Mexican WhiteBoy (12 page)

Uno Gets Another Drunken Tongue-Lashing

1

Ernesto steps through the bedroom door and stands over Uno, fists clenched. “And next time you don’t put the trash out I throw your black ass out
with
it, you hear?”

Uno plops down on his futon bed and looks at his bedroom rug—the last gift he got from his grandma. The shaggy red and green and white, like the Mexican flag. The shapeless stain in the upper right-hand corner from the time Manny dropped a full cup of Kool-Aid.

Uno’s still got on all his clothes, his scuffed Timberlands. Still got a dose of Hennessey cruising through his veins from the party he just left.

“I’m the man of the house!” Ernesto yells. “You ain’t nothin’ in here! You do what
I
say!”

Uno nods, stays with the rug stain. He keeps his mouth shut whenever he smells tequila on his stepdad’s breath. Knows that when Ernesto’s been drinking tequila he’s liable to swing an open hand. ’Course it ain’t the open hand he’s scared of, it’s what he might do in
response
to the open hand. So instead of killing this man and getting locked up for real, he nods and nods and nods and nods.

“Who you think you are?” Ernesto shouts. “You don’t pay bills!
I
do! You isn’t the breadwinner here!
I
am!
Me!
” Ernesto pounds his chest. His breath is forty proof, his flannel shirt untucked, bushy hair falling in his eyes as he shouts.

“And don’t you say shit back to me, boy! Not
shit
!”

Uno nods at the stain on the rug.

His stepdad stands over him a few seconds longer. Gritting his teeth. Seething. Pointing a stiff index finger. Then he storms off.

Uno’s mom rushes into Uno’s room as soon as Ernesto leaves, a couple tears running down her flushed cheeks. She puts a hand on her son’s shoulder, says in a hushed voice: “Just do what he says, Uno. You know how he gets sometimes,
mijo
.”

Uno nods, tries to make things out of the shape of the stain. A bear on a bike. An upside-down anchor for a boat. A cannon blast. A guy smacking a tennis ball at the derby.

“It’s not hard to do what he says. I don’t get it. You could just avoid all this.”

Uno nods.

His mom tries to give him a hug, but he slips her arms like a running back, scoots over to his window and pulls it open.

“Don’t walk away, Uno,” his mom says. “
Uno!
I’m telling you how to make it better. Wait.”

But Uno’s already got his right leg out. And he’s pulling his left through and leaping down onto the sidewalk and walking away with his hands in his pockets. He’s sort of laughing, too, as he moves away from his place. He doesn’t know why, but the shit’s funny to him. They can’t touch him anymore. His stepdad especially. He’s invisible now. A talking mannequin. A ghost. Because he’s already moved away in his head. To Oxnard with his
real
dad. And so as he’s walking away from his yelling mom, he’s laughing. Like he’s watching a funny movie. And he’s imagining what it’ll be like when he never ever has to go back there again.

He takes a look over his shoulder, sees his mom hanging halfway out the window, still calling after him, waking the neighbors. But he can hardly even hear her now. And the whole thing seems like a cartoon. Maybe
that’s
why he’s laughing. He looks ahead again, doesn’t really care where he’s going. Or where he’s coming from. He’s just another black kid on the street now. A black kid concentrating on the Hennessey warming his chest. The Hennessey making his fingertips and toes tingle. His mind able to see everything like it’s a cartoon.

2

Uno can’t believe his eyes when he walks into his favorite liquor store. It’s Danny, dressed in khakis and a nice shirt, like he’s going out or something. He’s standing by himself reading a magazine. He hasn’t seen the kid since they went to Morse High a few days back—not one call for a Las Palmas workout or anything. He walks right up on Danny’s blind side, shouts in his ear: “Yo!”

Danny spins around wide-eyed.

Uno bends over laughing. “What up, D? Couldn’t sleep or somethin’?”

“Yeah,” Danny says, closing his magazine and setting it back on the rack. He buries his hands in his pockets.

Uno thinks about how strange his boy is, going everywhere solo. Barely ever talking. Mexican as anybody else in the ’hood but dressed like some kind of skater dude. Doesn’t seem to make much sense. Uno picks up a
Sports Illustrated,
flips to some random page. “Where you been, D? You straight-up went MIA.”

Danny looks at the unfinished liquor store floor, scratches his ear. He opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something, but then he closes it and looks to the floor again.

Uno forces a little laugh, says: “Yo, I was at this little house party in Chula with Chico. Mad women, D. Latinas, black bitties, even a couple loopy white broads. You’d have loved it, man. I ain’t gonna lie, though, I’m still pretty faded from the Hennessey.”

Danny looks up at him.

Uno peeks over Danny’s shoulder at the store. A few old Mexican dudes staring through cracked glass at the beer selection. A hunched crazy-looking woman walking a box of cat food to the counter. The young Mexican cashier behind thick, bulletproof glass watching a mini TV. He thinks, Man, I’m over this entire neighborhood.

He pulls his cell from his jeans, flips it open and checks the time. “Sofe’s dad let you out the house this late, D? It’s almost two in the mornin’.”

Danny shrugs, pulls his hands from his pockets and links them behind his back. Starts digging his nails into his arm on the down low, as if nobody can see him.

Uno doesn’t know why Danny does that, or what it means, but he smacks his shoulder to get him to stop. “Wha’chu readin’, anyway?” he says, sticking the
SI
back and pulling the mag Danny was looking at. He reads the title out loud: “
Street and Smith’s College and High School Baseball Preview
.” He looks up, says: “You in here, D?”

Danny shakes his head and points to Kyle’s smiling face on the cover. “He’s from my school.”

Uno flips to the story, reads the title: “‘Is Kyle Sorenson the best baseball prospect in the country?’ Damn, dude must be all that.”

Danny nods.

Uno scans the rest of the article in silence, Danny looking over his shoulder. When he reaches the end he looks up at Danny, says: “Yo, your boy’s ’bout to get
paid
.”

“Yeah,” Danny says, nodding. Then he pulls his wallet from his back pocket, takes out a twenty and holds it out for Uno.

“What’s this for?”

“I owe you.”

Uno waves him off. “For
what
? Nah, put that shit away, D.”

Danny holds the twenty limp at his side.

“I’d make the same bet if I could do it all over. You just had bad karma that night. Shit happens. You just gotta get your karma right, man. Besides, I got me a little busboy job at El Torito. Started yesterday. Six bucks an hour plus tips. I’m cool, man. Have the cash in no time.”

The two of them stare at each other for a sec, then Uno says, “Hey, wha’chu doin’ right now? You gotta get back to the house right away?”

Danny shakes his head.

“Wanna check this place I know by the train tracks?”

Danny glances out the window, at his uncle’s apartment complex, then back at Uno. He shrugs.

3

After navigating a few quiet side streets and narrow alleys, Uno leads Danny to a line of graffiti-laced train tracks cutting through a wide valley of jagged dirt hills. They slide down the face of the steep bank one at a time, walk along the rusting tracks. The sky is starless and dark, but the trash along the tracks is impossible to miss. Uno kicks through empty fast-food bags as he walks, steps on faded soda cans, discarded cigarette cartons.

After a few minutes he stops in front of a bridge that runs over a dried-up marsh and reaches down for a couple rocks. He looks up at a railroad crossing sign, scans the tracks. When he spots the line he spray-painted black back in the day, he stands behind it and fires the first rock at the sign. Barely misses.

“This is my spot,” he says, turning to Danny. He fingers the second rock and hops up on the track, balances himself on one foot. “Usually come by myself so I could think about shit. Get my head straight. But a couple times I brought Manny. ’Fore my moms put him in that mental house.”

Danny picks up a rock of his own, tosses it from one hand to the other as he listens.

“One day I made up this karma game. First you make a wish about some shit you want to come true. Like passin’ algebra or havin’ some honey give up the booty or me graduatin’ high school on time. Whatever. Then you stand behind this line with a handful of rocks and you get five throws at the sign. Hit three out of five and it’s supposed to come true to life.”

Danny looks at the line, then at the sign.

Uno reaches down and picks out five rocks, says: “It’s legit, D. Hundred percent guaranteed.” He shifts all the rocks except one to his left hand and toes the line. “Here, I’ll show you. This is on me gettin’ outta damn National City, movin’ to Oxnard.” He winds up and throws the first one: misses. Throws the second one: hits, the cracking sound echoing down the tracks. Throws the third: misses. Throws the fourth: barely nicks it. “Don’t matter how square you hit it, by the way,” he says, turning to Danny. “You just gotta hit it.” He throws the fifth: hits.

Danny nods, mumbles: “Got it.”

Uno pounds his chest and points into the dark sky. “I’m good as gone, D. Yesterday’s news.”

Danny fingers the rock in his hand.

“Go ’head,” Uno says, picking up a few rocks. He tosses them to Danny. “First you gotta figure out what’s it gonna be on.”

Uno watches Danny turn his eyes to the dull sliver of moon in the sky to think. He scans the kid’s gear again. The skater button-down shirt. The khakis. Vans. If he saw this private school cat at
his
school, he’d walk right on by. Think he was just some damn skateboarder or something. A kid he’d have nothing in common with. Who would’ve guessed a kid dressed like this could throw a baseball harder than anybody he’s ever seen? Maybe even harder than some big leaguers.

Danny looks at Uno and shrugs.

“Come on,” Uno says. “Could be anything.”

Danny looks toward the black line spray-painted on the tracks. But he still doesn’t say anything. Then, just as Uno’s about to offer up some ideas, he blurts out: “Seeing my dad…in Mexico.”

Uno nods. “Yeah, man. That’s cool.”

“I’m gonna buy a ticket to Mexico. Stay with my dad.”

“All right, D. That works. Hit three out of five and you be breakin’ out the passport.”

Danny turns to the sign. He fires the first one: hits dead center. He fires the second one: hits dead center. Fires the third: dead center. The fourth: dead center. The fifth: dead center.

4

Uno walks up to the sign, stares at the battered metal, shakes his head. He turns back to Danny. “Yo, money, you just hit the exact damn spot five straight times. That’s some freak-factor shit.”

Danny shrugs, steps off the tracks.

“Your old man probably straightenin’ up the pad as we speak!” Uno shakes his head again, looks back at the sign. He turns to Danny. “What’s the deal with Mex, anyway?”

Danny looks at the ground, shrugs.

“Come on, D. You gotta know
somethin’
. What’d the old man tell you before he left? What’s your crazy-ass uncle say?”

Danny shrugs.

“He got a lady down there? A job? He born there?”

Danny stares at the tracks a sec, looks up at Uno and says: “I don’t know.” He reaches his arms around his back, like he does. But this time Uno snatches Danny’s left arm, looks at all the old scars, the deep bruises. He looks up at Danny, confused. He doesn’t get it. Kid seems like he’s got so much going for him. What’s wrong?

Uno lets go of Danny’s arm without a word and sits down on the tracks. Looks across the bridge. In the distance he can make out the big recycling plant where his stepdad works. Where all Chico’s uncles work. “My old man left when I was a kid, yo. Don’t even really know the guy if you wanna break it down. But for the past couple years he been comin’ down here to see me, you know? And now he says he wants me to move in with him. And I wanna do it, D. I could start fresh up there. Quit gettin’ in trouble and get my grades up. Maybe even play catcher on the high school squad.”

Uno picks up a rock, flings it down the track a ways. “Anyway, D. That’s some shit you just did. Five straight. All in the same spot. You the opposite of my bro, Manny. He never hit the sign once. Couple times he threw the damn rock
backwards
.”

They both smile. Danny looks up at Uno and then looks down the tracks toward the bridge.

Uno picks up a rock, says: “Lemme ask you somethin’, D. Why you think you got such good aim here, and when we at Las Palmas, and then you was kinda
off
the other day with Carmelo?”

Danny sits down on the track across from Uno, shrugs.

“Was the mound different? Dude intimidated you? What’s your theory?”

Danny runs a hand down his face. Doesn’t say anything.

“Is somethin’ botherin’ you in your head?”

Danny turns and stares Uno right in the eyes. Holds his stare and doesn’t blink. “That’s the thing,” he says. “I have no idea.”

Uno notices something different in Danny’s eyes and looks down at the rocks between the tracks. He lets out a laugh, says: “Damn, D. You one confused-ass Mexican.” Uno looks up at him with a smile.

But Danny doesn’t see it. He’s too busy looking down at his Vans and shaking his head.

They’re both quiet for a few minutes. Uno watches Danny for a second, thinking maybe
he’s
the reason for what happened at Morse High. He knows Danny’d make out better with a
real
catcher. To be straight, he doesn’t know the first thing about calling pitches for a guy with Danny’s talent. He hasn’t played real baseball, on a team, since he was a little kid. Doesn’t even have a real catcher’s mitt. He knows Danny deserves better.

They’re both quiet for a few more minutes, then Uno says: “Know what I always wanted to do, D? Watch the sun come up over that recycling plant over there. From right here on these tracks. My old man says he did it once and it was mad cool.”