William Hart has found an apartment near a park. He is lying in bed, drinking a scotch, thinking of that boy, that beautiful boy he’d met so many years ago in Juárez. Maybe that’s why he’d gone back there—to look for him. But of course that beautiful boy was a man now. That was the problem with boys. They grew up to be men. He had no interest in men.
Repent from the evil! his pastor yelled—then laid his soft, uncallused hands on him. He pretended to be slain in the Spirit of the Lord Jesus. He fell backward, his arms raised, Praise the everlasting God! But it was all still there, his incurable, impossible addiction. That’s what his uncle had told him, when he was a boy. This is impossible and beautiful. If it would only go away.
Dave tosses and turns. He hadn’t dreamed that accident in years. Now the dream has returned. Tonight, he does not want to sleep. And so he does what he always does when he doesn’t want to sleep. He calls a woman. This one is named Cassandra. Hello and what are you doing, did I wake you up and would you like some company. Mostly they said yes, the women he knew. Tonight, it is No, no, hell no, and tomorrow we need to talk. Cassandra cares nothing for his aversion to sleep.
Some Day We’ll All Be Happy
It wasn’t the wisest thing to do—go out to a bar just because you couldn’t sleep. Bars were trouble, bars were places where bad things could happen, where fights could break out, where angry men drank too much and got even angrier—and God help you if you happened to get in the way. Bars were places where you could get talked into following a woman home, a woman you did not know, a woman who could steal your money. A woman who could hurt you in ways you hadn’t yet imagined. Bars. But what was a lousy Jim Beam on the rocks? Just a drink to relax, to loosen up, let go of all the tightness in his shoulders, let go of the thoughts in his head that kept spinning around like clothes in a dryer that were trapped forever, spinning and spinning. A drink to get him out of his small apartment, with its bad plumbing and dull beige paint that covered the olive lead paint underneath. A drink to make him feel a part of something bigger than this room, this neighborhood, this goddamned city that was suffocating him. God, he couldn’t fucking breathe. Just a drink. One lousy fucking Jim Beam on the rocks in a dark bar full of dark men and their dark women.
He laughed at the name of the place, El Ven Y Verme. He couldn’t imagine gringos coming up with a name for a bar that would match its irony and humor, gringos who thought they had a corner on the market on irony and humor and anything else that spoke of intelligence and that word civilized that they liked to throw around like a pair of dice at a gambling table in Vegas. He couldn’t imagine seeing a flashing neon light in English that read, “The Come and See Me.” He laughed. Sure. He liked the name. Maybe one day he would buy the joint. Sure.
He liked that he could sit at the bar, and people would leave him alone. Sometimes there was a fight, but mostly it was just a place where guys came in and had a drink. A girlfriend or a wife here and there, but the place wasn’t nice, not nice—that was part of what he liked about it. No forced conversations. He’d come here off and on since he was eighteen. That old bartender, Mr. Anaya, he was dead now, but he’d liked him, never asked for his ID, served him, didn’t ask any questions, made just enough small talk to be friendly, had a picture of his wife and two girls where everyone could see. He remembered now—he’d been killed. In a car wreck. Just like his parents. He’d come here one night just to have a drink, and some regular had given him the news about Mr. Anaya. He’d pitched in ten bucks for a nice funeral wreath.
For no reason at all, he pictured the accident, a car running a red light, Mr. Anaya’s body tearing in half like a piece of paper. Goddamnit, why was everyone so in love with cars, insured them, washed them, souped them up, Mexicans especially, hell, the barrio loved cars, made them feel American. Yeah, that was it. Yeah, yeah, get a piece of America anyway you can get it.
“So what do you think of the new car?”
“I like it, Dad.”
Mando looked at Andrés and spit. “It sucks. How come you can’t ever get a new car, Dad?”
“It is a new car, Mando.” Andrés leaned into his father.
“It’s not fucking new—it’s a used-up Chevy someone traded in for something new. All we ever get is fucking leftovers.”
“That’s enough, Mando.”
Andrés put his head down and moved away from his father. They were going to fight again. Last time, it had been a fistfight, both of them winding up with bloody lips. He could see Mando’s hand tightening into a fist. “Don’t, don’t please don’t.” He hadn’t meant to cry.
Mando walked away, maybe because of his tears. He could feel his father’s fingers combing his hair.
“You want to take a ride in our new car, mi’jito?”
He nodded.
“Maybe we’ll stop off at the Dairy Queen.”
“¿Que dices? What’s the word?”
Andrés looked up at the bartender. He was much younger than Mr. Anaya had been. He nodded. “Nada, nada. Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
The bartender nodded as he put down the glass he’d been drying. Andrés watched him as he poured. A little extra. That was another thing he liked about this bar—not like those places on the West Side that poured you exactly a shot. Exactly a shot and no more. You wanted more—hell, you’d have to pay more. Those places understood money and exactitude and profit margins—but they didn’t understand a damned thing about why people came to a bar. He stared at the drink in front of him. He took a swallow, not even a swallow, just a sip, just a drop, and held it on his tongue. He swished it around, then nodded, then lit a cigarette. He heard the sound of coins dropping in the old jukebox, a couple of clicks as if the old machine was struggling just to hold on—and then the song, that song, he hadn’t heard it in such a long time, had only heard it in his house, an old record his mother loved to play as she cleaned house, Blue, blue, my love…He took a drag from his cigarette, then downed his drink. He caught the bartender with a glance and pointed at his empty glass.
Just as a fresh drink appeared in front of him, he heard a voice beside him. “Aren’t you Andrés? Andrés Segovia?”
Andrés found himself staring at a vaguely familiar face. That was the thing about sitting in bars—you ran into people who looked familiar, and then all the malicious dogs you kept chained up suddenly tore themselves free, baring their teeth. “Yeah. That would be me. Andrés.”
“I’m Pepe. Remember? Pepe Tellez. I was a friend of your father’s.”
He looked at the man for a second. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.” He did remember. He lived a few blocks down. He and his father were always talking, drinking beers, hanging out. He looked older, looked as if things hadn’t gone so well for him—hell, if they had gone well for him, he wouldn’t be sitting here at the Ven Y Verme on a Wednesday night.
“God, you look like your Dad. De veras que si.”
Andrés nodded. What was he supposed to say to that?
“Hey, listen, let me pay for your drink.”
God, he hated this. Having a drink with your dead father’s drinking buddy. “Yeah, why not.”
Pepe pulled up a seat next to him and set down the bottled beer he was drinking on the bar. “Irma and I always wondered what happened to you kids. Well, we heard about your brother. It’s too bad, I mean, I know he and your dad never got on, but you know, it’s just too goddamned sad.”
Andrés nodded. What could he do but sit there and listen to the guy? He’d nod and listen and hope to God he’d shut up sooner than later. “Yeah, it’s sad.”
“So you doin’ all right?”
“Yeah. I’m a computer guy at the university.”
“Hey, well, hell, that’s fuckin’ great.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“So you landed on your feet.”
“Yeah, guess I did.”
“So how come you’re hanging out in a place like this—good-lookin’ kid with a steady job and money in his pocket without a
girl?”
“Couldn’t sleep. I like this place.”
“Reminds you of the old neighborhood, huh? You know, if you were born raza, then, hell, you’ll live and die raza, ¿a poco no?” Andrés could see that Pepe’s hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette.
“Yeah, raza. You know, I guess I just come in here because I like the name.”
“Yeah, me gusta el nombre tambien. Pinchi raza. Nos lleva al cabrón. I think they should put a blinking neon light that says, ‘Gringos welcome, gringos welcome.’” He laughed his ass off at his own joke. And then he stopped laughing and shook his head. Andrés knew he was half gone. “You know, Irma left me.”
“Irma?”
“My wife.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, too fucking bad. Pinchi vieja. Said she was sick and tired of my shit. She left me for some gringo. Can you believe that shit? A fucking gringo. They met at Big 8. He was looking for authentic Mexican bread. The cabrón was looking for bolillos. My wife should have told him that he was one. Instead, she hooks up with him. Me dejo solo. She said I could take the house and shove it up my ass. You know, I picked her up from…”
He hated this. But as long as he kept the conversation on his sorry-ass-pinchi-raza-my-wife-left-me-for-a-gringo life, he could put up with it. So long as he didn’t ask any more questions about Andrés’ family.
“Screw ’em all. Hell, oyeme, just fucking listen to me. You don’t want to hear nothing about mi pinchi vida. Listen, how are your sisters? How are they doing?”
The guy didn’t know. How could he know? He looked at his drink, lit another cigarette. “They live in Kansas.”
“Kansas?”
“Yeah.” He finished his drink. “Yeah, fucking Kansas.” He didn’t bother shaking Pepe’s hand, didn’t bother thanking him for the drink as he walked out the door.
“Take good care of your little sister.”
“I will, Mom.”
“You always do.” She took his face and held it between her palms. “You’re the sweetest kid in the world, you know that? Where’d you come from?”
“From you, Mom.”
She smiled—then laughed. She shook her head. “It gets to you, doesn’t it—their fighting.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“You can tell me the truth.”
“I guess so. It’s no big deal, Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll make them stop.”
“They’ll never stop, Mom.”
“Maybe for me, they will.”
He nodded. “Okay, Mom. So, where you going?”
“To a dance. That’s the one thing your father and I have in common—we love to dance.”
“Mando likes to dance, too.”
“Yeah, well, Mando likes a lot of things. He goes out, doesn’t he?—when we leave.”
“Mom, I can’t—”
“It’s okay, I know.”
“Yolanda goes out, too, doesn’t she?”
“Mom, why are you asking me? Mom, I can’t—”
“I know. I know. What am I gonna do with them?”
“It’s okay, Mom. Ileana and I are fine. We’re pals.”
“I know. There’s you and Ileana—and there’s Mando and Yolanda. It’s like having two different families.”
“Mom, you worry too much.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Some day we’ll all be happy. I promise you. And there won’t be any more fighting.”
He didn’t want to think about that night. He was tired of it. The whole thing. Pepe Tellez, and all the fucking dogs were set free. Growling in his ear. Ready to tear his flesh apart. And then the anger lifted, just as suddenly as it had appeared. Storms in the desert were like that. They came on you. Beat down, down on you until you thought that the storm would last forever—and then just as you were about to lose your last crumb of hope, the storm left. And he was left alive and humiliated for overreacting to the drama that was no more than a small play, with him in the lead—miscast. Humiliated. And something worse was left in the aftermath. That thing in his heart that made him want to cry. Because he was relieved that he had survived the storm—but sad, because if he had not survived, then it would all be over. And over meant rest. And, God, it would be good to rest.
He sat in his car, trying to think of something else. Anything. Maybe he’d go home and get on the Net—that helped sometimes. It did. Maybe he’d just go to sleep—if sleep would come. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. He thought of the counselor’s name, the one he had an appointment to see. Tomorrow he would see her. He couldn’t remember her name. He took out his wallet, opened the door so he could see the name and the address on the card that Dave had given him. He stared at the name, whispered it, “Grace Delgado.” He tried to picture what she would look like, what she would talk like, but all he could see was his mother, Some day we’ll all—he put the card back in his wallet. He was about to shut the door when he saw her standing there.
She smiled at him. Pretty. But it was dark. Lots of things looked pretty in the dark. “¿Quieres irte conmigo?”
He shook his head.
“I speak English,” she said.
He nodded.
“You like me?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t like to talk? Maybe you want to do something else—something better than talking.”
He shook his head.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispered. “I can make you feel good.”
“No,” he said, more to himself than to her. “No, you can’t.”
He looked at her for a moment, then slammed the door and turned on the ignition. He shoved the car into gear and pressed down on the gas pedal. He didn’t bother to look back at her as he drove away. He already knew her. She was just like him. Spending time with her would be like being alone. Only it would hurt more.
God, it would never go away, this anger, this rage that was like the ceaseless movement of the spring winds through the desert, this knot in his guts, this splinter in his heart that shot a pain through him that eventually found its way into his lungs, then out of his mouth and into the open air, the sound making the whole world turn away from him. It would never go away, never, never, and there would never be any peace. What was that? Peace? And even his slumber would be crowded with this, this thing, this anger that was handed to him like a fucking precious heirloom. Maybe he had it all wrong, maybe he wasn’t a victim at all, not at all, because he had decided that this was the only thing that would ever be truly his, and so he clung to it, would cling to it forever. He tried humming. Sometimes humming helped. And then he heard his mother’s voice. He turned on the radio, but her voice was still there, in the car. In his head. Sometimes, when she visited, she stayed all night.
Why He Hated Them
Not that he wanted to go. Not that he had a choice. He’d gone to them before for this reason and that reason, for things that happened, for good reasons probably—even he knew that. In his moments of calm, he knew the intentions were good. But Mando’s intentions had been good, too, and everything in his life seemed to be nothing more than an illegible and tragic footnote to his older brother’s good intentions.
Interventions—that’s what they called them. If he didn’t come through, there was the matter of a suspended sentence hanging over his head. He’d escaped jail once. A crack through the door. Dave managed to get him through that crack. To the light on the other side. And for what? Here he was again, so maybe not a damn thing had changed. Well, this time he was a man and not a boy. As if adulthood was a simple matter of age. Plead guilty, get a suspended sentence, and get yourself some help. Dave and his goddamned ideas. He was like a farmer plowing fields. Nothing was going to stop him from the planting season. And was Dave wrong, to take charge of someone else’s life like that? Court mandated counseling. How did that help? They could all feel good about their intervention.
The failure would all be his. And the counselor, what did she have to lose? An
d Dave? And the judge?
He wondered what she would be like. She would dress in a way that would ensure you didn’t notice what she was wearing, the lady with MSW behind her name. The trained professional with the neat office who kept the pictures of her family in the desk drawer, kept her nice family far away from people like him.
He always thought about what the next counselor would be like. Mostly they were women. Sometimes men. Sometimes. But mostly, the ones he’d gone to were women. They were mostly nice. Sometimes a little severe, but that was only in the beginning—to show him they weren’t weak just because they were women. They were all good girls, all nice and decent and caring in predictable ways. Always decent. Always predictable. Some of them from bad families, and by some miracle they had escaped. But no escape was ever complete, and so, as if some severe priest had given them a lifelong penance, they wandered to and fro on the earth fixing things, picking up stray dogs and cats and fixing them, fixing damaged people, fixing grotesque and shattered families that were as bent and unfixable as theirs had been. They were up to every challenge, fixing and fixing, trying to get at something that had gone wrong with their own screwed-up lives. He could always tell when they were wounded. They couldn’t hide—not from him.
Others were just ordinary and normal, nothing special, but someone had told them they were good with people, and they had believed it, and having no other calling, they had decided to do something useful in the world—counseling screwed-up people made them feel as if their miserable lives were worth something. He had decided a long time ago that no one with a good mind would make a living talking to people like him. Who could respect that? The worst ones were the ones that had found Jesus. They wanted you to see the light—even if they never said it. Didn’t matter that they never spoke the name of Jesus. It was there, in the shallow little prayers they hung on a wall where you could see it, along with their framed degrees. They wanted you to walk in the light, walk hand in hand with Jesus. Then it would be all right.