His mother calls him mijo, and his father calls him mendigo, but most people call him Lorenzo. The children outside sometimes call him puto. The dirty little children in old brown shoes run by the window as they scamper off to school. They are smiling, as if they’re happy to have to go to school. His dark eyes and darker hair are like theirs, but he isn’t dirty, and he’s hardly ever happy in the morning. All the children here are different, and not right, even if his mother says they are nice. One day he will not have to go to school and he will be free like the adults to do other things, like watch television whenever he likes. One day everything will be fine and he will not need to do as he’s told.
The house, his grandmother’s house, is located on Avenida Felix Ramos, not too far from the bridge and highway. It is about a ten minute walk up from the base of the hill on which the town resides, and a two minute drive. It lies between the house with the white-tiled facade that is not unlike a shower wall and a three story dwelling coated in dark burgundy stucco. The three story house has a balcony on the top level where the older girl who lives there sometimes sits and looks out across the town in the evenings, when the younger children play futbol on the street below and wait for the adults to head inside so they can talk about things children shouldn’t talk about. The boy doesn’t join the children, usually. He finds that he has nothing to say that they will find interesting, and likewise the things they speak of do not interest him.
When he tires of sitting among the porcelain cats and elephants that parade along his aunt’s window, staring out as he does in silence at the start of another day, the boy stands and leaves. He walks past the Victorian dresser, adorned in wood aged by more inheritances than one can count. One leg is missing and is held up by a squared rock from the back patio. He passes the stucco of the uneven walls that lead up to the high ceiling, where portions of the stucco have cracked to reveal the large mud bricks that once lined the exterior of the house.
Lorenzo sits at the edge of a bed inside the house, watching television. Tussled hair flares from his scalp and the rest of him looks just as unkempt in a t-shirt that has not been washed for days and denim pants powdered with a reddish hue by the red soil of the land. His bare feet rest comfortably on the mismatched tiles of the guest bedroom in which he sits. Poorly painted walls cast a pale green glow throughout the space as the light from the dangling lightbulb above reflects upon them.
There is shrill womanly noise coming from outside the room, in the large central dining area.
“Vamos a ir a la fiesta en la casa de tu tia.”
He does not wish to go.
“Ve y cambiate; ponte la ropa que te aparte.”
He does not wish to dress.
It is a family function. A party of people who dance and sing, hold one another and hug. Familiars and relatives proudly flaunt their boisterous natures about the place as stories are told and mounds of carnitas, arroz, frijoles, birria, and tortillas stacked to the door frame are consumed. Tio What’s-his-name talks about his work at the bodega while prima from La-calle-empedrada stands and pulls her boyfriend along by the wrist to trip the light fantastic across the cement floor of the warehouse-cum-dance hall. Every shawled tia in the room looks on reproachfully, and mutterances along the lines of “sin verguenza” fill the air between them. For the most part, the tios feel the same, although tio Evil Moustache stares at her in a most unsavory manner. The boy does not need to attend to know what the party will entail. These things do not interest him. He prefers to watch television.
As the television hums its nondistinct blather and the commands fly in from the dining area, he hears the large, heavy front door clang shut. This alone does not rouse the boy, but then he hears the voices of men from the dining area. They are the tios; the good tios, who buy him a milkshake (with canela) and a bag of salchichas at the mercado and let him take the steering wheel when they drive down the wide street at the other side of town, where the even less wealthy people live. The tios stand together next to the dining room table, visible through the bedroom doorway, and talk as they wait for meals to be served.
Clandestine chatter between the good tios is of interest. Lorenzo approaches them, peering around the corner of the wall to look out. Both tios are dressed similarly, with denim jeans and ragged t-shirts being the preferred outfit for truck driving. One, however, is much thinner than the other; his lean cheeks curved inward and an equally thin light-colored moustache adorns an otherwise smooth face. He is Tio Flaco. The other tio, on the other hand, has such a belly as to be able to rest his hand on the top portion of it, and dark grizzled fur all across his cheeks, chin, and neck. Naturally, that man is Tio Gordo. The two men continue talking as the boy gets near them, reaching for a slice of queso from the myriad of plates placed on the long dining table for the men’s mid-day meal. Portions of the conversation reach Lorenzo’s ears: the latest word from that crazy character, Teo (another tio, the one with a long scar from his neck to his right eye); the cost of gasoline at the south station versus the cost at the Pemex station by the highway; the transmission problems that the big truck has been having. Everyday chatter that, from these men, is of great interest. The men separate to take their seats when the plates of frijoles and chuletas are brought to the table, and then there is mention of the rancho.
The rancho! It is the place where walls do not exist and the only physical barriers are the gray trunks of the casuarinas, the tall, sharp grass, and the fields of maiz that drape across the land.
“Puedo ir?” asks the boy, small bits of queso still wedged between his molars and the inside of his cheeks. He would certainly prefer a day at the rancho over a party. The men glance at him as they reach for the open tortillero, steam wafting up to meet their palms and curl around their fingers.
Tio Flaco smiles as he rips a piece of tortilla and scoops up a good-sized alottment of frijoles doused in crema and queso. “Bueno, es que vamos a matar un cerdo. Seguro que quieres ir?”
The boy nods enthusiastically; he wants to go!
“No, no, y no! Ese muchacho esta muy juven para ver eso.” All eyes turn to the kitchen where a short, elderly woman kneads sticky masa on a tray. Her wrinkled hand rises from the dough to add emphasis to her statement. “El no puede ver esas cosas.” The audacity of the woman’s claim astounds Lorenzo. He’s no little boy! He’s old and he can go to the rancho because his tios say so. He focuses his eyes on the elderly woman, on the folds of skin underneath her eyes. He meets her in mid-gaze and pleads. She looks at him, then back at the tios who remain silent. They await the outcome of this little battle. A globlet of dough falls from her hand to the pile on the tray below, and she turns back to her task. Not a word is spoken until the old woman resumes. “Bueno, pero si se queda traumado ustedes son responsables.” She continues her warnings, voice rising in order to reach the boy who is already on his way to put on his shoes.
He’s going to the rancho! The old leather boots from beneath the bed, a sweater (“vas a ponerte malo sin una chamara” scolds the old woman), his slingshot made of a hardy tree branch and old industrial tubing. He collects these things and returns ready to escape this dismal place – ready to run and shoot lizards with small stones, jump over walls of granite boulders, climb trees, and watch the ritual of the kill with the men, his tios.
When the men have had their fill they step out into street, the boy close behind. The glint of the afternoon sun causes the two men and the boy to furrow their brows as they walk along the one-way street to a red pickup truck located around the corner. As they enter the truck Tio Gordo reaches into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and offers one to Tio Flaco.
And they drive.
The truck flies and leaves the rows and rows of buildings behind them. It proceeds to the great highway that follows the once proud and now waste-ridden river. Children still play near the smelly water in their underwear. Rows of maiz as far as the eye can see cascade over hills and close to the water, using up every square foot of dry red land. There are patches of grass as well, but those are reserved for the cows that slap their tails in the air and eat the grass near their waste.
Lorenzo sees the cows and the fields and the farmers bent over tools on the ground and he wonders if he would have been one of the boys near the river in his underwear playing with sticks and stones.
“Que ves?” asks Tio Gordo, and Lorenzo shakes his head.
“Nada.”
The highway leads them out of the valley, to the flat lands extending from the top of the hills. There they pass the fields and men on the side of the road who walk slowly in both directions, some dressed in dusty t-shirts and jeans just like Lorenzo and his uncles, others in more simple cotton trousers and coats, digging their toes into their leather and rubber tire sandals as they trample tufts of grass and corroded asphalt. All men plod along slowly and without conviction. They do not stop nor rest.