Chapter 9.
The Spike Grindstone story will have to be put on the back burner, yet again. Right now, I am concerned about the growls I keep hearing. George shows his concern too. He quickens his pace. I lose him. His torch is bouncing light far off in the distance, occasionally obscured by hanging vines and thin trees, like mangroves, that grow along the river's edge. The moon hugs the horizon, but is only a fingernail, and hardly gives off any light.
Every time the jungle animals come alive, the growling quiets them. Crickets are chirping, monkeys chattering, frogs chirp chirping. Then a growl, then quiet. It's nerve wracking. The only constant sound is the soft lapping of the river water on the wide bank, and the thumping of my heart beat.
I move silently along the bank, whenever my feet slosh in the mud, I scurry to high ground. Whenever I trip and stumble on the tree roots, I move back towards the water. I am losing ground with George; I don't even see the torch light anymore. He is moving in a straight line, I am zigzagging. I race along blindly. The growl, a hearty, trembling rumbling, comes from all directions.
My forearm, burned from the kicking fit of my master this morning, aches whenever I brush up against a tree. I hope they're trees. I stop for a moment. I wait for the animals to pick up their serenades. Then a growl. I strain to listen for George and Jumpy. I don’t hear them. I hear branches break to my immediate left, and I dash into the water and run. I'm high stepping. I'm walking on water. I run straight into a giant rock.
It's George.
"You done sightseeing?" he asks.
"Sure, sightseeing. Are we being followed?"
"Si."
"Well, is it jaguar or zombie?"
"I cannot tell, his too far away. We stop here and camp, maybe it catches up,” he says.
He holds the torch under his chin, his face a grotesque caricature. Under this particular lighting, his likeness belongs carved on a totem pole. He points up to the tree line, and moves effortlessly through the tangle of undergrowth. I follow him, I am tangled immediately.
We hike up a steep hill, and come to a outcrop of low hanging rocks, covered with creepers, and it smells like wet socks.
Jumpy, until now unseen by me, breaks free from under George's feet, and sniffs along the outcrop. She sneezes and looks up at George for approval. The cattail torch makes the outcrop look bigger then it is, but there is only enough room for George and his dog. He points further along the wall of rock, and I see a small clearing. The leaves will make nice bedding, and I am aching to rest my pups.
"No rest for you. Peepers tonight."
"Peepers? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Peepers," he says. He holds the torch between his knees and pulls apart his saggy eyes.
"OK, am I looking out for jaguars or zombies?"
A snake slithers down the wall. George grabs it by the neck and throws it below in one boring motion. As it falls, it breaks small branches, and some leaves and stones tumble after it. Then we both hear the growl again. George shrugs.
"Could be both. No worry about jaguars, they won't bother us here by the bats."
The wet sock smell is bat guano. It smells like a school cafeteria on a Monday morning, the floor freshly shined with one of those mops that sat in puke all weekend long. It stings the nostrils to try to smell it. Every time the smell fills your nose, and you can't smell it anymore, you take a strong whiff to make sure it's still there. At least I do. I'm weird.
George starts a small fire, and there is soot on the ceiling of his small cave. There's also a painting of a man with a cat head, chasing a flying frog. Or maybe the cat man upchucked the frog. It's done up with white limestone, and it comes to life under the fire. George's shadow obscures it as he sits down and smokes.
He looks pensive.
“You have family?” I ask.
“Si. Big family. Many sons. A few daughters. You?”
“Not really. They’re scattered. Mother and sister up north in New Canada, or whatever they’re calling it these days. Daughter down here somewhere, lives with the Amazons. I could never be a dad, though. For obvious reasons. She’s better off. I can barely care for myself.”
He’s quiet.
"You still mad about earlier, bro?" I ask.
"No. His expected of the owned to steal from their master. I worry about you if you no try to take something.” He pauses, “Trust is always earned, not owed. But why not the guns, Senor?"
"I know how to use boots."
He chuckles. "When I first kill a man, I think like that too."
"Oh?"
"Si. There his no sport in this," he wiggles his finger, pretending to pull a trigger. "In my village, we has an alley everywhere. My papa, he take me and my brothers on garbage day. In his truck. Fifty three Ford. You know how his a fifty three year model, Senor?"
"No."
"His grill look like the face of a frog, like this," he grimaces...it's not a stretch for him.
"We goes through the alleys everywhere, not in our neighborhood, the good neighborhoods, looking for metal. His loco, what gringos throw away for garbage on garbage day. On a good day, like the day I first kill, we make more than my father make fixing the cars in the garage during the week."
We hear the growl, and he pauses, and takes a long drag on his smoke.
"On this day, sunset. We fine a stove, and a washer, and a fridge. There is broken bricks and rebar sticking out of the piles of the bricks. All this metal, and from one house! My father, he peer over the picket fence, and my brother and I peer through the holes in the fence, and we see a bunch of copper pipe sitting up by the house. The house is empty. The alley is empty. My father say, 'They must have just left for the day, the workers.' He says they wouldn't mind if we takes the scrap from the alley. But my older brother, he say, 'But Papa! Look at the copper! We bend it and fit it in the bed of the truck. His so much lighter than the stove, and the washer, and the fridge. An worth so much more.' And my younger brother and I, we feed on his energy. We are hungry pups of the father coyote, and we howling and yelping like the pups."
"But my father, he is an honest man. 'No!' he say. 'We take what his here in the alley.' And he order my older brother to help him lift the stove and the washer into the truck. Then he lift my younger brother, and puts him in the cab with him. He tells me and my older brother to watches the fridge. 'If anyone comes, you tell them your papa lives just down the street and his working on the house.' For although my father is honest, he his not stupid. Maybe the scrap won't buy us candy or toys, but it will feed us good for the week."
"My father drives down the alley, the stove and the washer bouncing around as he goes. My brother waits until we no longer hears his truck, and he hits me in the back of the head. He tells me to use my peepers. I listen to him. He is a big wrestler, my brother. At school, he always stays next to the garbage, and eats the untouched food of the other kids. He is so big, Senor, the other kids begin to bring him the food to his table. But my Papa heard about this, as I tell my Papa to curry his favor, and my Papa beats my brother bad. With a hose. My brother, he get me later much worst. But he stay by the garbage and eat. Brothers. Hmm."
"My brother climbs the fridge, and jumps the fence. And I am alone in the alley. And then he starts passing me the copper pipe. 'Bobo, keep your peepers open!' He starts throwing the pipes. I run and spread them out so they no make the clanking noises. But his getting dark, and I trips, just like you before, down by the river. And my brother his mad. 'Bobo! Quit dancing out there!' And more pipes come over. An one hits my eye, my forehead, here."
He shows me a slight egg on his head as he leans over the fire. I nod.
"And it makes me bleed bad. 'My peepers, my peepers' I'm crying. And my brother is annoyed. He tell me to quit crying like a little girl, only he call me a 'Puto.' He say, 'Quit crying you puto, you get us in trouble!' So I stops crying. And under my breath, I curses him. 'You fat bastard. Always hungry and talking too much about girls.' And he hears me, and says he
will beat the spirit out of me."
"That’s when I see the car lights down the alley. I stand still. And my brother, he stand still inside the yard. And the lights stand still. And I think maybe they no see me. I whisper loud for my brother. 'Bobo! Get out here! Quickly!' And he says, 'Is it Papa?' And I say, 'Si! His him, now get out of there before he comes closer.' And my brother, he no moves. And the truck, it moves, and the lights bounce, and the springs creak."
"The truck, his face is no like the frog. His a new truck, for early sixties model, Senor. It has four lights, a flat face. His a work truck. Two big men comes out. They say 'Well just what in the hell is you doing out here with our pipes, Beaner?' An I no answer. And the other comes over and grabs me, an punches me in the ear. And he has beer breath, and he leans in with hot beer breath and says, 'Well ain't you heard him, Beaner?' and he punches my other ear, and I feels dizzy."
"And the first man, he say, 'Well this here Beaner just wants to git started on the plumbing early. Ain't that right, Beaner?' and I watch him pick up a pipe. And now I start crying, and I keep the tears to myself. I no whimper, and I stand my ground. And he come around behind me. And he says, 'Ain't that right?' And my legs sting. And then my back stings. And I fall like a brick."
"I lie in the dirt, in the dust, like the snake. And I watch the men curse and throws the pipes over the fence. Then the one with the beer breathe, he pokes at me with the pipe, and tells me to help. So I throws over the pipe and they laugh and call me 'El Stupido.' And I throws the pipes over, and I hopes it hit my brother. My brother is bigger than the two men. And each time I throw them over and they laughs, I say under my breath 'Who is the big baby now?'"
"The mens drive off. And my brother jumps over the fence and his laughing at me. He’s laughing and laughing and calling me Beaner. I don’t even know what the word means, but it makes me see red. I call him a 'Puto' but I also don’t know what the word means. He pushes me, and I pushes him hard, and he trips backwards. Like the big tree. He falls backwards and tries to grabs the fence and misses. And he's sitting up, and he groans. And blood comes up from his mouth, and he says, 'Bobo! Bobo! What has you done? Bobo, you are in such trouble.' Then he coughs, and his eyes they close, like a toy."
He points to his chest. "The rebar, it sticks out of the pile of rubble an cement, and is stuck through the heart of my brother. He die sitting up."
He drags on his cigarette, then flicks the butt into the fire.
"My Papa comes back. My brother is sitting there. His peepers is closed. My Papa. He looks at me. He runs to my brother, and shakes him. He tries to pick him up, but he is too big. My Papa grabs me, and shakes me, and asks what has happened. 'Mirar! Mirar! Your brother! What happen to your brother!' I tell him the two men came an killed him."
"My Papa, he look at me, and I cries and tell him I push him into the rebar. I tell him I sorry, but I no mean it, and he hears it in my voice, my insincerity."
"He cry and cry, my Papa. He drags my brother to the truck. We put him in the bed, mucho effort, Senor. He makes me sit back there with him, and we drives through the city, and out through the desert. We drives all night, and we stop. An I'm thinking, 'Do I get his side of the room now? Can I takes his jacket?' And I no feel bad about these thoughts."
"My Papa, he gets his old army shovel, and a tire irons, and we bury him. We dig through the caliche. When the sun comes up, he sees all the blood on me. He look at me and shakes his head. 'Today, I lose a son and also a bastard.' And he drive off."
I look at the old Mexican. He stares into the fire.
"His a just punishment. And our family, his too big. Two less mouths crying for food each Friday night."
The fire crackles, and the growling continues through the night. I imagine his brother is behind the growls, but I know it is a jaguar. It comes from every direction. It is above and below, down by the river, and right next to the fire. It startles me each time I hear it. The animals and insects lull me into forgetting, but the growl reminds me that death is alive in the darkness. George turns in soon after his story, and I organize my notes.