Tag: my stuff

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.

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.

He asked her if she’d ever messed around with any of his friends. She reluctantly said she did. Some guy whose name I didn’t catch.

“I asked you before and you said ‘no.’”

“It was nothing, baby. It was a long time ago and it was nothing.”

It took place in the middle of a restaurant. Customers gave each other significant glances.

“Nothing? You fuck him just to get your car fixed?”

“No, baby! Stop it, why’s it matter?”

“This too much right here. This too much.”

The ones who were seated stared down into their greasy food. No one dared to look in the direction of the couple. They feared catching the eyes of one or the other.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you fucked him. You and me ain’t doing this if you fucked him.”

The hostess tried her best to seat a man and his daughter. The clock on the wall behind her ticked. Raised voices echoed. Forks clinked.

“You gonna leave me over this, baby? Over this?”

He calmly walked out and she followed, on the verge of tears.

He asked her if she’d ever messed around with any of his friends. She reluctantly said she did. Some guy whose name I didn’t catch.

“I asked you before and you said ‘no.’”

“It was nothing, baby. It was a long time ago and it was nothing.”

It took place in the middle of a restaurant. Customers gave each other significant glances.

“Nothing? You fuck him just to get your car fixed?”

“No, baby! Stop it, why’s it matter?”

“This too much right here. This too much.”

The ones who were seated stared down into their greasy food. No one dared to look in the direction of the couple. They feared catching the eyes of one or the other.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you fucked him. You and me ain’t doing this if you fucked him.”

The hostess tried her best to seat a man and his daughter. The clock on the wall behind her ticked. Raised voices echoed. Forks clinked.

“You gonna leave me over this, baby? Over this?”

He calmly walked out and she followed, on the verge of tears.

The Magnolia Hotel lobby was empty on a Wednesday night, and so she had decided to escape the dreariness of the clinking and shallow whispers of the hotel to take in the night air. Few people walked the streets of downtown Denver and although they were few and far between, she enjoyed their company. Her neck was bare, and her hands remained in the pockets of her long dark coat as she stared out across the street to the bank building, whose flagpoles waved in the breeze and allowed her to focus her eyes.

As she stood on the sidewalk she heard footsteps approach from her left but made no move to react since several people had already circumvented her without issue. She absentmindedly waited for the footsteps to pass and furrowed her brows when they did not. The sound ceased alongside her and she prepared to turn but paused when she heard him whisper.

“You’re long and leggy. I like it.”

She sighed and collected herself, but kept her gaze on the street.

“What?”

“I said I like you and I like your legs. They’re gorgeous, girl. Absolutely beautiful.”

She turned and looked at him. His face was long and gaunt, his neck stretched tight. Long cords of sinew sloped down from the bottom of his skull to his shoulders. His eyes looked into hers but abruptly wandered away, unable to settle on any one thing. He leaned back when he saw her shoe slide a few inches away from him.

She finally said, “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but I’m interestin’. Ask me a thing.”

“Do you usually come up close to women and objectify their legs?”

“Objectify? What’s this, objectify.” He scoffed and scratched his neck. A couple passed them and he smiled as they did, though once again not toward her. He seemed to be smiling for the sake of the couple and once they passed he looked at her with a different kind of smile. It was sharper and reached out across his face toward his ears. His teeth were brilliant beneath the lamps and moonlight but beyond them and into his head there was only darkness.

“I don’t objectify. I admire.”

“Same difference.”

She noted that the foot traffic on the street was thinning and though she needed to wait for her taxi to arrive she did not feel inclined to oblige a stranger’s madness. She turned away from him and was near the door to the hotel when he called out.

“What’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“So I can know what to call you when I talk about the girl I fell in love with.”

She both laughed and scoffed, then turned to him. “Seriously?”

“It’s true,” he said. “You’re the girl I been lookin’ for.” He remained in place and reached out with his hand. His sleeve pulled back to reveal a thin wrist, also white and stretched so that she could see the ridges of his tendons extending into the palm.

She breathed in and looked at him. Her brows were lowered in contempt, but a wry smile remained.

“Explain this to me while I wait for my cab.”

“I mean it.”

“Explain it.”

Her amused smile remained hidden beneath the shadows cast by the street lights to the right and left sides of the hotel entrance, and she watched him from the doorway. The man began to walk toward her and then stopped and turned to the curb a few feet away. He lifted his cuffs and sat on the ground with his back to her, and then removed his black coat and laid it out to his left, then patted it with his thin hand.

“Am I supposed to sit now?” she asked.

He remained silent, placed his hands on his knees, and looked up toward the top of the brownstone building across the street.

“Them are some amazin’ stars, up there.”

“I’m not sitting on the curb.”

“Up to you.” He rubbed the back of his neck and resume staring at the top of the building.

“But like I’m sayin’, them are some amazin’ stars. I look at ‘em a lot, not for no good reason, nothin’ poetic or beautiful about ‘em, I just do. They’re somethin’ different, somethin’ we don’t got here on the ground. It’s like I can look up and see somethin’ I can be, somethin’ I can’t be now. It’s what keeps this whole damn thing goin’. It’s what makes a lot of what happens down here tolerable.”

“Is this your explanation?”

“I’m just talkin’. Listen if you like.”

“You’re not saying anything worth listening to.”

“You ain’t listenin’, then. But I can tell you hear me. It’s a start.” He turned back and smiled to where she remained standing. His eyes quickly darted to hers.

“I ain’t so bad, am I?”

“I don’t know you.”

“Then sit down and we’ll have ourselves a chat.”

She fidgeted and looked to the end of the street, seemingly expecting her cab to appear. The evening air blew around her, and the silence of the empty sidewalk surrounded them both, creating a bubble in which the two of them were forced to look at one another. She kept her wary gaze on his.

“What’s your name?”

“I asked first… but I’m also a gentleman. Damnable thing.”

He turned to his left and extended his right hand toward her.

“Gregorio.”

She walked toward him and shook it.

“Jane.”

“Well, Jane. Will you sit?”

“My cab will be here soon. I’d rather not.”

“As you please, darlin’.”

She frowned and stepped away from him, and he turned to the street again.

“So, you’re the one.”

“What?”

“You’re the one. The girl I been waitin’ for. I saw it when I looked at your face.”

“You said that. Why?”

“I had a dream about you.”

She chuckled and covered her eyes with her hand.

“Okay, fine.”

“You shouldn’t laugh at a dream, darlin’. Dreams show us things we can’t ever see.”

“Like the random girl you find in front of a hotel whose legs you decide to admire?” She mimicked quotes in the air with her fingers.

“Maybe.”

“So what happened in this dream?”

“I took your soul.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because you’re the one.”

“The one what?”

“Girl I love.”

Lights appeared in the distance, and both she and Gregorio turned to the end of the street to see a car approach.

“Your coach, darlin’.”

“You don’t love me,” she said. “You can’t. This is all just bullshit to hit on me.”

“Oh, but I do, darlin’, I surely do. I love you like the fox loves its kin and the way the bullfrog loves the dragonfly. I love you more than I love myself, and I love myself more than anyone, except you. Your soul’s meant to be mine.”

The lights appeared closer now, nearly upon them.

“And who are you? The devil?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I am the best man you’ll ever meet. I am yours, darlin’, to the end. Your soul needs protectin’. I’ll protect it. I’ll nourish it and love it until the day you die. Your soul’s got nothin’ to worry on about when I’m around because, darlin’, your soul’s gonna be just fine. Your soul’s with me now, and where ever your body goes and whatever it does, your soul’s gonna be the happiest soul you ever seen.”

“Stop bullshitting me. Just shut up.”

The taxi stopped short of Gregorio’s legs. He stood and picked up his coat, not bothering to dust the side of it that had rested on the ground. When he turned back to her she noted that his hollow eyes glistened with tears, but none that had emerged and flowed down his shallow face.

“This is all bullshit,” she said. “Say that it is.”

“I don’t lie, darlin’. I don’t do that.”

The taxi driver honked the car’s horn and caused her to turn toward him for a moment.  When she turned back in Gregorio’s direction he had already placed his hands in his pockets and resumed walking in the direction he had been going, his head craned up toward the sky.

The Magnolia Hotel lobby was empty on a Wednesday night, and so she had decided to escape the dreariness of the clinking and shallow whispers of the hotel to take in the night air. Few people walked the streets of downtown Denver and although they were few and far between, she enjoyed their company. Her neck was bare, and her hands remained in the pockets of her long dark coat as she stared out across the street to the bank building, whose flagpoles waved in the breeze and allowed her to focus her eyes.

As she stood on the sidewalk she heard footsteps approach from her left but made no move to react since several people had already circumvented her without issue. She absentmindedly waited for the footsteps to pass and furrowed her brows when they did not. The sound ceased alongside her and she prepared to turn but paused when she heard him whisper.

“You’re long and leggy. I like it.”

She sighed and collected herself, but kept her gaze on the street.

“What?”

“I said I like you and I like your legs. They’re gorgeous, girl. Absolutely beautiful.”

She turned and looked at him. His face was long and gaunt, his neck stretched tight. Long cords of sinew sloped down from the bottom of his skull to his shoulders. His eyes looked into hers but abruptly wandered away, unable to settle on any one thing. He leaned back when he saw her shoe slide a few inches away from him.

She finally said, “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but I’m interestin’. Ask me a thing.”

“Do you usually come up close to women and objectify their legs?”

“Objectify? What’s this, objectify.” He scoffed and scratched his neck. A couple passed them and he smiled as they did, though once again not toward her. He seemed to be smiling for the sake of the couple and once they passed he looked at her with a different kind of smile. It was sharper and reached out across his face toward his ears. His teeth were brilliant beneath the lamps and moonlight but beyond them and into his head there was only darkness.

“I don’t objectify. I admire.”

“Same difference.”

She noted that the foot traffic on the street was thinning and though she needed to wait for her taxi to arrive she did not feel inclined to oblige a stranger’s madness. She turned away from him and was near the door to the hotel when he called out.

“What’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“So I can know what to call you when I talk about the girl I fell in love with.”

She both laughed and scoffed, then turned to him. “Seriously?”

“It’s true,” he said. “You’re the girl I been lookin’ for.” He remained in place and reached out with his hand. His sleeve pulled back to reveal a thin wrist, also white and stretched so that she could see the ridges of his tendons extending into the palm.

She breathed in and looked at him. Her brows were lowered in contempt, but a wry smile remained.

“Explain this to me while I wait for my cab.”

“I mean it.”

“Explain it.”

Her amused smile remained hidden beneath the shadows cast by the street lights to the right and left sides of the hotel entrance, and she watched him from the doorway. The man began to walk toward her and then stopped and turned to the curb a few feet away. He lifted his cuffs and sat on the ground with his back to her, and then removed his black coat and laid it out to his left, then patted it with his thin hand.

“Am I supposed to sit now?” she asked.

He remained silent, placed his hands on his knees, and looked up toward the top of the brownstone building across the street.

“Them are some amazin’ stars, up there.”

“I’m not sitting on the curb.”

“Up to you.” He rubbed the back of his neck and resume staring at the top of the building.

“But like I’m sayin’, them are some amazin’ stars. I look at ‘em a lot, not for no good reason, nothin’ poetic or beautiful about ‘em, I just do. They’re somethin’ different, somethin’ we don’t got here on the ground. It’s like I can look up and see somethin’ I can be, somethin’ I can’t be now. It’s what keeps this whole damn thing goin’. It’s what makes a lot of what happens down here tolerable.”

“Is this your explanation?”

“I’m just talkin’. Listen if you like.”

“You’re not saying anything worth listening to.”

“You ain’t listenin’, then. But I can tell you hear me. It’s a start.” He turned back and smiled to where she remained standing. His eyes quickly darted to hers.

“I ain’t so bad, am I?”

“I don’t know you.”

“Then sit down and we’ll have ourselves a chat.”

She fidgeted and looked to the end of the street, seemingly expecting her cab to appear. The evening air blew around her, and the silence of the empty sidewalk surrounded them both, creating a bubble in which the two of them were forced to look at one another. She kept her wary gaze on his.

“What’s your name?”

“I asked first… but I’m also a gentleman. Damnable thing.”

He turned to his left and extended his right hand toward her.

“Gregorio.”

She walked toward him and shook it.

“Jane.”

“Well, Jane. Will you sit?”

“My cab will be here soon. I’d rather not.”

“As you please, darlin’.”

She frowned and stepped away from him, and he turned to the street again.

“So, you’re the one.”

“What?”

“You’re the one. The girl I been waitin’ for. I saw it when I looked at your face.”

“You said that. Why?”

“I had a dream about you.”

She chuckled and covered her eyes with her hand.

“Okay, fine.”

“You shouldn’t laugh at a dream, darlin’. Dreams show us things we can’t ever see.”

“Like the random girl you find in front of a hotel whose legs you decide to admire?” She mimicked quotes in the air with her fingers.

“Maybe.”

“So what happened in this dream?”

“I took your soul.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because you’re the one.”

“The one what?”

“Girl I love.”

Lights appeared in the distance, and both she and Gregorio turned to the end of the street to see a car approach.

“Your coach, darlin’.”

“You don’t love me,” she said. “You can’t. This is all just bullshit to hit on me.”

“Oh, but I do, darlin’, I surely do. I love you like the fox loves its kin and the way the bullfrog loves the dragonfly. I love you more than I love myself, and I love myself more than anyone, except you. Your soul’s meant to be mine.”

The lights appeared closer now, nearly upon them.

“And who are you? The devil?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I am the best man you’ll ever meet. I am yours, darlin’, to the end. Your soul needs protectin’. I’ll protect it. I’ll nourish it and love it until the day you die. Your soul’s got nothin’ to worry on about when I’m around because, darlin’, your soul’s gonna be just fine. Your soul’s with me now, and where ever your body goes and whatever it does, your soul’s gonna be the happiest soul you ever seen.”

“Stop bullshitting me. Just shut up.”

The taxi stopped short of Gregorio’s legs. He stood and picked up his coat, not bothering to dust the side of it that had rested on the ground. When he turned back to her she noted that his hollow eyes glistened with tears, but none that had emerged and flowed down his shallow face.

“This is all bullshit,” she said. “Say that it is.”

“I don’t lie, darlin’. I don’t do that.”

The taxi driver honked the car’s horn and caused her to turn toward him for a moment.  When she turned back in Gregorio’s direction he had already placed his hands in his pockets and resumed walking in the direction he had been going, his head craned up toward the sky.

Pietro was sitting in his car on the way home after work when he looked over to the off-ramp into Bloomberg and noted that it was no longer there. It had been replaced by a space station. There was a big sign with naked ladies on it advertising the off-ramp into the space station and the naked ladies had moving hair that swung left and right across their really tan faces so that one eye or the other was always coyly covered by a long and wavy length of billboard hair.

It said FLY TO GANYMEDE across the bottom of it but it was difficult to see because, again, there were naked ladies all across the thing.

He thought about the naked ladies for a little while and then about the space station. A space station seemed like a peculiar thing to appear as a replacement for a suburb so he kept driving until he got home. Pietro watered the lemon tree for an hour while he looked at the roof and thought of how much it was going to cost to get it repaired when the time came to do that. It would more than likely cost a lot.

Pietro’s wife, Patricia, emerged from the side gate wearing a yellow dress with smears of dirt along the hem. She kissed him on his cheek and noticed that her bare feet were standing in a pool of water that was hidden by the thick, lustrous lawn.

“Honey, how long have you been watering?”

“There’s a space station over where Bloomberg used to be.”

She paused and smiled anxiously at him. “What do you mean? How long have you been watering?”

“I mean a space station got put where Bloomberg used to be. Bloomberg is gone.”

“I see. How long have you been watering?”

“Did you know Greg and his family lived in Bloomberg? I saw the guy at the market last week and he didn’t even mention it. He talked about his Charger, and Rebecca, she’s pregnant again, and even how his kid’s flunking kindergarten. How does a guy not go and mention that his town’s been replaced by a space station?”

“I don’t know.” Patricia walked closer to the tree and observed that the irrigation ditch was filled with water, and that the hose’s stream had carved a hole into the dirt. Small bits of sediment floated up and gathered along the edge of the grass.

“You’ve been watering for a long time, haven’t you?”

Pietro scratched his thinning hair and turned to Patricia. “The whole damn thing, Patricia. I don’t understand it.”

Patricia smiled again, then walked to the spigot attached to the front of the house and turned off the water.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Take off those soaked pants before you come inside.”

She retreated back into the side gate and left Pietro alone on the lawn with the end of the hose still in his hand.

“There were naked ladies, too,” he said. “Big, huge, colossal naked ladies.”

Pietro was sitting in his car on the way home after work when he looked over to the off-ramp into Bloomberg and noted that it was no longer there. It had been replaced by a space station. There was a big sign with naked ladies on it advertising the off-ramp into the space station and the naked ladies had moving hair that swung left and right across their really tan faces so that one eye or the other was always coyly covered by a long and wavy length of billboard hair.

It said FLY TO GANYMEDE across the bottom of it but it was difficult to see because, again, there were naked ladies all across the thing.

He thought about the naked ladies for a little while and then about the space station. A space station seemed like a peculiar thing to appear as a replacement for a suburb so he kept driving until he got home. Pietro watered the lemon tree for an hour while he looked at the roof and thought of how much it was going to cost to get it repaired when the time came to do that. It would more than likely cost a lot.

Pietro’s wife, Patricia, emerged from the side gate wearing a yellow dress with smears of dirt along the hem. She kissed him on his cheek and noticed that her bare feet were standing in a pool of water that was hidden by the thick, lustrous lawn.

“Honey, how long have you been watering?”

“There’s a space station over where Bloomberg used to be.”

She paused and smiled anxiously at him. “What do you mean? How long have you been watering?”

“I mean a space station got put where Bloomberg used to be. Bloomberg is gone.”

“I see. How long have you been watering?”

“Did you know Greg and his family lived in Bloomberg? I saw the guy at the market last week and he didn’t even mention it. He talked about his Charger, and Rebecca, she’s pregnant again, and even how his kid’s flunking kindergarten. How does a guy not go and mention that his town’s been replaced by a space station?”

“I don’t know.” Patricia walked closer to the tree and observed that the irrigation ditch was filled with water, and that the hose’s stream had carved a hole into the dirt. Small bits of sediment floated up and gathered along the edge of the grass.

“You’ve been watering for a long time, haven’t you?”

Pietro scratched his thinning hair and turned to Patricia. “The whole damn thing, Patricia. I don’t understand it.”

Patricia smiled again, then walked to the spigot attached to the front of the house and turned off the water.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Take off those soaked pants before you come inside.”

She retreated back into the side gate and left Pietro alone on the lawn with the end of the hose still in his hand.

“There were naked ladies, too,” he said. “Big, huge, colossal naked ladies.”

We were tired and fucked up, me and Lorena and Gustavo and Jimbo, and Lorena and Gustavo were pervs who liked fucking in parking lots and watching people out through the camper windows so when we got there they told us to go buy them some shit and to take our time or at least wait for them to open the tail gate.

“You guys’re fucking stupid,” I said. “Oil and shit back there, it’s dirty.”

“It won’t show on this bitch’s greasy ass.”

And Lorena punched Gustavo in the back of the head and he laughed like a hyena. Her long peroxide hair was all messy and in her face because they’d been doing whatever in the back since we left the party. I could see it because the lights from all around the parking lot were shining into the truck and it was all orange and stringy.

I asked them what they wanted.

“Ey man, get me the McRib. That shit is back yo!”

“Me too,” added Lorena.

“You sure you don’t want a hot dog or something in case Tavo’s dick don’t work?”

“Hey, fuck you! Pinche baboso!” Lorena reached into the cab and tried to scratch Jimbo or something but he stumbled out onto the ground.

Lorena yelled, “They don’t have hot dogs at McDonalds, stupid!”

I got out and picked Jimbo up and we walked to McDonalds.

I was probably not walking straight but neither was Jimbo. He had his hands in his pockets and was already over the joke. He didn’t look right.

“We should’ve picked up them girls who came with Lalo,” he said, and I nodded.

“They wouldn’t leave without that puto. Next time we see them, though.”

“That one bitch, Marta. She was fucking fine.”

“Yea, she was.”

“You see them booty shorts she got on? Ay, mami chula.”

“Fuck yea, mano.”

“Them girls were down, man. Fucking down! It’s Tavo’s bitch that scared them off. I don’t even know why we brought them.”

“Come on, man. Come on.”

“That pendejo’s going to make Lorena his baby mama.”

“Probably,” I said. Everyone I knew was a baby daddy or a baby mama.

Jimbo tripped over the curb on the way to the door and smashed his face into the stucco wall so hard that his nose was bleeding. I took off my bandana and gave it to him.

“Oh shit, man. Your shit’s bleeding hard.”

“Fuck you, it don’t hurt.”

“You’re supposed to lean back. Here dude, sit your drunk ass down and lean back.”

“Nah man, this ain’t shit.”

“No man, you’re bleeding hard. You fucking wait here.”

“Shut your bitch ass up. I’m fucking hungry.”

“Hey fuck you! You want to walk in and leave blood all over? I don’t need no fucking 5-O getting called on us.”

Jimbo didn’t say anything then, and he just smacked his lips and crumpled to the ground so he could sit.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll get you some shit but you owe me. What do you want?”

Jimbo sat on the curb with his legs stretched out. His Dickeys were so big and loose that he was really sitting on his shorts and the pants were down on the asphalt.

“That McRib sounded fucking good, ey. Get me one of those.”

“Aight.”

I left Jimbo outside and wiped the sweat off my face. I stunk like hell, probably, but I didn’t really care and walked in. I was pulling my pants up as I walked past the tables where no one was sitting. The place was lit up bright. There were just a few people in line: some dude and hishaina, a fat old man. I got in line after them, coughing and sniffing while I waited. They took the fat man’s order right after I got in line and then the dude and his girl were up. She was hanging onto him and whispering in his ear so you know they were new. I was probably staring because she looked at me and whispered into the dude’s ear, then he looked back at me like he was going to start some shit. I looked at him like I was going to finish it, little bitch. He didn’t say anything and they just went and ordered and moved aside.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

The honey on the register. She was in a uniform and wearing one of those stupid visors but her face was like some kind of perfect. Her cheeks were round and pink even though her skin was light brown like that vanilla coffee the pussies drink at Starbucks. Her eyes were green, almost too green so maybe they were contacts, not that it mattered. Her lips were plump and like smooth chocolate, covered in gloss. I think I got to staring again because when they stopped moving she waved her hand in front of them.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, girl. You just so fine I got distracted.”

She didn’t seem down with that because she coughed and said, “Sir, I need your order.”

“You so beautiful, girl. You so beautiful. You want to hang sometime? Give me your digits?”

She backed up a bit and a guy walked up from behind her. It was probably the manager. His fat stomach was hanging over his belt and his face sagged. He had one of those thick chunt mustaches.

“We need to process orders. You going to order, sir?”

“There ain’t no one else here, man.”

“Doesn’t matter. Are you going to order or no?”

I looked at her and she was sort of hiding behind him. If she wasn’t interested then and I didn’t care.

“Yea man, whatever. Four McRibs and I want sodas, too.”

“What size?”

“Small, man.”

“How many?”

“I said four.”

“How many sodas?”

I stepped up and put up my fingers.

“One, two, three, four. Cuatro, compa. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and punched things into the register.

“Twenty dollars and thirteen cents.”

“Damn.” I dug around in my pocket and I had a balled up twenty that I dropped on the counter, but no change.

“Hey man, I don’t got change.”

“No dollar?”

I looked at him and shoved my hands in my pockets.

“No man, no more.” I looked at the girl, who was now by his side and waiting for the manager to complete the order. “Hey girl, you got thirteen cents I can have?”

“It’s okay,” said the manager. He took the twenty and gave me the receipt. “Thank you.”

I took it and balled it up, gave the girlie a sly smile and walked to the side. The fat man and the puto couple were still waiting. I leaned against a table and waited with them, looking out to Jimbo. He was still sitting with his head leaned back and the black bandana over his nose. There was music playing but it was some department store shit and it only made me sad. I got real sad. I mean, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just sort of like, fuck, look at this. I’m listening to this music. I’m standing with these people. Jimbo’s outside and he’ll probably need to get to the hospital. Gustavo and Lorena are fucking on a dirty carpet in the back of a truck, but at least they’re doing something.

I stood with those people and didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at the counter girl. I just stood and waited as each order came up and not mine. I waited for the McRibs and sodas we’d be throwing up in a while, and outside I waited next to Jimbo for those two in the truck to come and get out of the truck so they could get their shit, and then we just waited for tomorrow.

We were tired and fucked up, me and Lorena and Gustavo and Jimbo, and Lorena and Gustavo were pervs who liked fucking in parking lots and watching people out through the camper windows so when we got there they told us to go buy them some shit and to take our time or at least wait for them to open the tail gate.

“You guys’re fucking stupid,” I said. “Oil and shit back there, it’s dirty.”

“It won’t show on this bitch’s greasy ass.”

And Lorena punched Gustavo in the back of the head and he laughed like a hyena. Her long peroxide hair was all messy and in her face because they’d been doing whatever in the back since we left the party. I could see it because the lights from all around the parking lot were shining into the truck and it was all orange and stringy.

I asked them what they wanted.

“Ey man, get me the McRib. That shit is back yo!”

“Me too,” added Lorena.

“You sure you don’t want a hot dog or something in case Tavo’s dick don’t work?”

“Hey, fuck you! Pinche baboso!” Lorena reached into the cab and tried to scratch Jimbo or something but he stumbled out onto the ground.

Lorena yelled, “They don’t have hot dogs at McDonalds, stupid!”

I got out and picked Jimbo up and we walked to McDonalds.

I was probably not walking straight but neither was Jimbo. He had his hands in his pockets and was already over the joke. He didn’t look right.

“We should’ve picked up them girls who came with Lalo,” he said, and I nodded.

“They wouldn’t leave without that puto. Next time we see them, though.”

“That one bitch, Marta. She was fucking fine.”

“Yea, she was.”

“You see them booty shorts she got on? Ay, mami chula.”

“Fuck yea, mano.”

“Them girls were down, man. Fucking down! It’s Tavo’s bitch that scared them off. I don’t even know why we brought them.”

“Come on, man. Come on.”

“That pendejo’s going to make Lorena his baby mama.”

“Probably,” I said. Everyone I knew was a baby daddy or a baby mama.

Jimbo tripped over the curb on the way to the door and smashed his face into the stucco wall so hard that his nose was bleeding. I took off my bandana and gave it to him.

“Oh shit, man. Your shit’s bleeding hard.”

“Fuck you, it don’t hurt.”

“You’re supposed to lean back. Here dude, sit your drunk ass down and lean back.”

“Nah man, this ain’t shit.”

“No man, you’re bleeding hard. You fucking wait here.”

“Shut your bitch ass up. I’m fucking hungry.”

“Hey fuck you! You want to walk in and leave blood all over? I don’t need no fucking 5-O getting called on us.”

Jimbo didn’t say anything then, and he just smacked his lips and crumpled to the ground so he could sit.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll get you some shit but you owe me. What do you want?”

Jimbo sat on the curb with his legs stretched out. His Dickeys were so big and loose that he was really sitting on his shorts and the pants were down on the asphalt.

“That McRib sounded fucking good, ey. Get me one of those.”

“Aight.”

I left Jimbo outside and wiped the sweat off my face. I stunk like hell, probably, but I didn’t really care and walked in. I was pulling my pants up as I walked past the tables where no one was sitting. The place was lit up bright. There were just a few people in line: some dude and hishaina, a fat old man. I got in line after them, coughing and sniffing while I waited. They took the fat man’s order right after I got in line and then the dude and his girl were up. She was hanging onto him and whispering in his ear so you know they were new. I was probably staring because she looked at me and whispered into the dude’s ear, then he looked back at me like he was going to start some shit. I looked at him like I was going to finish it, little bitch. He didn’t say anything and they just went and ordered and moved aside.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

The honey on the register. She was in a uniform and wearing one of those stupid visors but her face was like some kind of perfect. Her cheeks were round and pink even though her skin was light brown like that vanilla coffee the pussies drink at Starbucks. Her eyes were green, almost too green so maybe they were contacts, not that it mattered. Her lips were plump and like smooth chocolate, covered in gloss. I think I got to staring again because when they stopped moving she waved her hand in front of them.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, girl. You just so fine I got distracted.”

She didn’t seem down with that because she coughed and said, “Sir, I need your order.”

“You so beautiful, girl. You so beautiful. You want to hang sometime? Give me your digits?”

She backed up a bit and a guy walked up from behind her. It was probably the manager. His fat stomach was hanging over his belt and his face sagged. He had one of those thick chunt mustaches.

“We need to process orders. You going to order, sir?”

“There ain’t no one else here, man.”

“Doesn’t matter. Are you going to order or no?”

I looked at her and she was sort of hiding behind him. If she wasn’t interested then and I didn’t care.

“Yea man, whatever. Four McRibs and I want sodas, too.”

“What size?”

“Small, man.”

“How many?”

“I said four.”

“How many sodas?”

I stepped up and put up my fingers.

“One, two, three, four. Cuatro, compa. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and punched things into the register.

“Twenty dollars and thirteen cents.”

“Damn.” I dug around in my pocket and I had a balled up twenty that I dropped on the counter, but no change.

“Hey man, I don’t got change.”

“No dollar?”

I looked at him and shoved my hands in my pockets.

“No man, no more.” I looked at the girl, who was now by his side and waiting for the manager to complete the order. “Hey girl, you got thirteen cents I can have?”

“It’s okay,” said the manager. He took the twenty and gave me the receipt. “Thank you.”

I took it and balled it up, gave the girlie a sly smile and walked to the side. The fat man and the puto couple were still waiting. I leaned against a table and waited with them, looking out to Jimbo. He was still sitting with his head leaned back and the black bandana over his nose. There was music playing but it was some department store shit and it only made me sad. I got real sad. I mean, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just sort of like, fuck, look at this. I’m listening to this music. I’m standing with these people. Jimbo’s outside and he’ll probably need to get to the hospital. Gustavo and Lorena are fucking on a dirty carpet in the back of a truck, but at least they’re doing something.

I stood with those people and didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at the counter girl. I just stood and waited as each order came up and not mine. I waited for the McRibs and sodas we’d be throwing up in a while, and outside I waited next to Jimbo for those two in the truck to come and get out of the truck so they could get their shit, and then we just waited for tomorrow.