We Were Here (26 page)

Rondell started smiling like maybe I was messing with him. “I get it, Mexico. You playin’ with me. You ain’t really sendin’ back no money.”

“I put it on everything,” I said. “I don’t like how we stole Jaden’s cash, you know? Leavin’ is one thing, ’cause it’s on us, but takin’ a group home’s money isn’t cool.”

“Why you think so?”

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

Rondell stared at his shoes for a little and then he looked up at me and said: “I don’t think it’s right neither.”

I watched him pull the money halfway out of his pocket and look at it, then shove it back in.

We were both quiet for a little while. I looked at the border-patrol vans just sitting there, shining their lights on the water. For some reason I didn’t worry about ’em that much. I knew they weren’t like real cops. They only cared about finding illegal aliens trying to come into America. They didn’t give a shit about me and Rondell.

I picked up a rock and thought how weird it was that people call ’em aliens. Like they’re from outer space and look like damn Martians. All green with big-ass Rondell heads. And not just aliens but illegal ones too. I wondered who made up that term. And how weird is it they put cops all along the border so no Mexicans could sneak in? But on the other side it was straight crickets. Nobody was there making sure American people like me and Rondell didn’t sneak into
Mexico
. Shit like that is weird if you really stop and think about it.

How a Normal Conversation Usually Goes When You’re Talking to Rondell:

“Know what, Mexico?” Rondell said, smelling his hands. “I could eat that mignon food every single day.”

I laughed a little, said: “Yeah, man, but your ass would go broke in a week.” I reached into Rondell’s bag for
The Catcher in the Rye
, pulled it out and flipped to the page I was on.

“When I get rich, I mean,” Rondell said, pulling out his Bible.

“Oh, I see,” I told him, looking up from my book. “And how you plan on getting rich, Mr. Trump? You think you could catch that many fish?”

He shrugged as he opened the front cover. “Maybe I might win the lottery,” he said. “You ever think about that one, Mexico?”

“Where, in Tijuana?” I pictured Rondell in some taco hut in deep Mexico, ghetto fishing pole laying across his lap as he sat there scratching off Mexican lotto tickets. I shook my head, cracking up. “How many pesos you think they gonna give you if you win, man?”

He shrugged and then gave me a confused look. “What’s ‘pesos’ mean?”

“That’s the money they use.”

“Why?”

I closed up my book and looked at him a sec. I knew I’d be going down a pointless road if I answered his question. But at the same time, man. What else was there to talk about, you know? And since this was our last night together I thought I should maybe talk with Rondell as much as he wanted to talk.

“Okay, look,” I said. “You know the money you got in your pocket right now?”

He nodded.

“Those are dollars, right? Dollars are American money. But every country has their own kind. In Mexico it’s pesos.”

A frown came over his face. He looked down at his hands, shaking his head. “But that don’t make no
sense
, Mexico.”

“What doesn’t?”

He looked up again. “They should just use dollars and cents like everybody else.”

“I just told you, though,” I said. “Every place has its own kind of money.”

“But how come?”

“’cause they’re a different
country
, man.”

Rondell thought about that for a sec, then he told me: “Wouldn’t it be more easier if everybody used the same kind?”

“Probably.”

“So why don’t they do it, then?”

I set my book in the sand next to me. “Check it out, though, some places are a far-ass ways away. Like New Zealand or Iceland. Of course they’re gonna do their own thing over there.”

He pointed over his shoulder. “But Mexico’s right there behind us.”

I looked at him, shaking my head. I could tell I was about to get mad frustrated. I took a deep breath, said: “America wasn’t even the first country, Rondo. Most countries are way older than us.”

Rondell nodded his head, thinking that one over. You could tell the guy thought it was some kind of deep-ass, important conversation we were having by how he was stroking his chin and squinting up his eyes. “Okay, then what was the first one?” he said.

I pulled my hood up over my head. “I’m pretty sure it was Rome or some shit.”

“Where’s Rome?”

“In Italy.”

“And what kind of money does Italy use?”

“I think Euros.”

Rondell held out his hands. “Then everybody should just use
that
kind of money. Since it was the first kind.”

I shook my head. “Nah, man, it
wasn’t
the first kind, though. The first kind of money wasn’t even money. People traded shit, like ten chickens for a pig or a sack of coffee for a crate of corn. Shit like that.”

“So, what if you didn’t have no chickens, though?” he said. “Them people couldn’t never get themselves a pig? That don’t seem right.”

“Maybe they could trade somethin’ else,” I said. “Like a goat or a bunch of clothes. It wasn’t like there was a set thing you had to trade to get a pig, man. That’s ignorant.”

“I ain’t eat pork anyway,” Rondell said. He shook his head. “My aunt told me pigs is the dirtiest animal. She said we ain’t supposed to eat ’em ’cause it’ll make humans dirty too.”

I rolled my eyes at Rondell. I had to shut this meaningless conversation down or else who knows what we’d start talking about. “Anyways,” I said. “Mexico’s lottery is in pesos, man. That’s all I was sayin’. Now if you’ll excuse me, dawg, I got a damn book to read.”

I reached in Rondell’s bag again, pulled out the three books I’d yet to get to and stashed them in my own bag.

Rondell watched me do this and a look of sadness went into his eyes. Like him not carrying my books no more made it official we were splitting up. He lowered his face, flipped the page in his Bible, scanned a finger across a couple lines.

Then Rondell Takes Shit to a Whole Other Level:

We both read for about a half hour and then I heard Rondell giggling a little so I looked up. He was staring at where we’d walked down to the beach from with this big-ass grin on his face.

I knew it wasn’t the smartest idea, but I couldn’t even help myself. “Yo, Rondo,” I said, “what’s going on over there?”

He turned to look at me, said: “Nothin’.”

“Nah, come on, man. What’s so funny?”

He shook his head. “I was just laughin’ ’bout somethin’.”

“No shit, Rondo,” I said, closing my book. “I’m saying, what the hell was it?”

Rondell giggled again. “I was just readin’ my Bible and thinkin’ ’bout how I was gonna be all alone when I go to Mexico. But then my mom and dad told me it wasn’t true. They said they was gonna be right there with me, especially if I won all them pesos. But I told ’em it ain’t the same thing ’cause they ain’t real people, and my dad got all pissed off and said, ‘I see we ain’t good enough for you now, Rondell. After everything we done. Go on then, leave us be.’ He always sayin’ things like that to me, Mexico. Like he don’t care none. But I know he care. That’s my word.”

I stared back at Rondell with my mouth hanging open.

I honestly couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d known all along his ass was special ed, even before I read his file, but now the dude was on some next-level shit. He was seeing ghosts and hearing voices.

Rondell laughed again, said: “I know it sound weird to say it, Mexico. That’s why I didn’t wanna tell you nothin’.”

I wanted to see just how schizo he really was. “Go ’head, Rondo. Tell me what they’re sayin’ now.”

“They fightin’ ’bout me.”

I nodded. “Okay, they’re fightin’ about you. What else? I sure wish I could see ’em or hear ’em like you can.”

“They just right there,” Rondell said, pointing at the line of boulders that separated the sand from where the houses started. “See them two big ones? That’s my mom and dad, Mexico.”

“The rocks?” I said, turning back to him.

He nodded. To him it seemed simple.

I looked at the rocks again. The two biggest ones were right next to each other, facing us.

“I know it sound weird,” he said again.

“Well, it don’t sound normal, Rondell.”

“It’s what I say in my head, though. Especially when I feel lonely. See my mom’s the littler one who’s smilin’. And look how my dad be lookin’ all mad. He always that way. Like he don’t really care ’bout nothin’ to do with me. But I know he love me, Mexico.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“’cause he’s always followin’ me. Sometimes he’s on a rock like that one, and sometimes he’s in the clouds or on a store window or a stain on a building. But he’s always there with me, every single place I go.”

I stared at the two big rocks. I looked at Rondell again, then went back at the rocks. If you looked hard enough, it really did seem like there were little faces there. Maybe Rondell was crazy. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe everybody
else
was crazy. Maybe he was just doing what he had to do to get through a hard life. The guy had either lived in foster care or prison ever since his grandma died. Who was I to say how somebody was supposed to deal with that kind of shit?

“Know what I think?” I told him, nodding my head a little. I looked at him, right in the eyes.

“What?” he said, looking back at me.

“I think maybe that’s one of the smartest things I’ve ever heard somebody say, man.” I nodded a little more. “I’m for real about that, Rondo.”

“What is?” he said back, a little frown going on his face.

“About your mom and dad.”

He didn’t say anything.

“How you see ’em in different places,” I said. “Like they’re always keeping an eye on you.”

“Who you mean?”

I stared back at Rondell for a few long seconds, said: “Are you serious?”

He looked at me even more confused. “Wha’chu mean?” he said.

“You know what?” I shot back. And then I paused to spit in front of me and shake my head. I could feel myself getting pissed off. “Just forget it, dawg. Forget everything I just told you. I take it all back. Goddamn.”

“Wha’chu mean, though, Mexico? I ain’t get it.”

“No shit, Rondell. You never do. That’s the problem. You haven’t understood one word I’ve said since the day I met you. It’s a waste of my damn breath.”

“If you just tell me—”

“Nah, man,” I cut him off. “We done talkin’.”

He shrugged, and I shook my head.

We were both quiet for a while. I went back to reading my book, and Rondell went back to looking at his Bible. But I couldn’t concentrate. I looked all around us again, at the rusted border poles coming out of the water, the headlights shining across the waves. I even looked over at Rondell’s imaginary parents.

Being down here was such a trip. At the very end of America. The start of Mexico. Isn’t that weird, when you
think about it? That people back in the day actually decided the split should be right here. Not a few feet this way or that way but right here, at these poles we were leaning against. I pictured all these old-time people in suits from both countries pointing down at the sand, speaking in their different languages. And I wondered which side actually built the fence. And who had to pay for it.

I looked up at the border-patrol vans just sitting there in the sand, facing Mexico. Waiting for some Mexican guy’s head to peek up out of the water as he swam around the boundary. What would they do if they saw it? Come running toward the water with a big-ass net? Like a cartoon dog-catcher? Or would they actually pull their guns?

I was busy picturing how it would go down when Rondell leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, Mexico,” he said.

“Hey, what?”

“Thanks.”

I turned to him. “For what?”

“For sayin’ I was smart.”

I shook my head at him. “I was just fuckin’ with you, Rondo. Don’t get too hyped on that shit.”

He nodded, dead serious. “Nobody ever said nothin’ like that ’bout me before.”

He went back to looking at his Bible.

I stared at the guy for a minute or two. Schizo as his big ass was, I thought how I was probably gonna miss him. All his questions and his made-up parents and the way he dunked on fools playing ball and called me Mexico and never complained about anything. But this was what I was gonna remember more than anything. Watching Rondell pretend to read the Bible. If I lived to be a hundred ten and got the worst case of Alzheimer’s possible and they shipped me out to
some old-fogey home in the boonies where all I could do was look at trees and drool all over myself. Still, man, I’m pretty sure I’d remember Rondell leaning over his damn Bible like this, scanning a finger across words he couldn’t read.

“Yo, I meant that shit, Rondo,” I said. “You’re smarter than you realize.”

Before he could look up at me I went back to reading my book. Hoping like hell he didn’t say something to mess it all up.

July 28

Early this morning me and Rondell were back at the San Ysidro border. But this time we weren’t looking into Mexico, we were looking at each other to say goodbye.

“Mexico,” Rondell said, holding out his hand for me.

“Rondell,” I said, slapping it. He pulled me in for a little dude hug, and then we both pulled away. He looked down at his shoes all shy and then peeked up at me. His eyes were glassy.

I nodded at him, thinking how for a guy I first met in Juvi he turned out to be a pretty solid dude. But it’s not like I was gonna get all choked up or whatever. He wasn’t the first person I’d had to say bye to.

“You got the map, right?” I said.

He held it up.

“And you got the money?”

He slipped the wad of bills halfway out of his pocket for me to see.

“All right, then,” I said. “I guess you just go stand with those people.” I nodded my head toward the small line of people waiting to get into Mexico.

He looked at the line and then looked back at me.