, I’ll give it a shot.’ The minute I took my shirt off 8 this guy I knew in the penitentiary walked over and said ‘Hey, you’re Danny Trejo! I saw you in the lightweight welterweight title in Quen.’ It was Eddie Bunker. Then he said, ‘Danny we need someone to train Eric how to box.’ When he told me that it paid $320 a day I said ‘Eddie, how much do you want this motherfucker beat up? For $320 give him a stick!’ I’d have done it for 50 bucks. I kept on training Eric three weeks daily and ended up making more money on my first cheque than I ever did on a robbery or a drug deal.
When people ask if I’m afraid of being typecast, I look at them and say, ‘What? A mean-looking, tattooed Mexican? That’s not typecasting, that’s who I am!’ I don’t look like the kid next door. You’re not gonna mistake me for a Beatle. I don’t give a shit. I’m doing what I’ve done all my life, standing on a prison yard going, ‘Kill those motherfuckers!’ only with cameras around. On one film I kicked in the door, pretended to hit a lady with a shotgun, and then put it right in this big white boy’s mouth and shouted, ‘I’ll blow your motherfucking head off.’ Afterwards he said, ‘Danny, where did you study?’ And I said, ‘Safeway.’ Typecast that!
I have no idea how many times I’ve died on screen. But in Machete, I get even! I even use someone’s intestines as a rope. When Robert Rodriguez first told me about that scene I said, ‘Robert, I’ve got to get you into therapy, I have to. Where did you come up with these ideas?!’ Robert is crazier than me. He has these ideas, and he makes me do ’em, like, ‘Okay, Danny, let’s jump out of the window now…’
When Robert De Niro showed up on the Machete set he came up to me and said, ‘Man, Danny I’m so proud of you I knew you were gonna make it. You had everything it took on Heat, you were the bomb. I’m so proud to be in your movie. You’re the man.’ I looked him right in the eyes and said, ‘Can I get you some coffee, Mr De Niro?’
“It’s pretty hard being badass because you have to be a badass all the time. You gotta remember, people that try to be a badass are girls. I’m a businessman, not a badass. But don’t fuck with me.”
I wake up some mornings and just start laughing. Then I say my prayers, ‘God, thank you for all you’ve given me, all you’ve taken away and all you’ve left me.’ It’s pretty hard being badass because you have to be a badass all the time. You gotta remember, people that try to be a badass are girls. I’m a businessman, not a badass. But don’t fuck with me.”
Originally published in Dazed & Confused, Novemeber 2010
