The Coyote's Bicycle (2 page)

The fresh air, the smell of dew on the earth, and the rich scents of the surrounding mountain forest all mingled in the predawn. Pablito listened to the noises of his village as each of the families, 150 residents in all, began to wake and prepare for the day. Morning fires flickered here and there in a rolling landscape that held cold, wet vapors like little clouds in the folds and depressions. When Solo arrived in the bluing light, Pablito hardly had to look.

We know that each wore leather huarache sandals with soles made from car tires. Their patched, loose-fitting clothing had been handed down by Pablito's brothers and Solo's one male cousin who was also in
el Norte
. Sometimes it was very cold as the boys hiked an hour or more into the mountains. At that time of day, before the sun broke above the peaks, the shroud of green forest looked black.

In the foothills, they approached the tree line and fanned out to scour the forest floor, gathering pieces of dry wood. Each boy needed enough to last his family's fire the entire day and following morning. As the season wore on, the boys walked deeper and deeper into the trees to gather the necessary amount. They filled slings, simple frames formed from sticks. A cloth headband was attached, and when they slipped it over the crown of their heads, it relieved some of the load from their backs. They bent low and heard the sounds of small life scuttling all about. There were skunks and fox and anteaters and snakes. Leaves shook above, too, as birds and squirrels passed through the branches. Teardrop oriole nests hung from the outer limbs of the great guayacan tree like rattan lanterns marking the way. Now and again Solo fabricated noises, pitching sounds or deep gravelly groans.
Or he claimed to see things, like the swish of a tail or any slight hint at the presence of the
onza
—a large cat related to the jaguar that few in the village had ever seen. In the stories, the toothy creature was sometimes said to be yellow with spots and sometimes black. When people didn't know what they'd seen, they generally called it a
tigre
, the catchall word for any big feline. And it was this image that Solo relished. He'd played this teasing trick with the noises so often that it wasn't funny anymore so much as tradition.

Of the two boys, Pablito was slightly shorter. The village was known to produce small people, so minute differences in height were noticed. Solo could comfortably carry a full sling of wood. Pablito took pains to match the size of Solo's load, plus a stick or two. He rarely spoke on their descent into the village, perhaps due to the discomfort—the cloth headband put a strain on the neck—but Mixtecs were well known for their reserved demeanor. Those from other provincial states believed Oaxacans to be tough, perceptive, and cunning, but they were also notorious for masking these qualities with a kind of rural quiet city people sometimes took for ignorance.

Not Solo, though—he was a talker. If Pablito didn't care to chat, Solo didn't mind carrying both sides of the conversation. As he left the tree canopy, the words seemed to awaken. The boys squinted into the rising sun. The vapors and mists were gone and the blue land they'd left below in the darkness was now a patchwork of deep greens and browns. Gray trails of trash fires lifted column-like into the air, and Solo's need to talk seemed to rise with the temperature.

“My friend,” he said, “I know you're always caressing your dream of one day going to the United States and working alongside your brothers. I will ask God to help satisfy this yearning because I know you are too proud. You believe He thinks this dream a little piece of nothing, but maybe not.”

A yellow-bellied flycatcher darted from bush to bush before them. A hawk wheeled in the sky above. This was not a new
conversation for the boys, but one that evolved in the telling and the things they'd learn from those who returned or who passed through. Fathers and sons tended to leave one at a time, and once established, they'd send money and, eventually, send for the others. Women composed most of Solo's family, and he hadn't heard from his cousin in a long time. So it was expected that Pablito would go first—at the request of one of his brothers, perhaps. “And someday in appreciation of my assistance,” Solo said, “you will help me to get to the United States as well.”

This had always been the plan.

Solo stopped to adjust the sling on his back, and then he hurried to catch up to Pablito, who never dallied. When the idea of leaving was talked through, it often seemed too big an undertaking. The village was an entire world where everyone knew and helped each other. Nearly everything outside of it was foreign to the boys. At these times, Solo would apply subtle brakes to his narrative—lest Pablito up and depart before both of them were grown and ready. “Even though you hold on to your dream,” Solo pointed out now, breathing more heavily as his full sling weighed on him, “you also love your family. Your grandfather is old but he's strong and he knows a lot of things.”

Solo could think of three aspects of Pablito's life in the village that might keep his friend around: the boy's unique connection with his paternal grandfather, the bountiful wildlife and natural beauty that surrounded them, and the best time of their day, when Pablito and Solo set out on the milkman's bicycle. “Those are some things you love,” Solo said.

Pablito didn't agree, or even nod. He didn't shake his head or avert his eyes. He was simply quiet in the rhythm of walking the hard-packed path with the sandal soles made of car tires.

They came to a familiar curve in the trail and discovered that a dark bull had taken up a position directly on the track. To the left
stood a marshy papaya grove where two pale heifers hovered like ghost cows in the deep greenery. To the right ran a wire fence covered in brambles. The boys were about as tall as the wheels on an oxcart. Even if it were not angry but merely startled, the bull could trample Pablito and Solo. It settled its great bulbous eyes on them and shuffled its hind legs around until its whole mass pointed at them like a compass needle. It became clear that the animal would not move without prodding. The boys whooped and whistled. Solo raised his arms to appear taller. Pablito then bent and grabbed some fallen papayas—he instructed Solo to do the same—and they lobbed the green fruit into the path of the bull until, as if receiving the message after some delay, it shuffled off into the grove and casually joined its mates.

The boys continued on. Eventually, Pablito said, “My brothers sent some good money this time.”

“
Verdad?
” Solo asked.

Pablito didn't answer. He'd never lied to Solo.

“It's a good thing,” Solo said. “Maybe your father will rent Don Ricardo's tractor and working the fields will be a snap.”

But Solo knew that Pablito's father would not rent the tractor, that he would harness the oxen as always. Remittances like these were coveted—to build new rooms onto shacks, for example, sometimes even of cinder block. A family could invest in a gas generator or a horse or a cow. Regrettably, overdue maintenance had a way of diminishing hopes for wholesale improvements. Thatch roofs needed to be replaced every eight years. And at seven pesos for each palm frond, even if friends and neighbors contributed their labor, the costs could add up. As often as not, however, the patriarch of a family would simply drink the money away.

Pablito waved off the idea of renting the tractor.

“So what will your family do with the
plata
?” Solo asked.

“They say, maybe, the school,” Pablito answered.

Their grammar school education was coming to an end. This was the limit for the majority of villagers, as families had to pay out of pocket for anything further. Transportation to the school was another challenge. Pablito might have hesitated to mention the possibility because it was no secret that Solo's family, despite the boy's desire to attend, wouldn't be able to pay. Solo and his siblings sometimes sustained themselves on local fruit for days, and occasionally went to sleep with nothing in their bellies. Still, Solo's optimism didn't wilt. “The lucky ones get to go,” he said. “We just need to get lucky.”

The boys footed it down out of the hills. Open land gave way to fenced sections. They came upon the small outlying ranches where scarecrows commanded the fields. Soon, they separated to drop the firewood at their respective houses. A farmer worked a light green plot of sesame in the distance, but not many of the men remained this time of year. A cadre of women would be down at the little river, standing to their knees in the brackish water, scrubbing laundry. The lady standing farthest out handed a clean article off to the next woman, and then a third set the pieces to dry over bushes, warm cobbles, and branches. Solo, whose walk home passed that way, always noted the conversation. Occasionally he re-created it for Pablito upon rejoining the path to the dairy: “They're talking about washing machines again,” he said. “As if it's something new. Everybody knows about washing machines.”

Husbands and sons returning for Christmas often rode with workmates in secondhand cars acquired in
el Norte
. They'd drive night and day to get home, sputtering through the badlands of the interior and over the sierra. Big towns and notoriously dangerous regions were avoided. Both bandits and police were a concern, as the workers often packed the autos with goods too expensive or unavailable in Mexico. The women dreamed of conveniences, but neither the cars nor large appliances ever entered the village. The men, likely
as not, would hike in, bearing used clothing but first-rate baseball bats for the village team.

“When we are old men, Pablito,” Solo would say, “the river talk will still be about washing machines.”

The milkman's bicycle was a very sturdy, very old utility bike with solid rubber tires, two parallel top tubes, and wide, level handlebars. The steel basket was mounted astride the front wheel. A metal dipper with a hooked handle hung from the bike frame. When the boys stopped at a home, one called for the proprietor and the other lifted the dipper and measured the correct amount of milk from the canisters. The bike's seat was made of petrified leather and wobbled on worn springs. Fenders, front and back, helped protect the dairy and the riders from mud splatter in the rainy season and loose rocks in the dry. The rear axle bolts held little posts threaded on either side, which the boys called
diablitos
, or little devils. One kid could stand over the rear tire with a foot on each of these
diablitos
and balance while holding on to the bike rider's shoulders. If done right, the sensation was like flying.

Braking, however, was a matter of art. The milkman's bicycle boasted only a front brake, and with the weight of the load over the fore wheel, even a modest squeeze could send the boys over the handlebars. So, whoever was in back had to apply the sole of his huarache to the rear tire. The foot quickly became hot, and the
diablito
rider would switch to the other foot. Usually, this was Solo's position. Pablito would yell, “Brakes,” and Solo would lift his skinny leg like a flamingo and place it on the tire.

The dairy farmer was not young, but from his choice of deliverymen, his appreciation for youthful adventure was evident. His cheeks were deeply lined and he wore his graying hair in a short pompadour that shook as he worked and made his proclamations. And he always made proclamations when filling milk canisters and loading them
into the basket. In many ways, globalization was coming to rural Mexico. There were trade agreements and monetary reorganizations and food and currency crises like the Tequila Crisis and the Tortilla Crisis, the demand for imports increasing even as corn prices tumbled, all putting pressure on small farms and businesses like the milkman's, and always with the same result: people left the village.

The boys held the bicycle by the handlebars, and listened.

“There you go, men,” said the milkman finally, as he lifted the canisters into the basket. “That should be enough. Don't worry about the Garcia house. They left yesterday.”

Pablito made a low whistle, slipped a leg over the frame, and mounted the saddle.

When the canisters were full, the bike was heavy. Pablito stood on the cranks and pushed with all he had. It was a matter of will to keep it righted at the slow revolutions he could muster. Solo jogged behind to give the occasional push. In this way, Pablito eventually gained momentum. Solo followed, and when the bike reached the proper speed, he hopped up onto the
diablitos
. The milkman waved them off.

It wasn't a small thing that the bicycle offered the sensation of balance without a foot or the hoof of an animal, without a single living part having to touch the earth in any way. The stability was in the movement, and the movement was like a trick. Nothing else in their experience offered such a sensation. When Pablito and Solo experienced flying, in some very real ways, it was. The falling was real too. The roads of their village weren't much more than ox trails cut by rivulets and irrigation ditches. When they'd started this job, the milkman offered the usual tips of bicycle instruction: maintain your speed, steady your hands, keep your eye on the road. The bike will follow your gaze. Then the milkman simply walked off to tend to his cows. In truth, Pablito and Solo had taught each other to ride, one running alongside the other and spreading his hands as if to
catch a fall. This hadn't been easy on the rutted roads and trails. The bike's bent kickstand and brake lever were proof of the challenges. And yet, they were the only two kids in the village who knew how to ride at all.

We know the delivery vehicle also provided something special that, maybe, another bike couldn't—unquestioned entry into the lives of their neighbors. The boys rolled into the yards, barns, up to the homes of any villager. When Pablito or Solo gave a kick to a tire-chasing dog, no one scolded them. Permission was never required to open a gate or to cross a field. They absorbed the news, attitudes, and gripes of the families in wisps and snatches of conversation. They could appraise their neighbors' crops and yields, and thus their futures.