Amigoland
Copyright © 2009 by Oscar Casares
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: August 2009
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette
Book Group, Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
“Los Inditos” appears in the book
A Texas-Mexican Cancionero: Folksongs of the Lower Border
by Américo Paredes, University of Texas Press, 1995.
ISBN: 978-0-316-05332-7
Contents
A
LSO BY
O
SCAR
C
ASARES
Brownsville
For Becky and Adrian
Ahi vienen los inditos por el carrizal….
¡Ay mamita! ¡Ay papito! me quieren matar….
The little Indians are coming through the canebrake….
Oh mommy! Oh daddy! They want to kill me….
— “Los Inditos”
Mexican folk song, circa 1848
1
T
he One With The Flat Face was taking her time coming around with the cart. She had stopped to visit with The Friendly Turtle
and the two of them were talking and talking, as if it had been years since they had seen each other, as if it wasn’t only
a few hours ago that she brought out the cart, as if there weren’t other people already hungry and waiting for their dinner.
He sat at the table closest to the side door, which he planned to use as his escape route once he finished his meal. The clock
now read 5:05, five minutes past the time they were supposed to bring out the trays. Five minutes normally wouldn’t concern
him, but he had only picked at his breakfast and then later not felt like eating the turkey casserole they served at lunch,
so instead he spent his lunch hour smoking out on the patio, sitting on the padded seat of his walker.
“You’re going to get hungry later, Mr. Rosales,” The One With The Flat Face had come outside to tell him.
“You think I have never been hungry?” he snapped at her.
“A man your age should not be smoking cigarettes.”
“Leave me alone. I smoked my two cigarettes a day for most of my life, long before you or your mother and father were born,
maybe even before their mother and father.”
“Still, it’s not good for you, sir. If you get sick with the flu, your lungs are not going to be strong.”
“And what, you afraid I won’t make it all the way to ninety-two?”
She finally went back inside and left him in peace. That had been more than four hours ago, though, and since his nap Don
Fidencio had kept an eye on the clock. The first thing he did was search through each of his five shoe boxes for any cheese
crackers or chocolate candy that he might have forgotten. He found everything but the snacks he was looking for — his five
U.S. government–issue pens (two more were missing, most likely stolen by a miserable somebody with nothing better to do than
torment an old man); his three Zippo lighters (only one of which still had fluid); his federal employee badge, made of brass
and still worth the trouble of polishing; his can of Mace spray (just in case); his extra pair of suspenders (also just in
case); his roll of lottery tickets, wound tightly with a pair of rubber bands; his slightly warped cassette of Narciso Martinez
music; his baseball that had been signed by a famous pitcher for the Astros but whose autograph was now smudged and impossible
to make out; his tiny Aztec calendar on a broken key chain; his spare keys to the car and house, neither of which belonged
to him anymore, but just the same, he liked to rattle them inside his pocket; a few random pesos and centavos, along with
the silver dollar that he used to carry in his wallet; and his rosary that one of The Jesus Christ Loves Everybody Women had
given him when they were going room to room, tracking down innocent souls that had somehow survived this long without their
help.
The hunger had hit him more so when he walked into the mess hall. He took out one of his ballpoint pens to jot down the hours
that had passed since the last bit of food he ate at breakfast. After listing each hour, he numbered them all the way to eleven.
Eleven seemed like a lot, but he was sure he had lasted longer in the past. He thought if he could make himself think of a
time when he was hungrier, it might make him feel less hungry now. There must have been plenty of times; the problem was making
his old head remember. His best guess was it had to be when he was a boy and they would work along one side of the river one
year and along the other side the following year, then back again, so much so that he sometimes forgot they were two separate
countries. And then again much later they followed the crops up north. Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin, Ohio, Indiana. He could
remember picking beets. He could remember the onions. He could remember the cucumbers. He could remember the melons. He must
have been hungrier then, he and his younger brothers and sisters crowded into the back of the truck, their mother and the
baby in the cab with their father, driving all night so they could make it to the next job. He could see himself crouched
in a corner, clinging to the wooden slats, the stars up above him like bits of cotton sprinkled across the dark sky.
He was still thinking about this when The One With The Worried Face rolled up in his wheelchair. The wooden table was tall
enough for the armrests to fit underneath and let him scoot forward until his chest touched the edge. After locking the brakes,
he placed his elbows on the table, then held on to his weary head as if he were trying to decide the fate of the world. A
small monitor with a string attached to it hung from the backrest of his wheelchair and then clipped to his collar, ready
to send off a piercing alarm if he were to move too far away and slip out of the chair onto the floor. Though the weather
outside was predicted to be in the high nineties for the rest of the week, he kept warm with a green ski cap, a checkered
flannel shirt, thick sweatpants, athletic socks, and woolly slippers.
The Gringo With The Ugly Finger was the next one to guide his wheelchair into the dining room, using his heels to spur him
along until he reached the table.
“I could eat two horses,” he said, which was what he had said at lunch and before that breakfast and before that dinner, and
so on and so on. “How ’bout you boys?”
The question got only a half nod from Don Fidencio and even less from The One With The Worried Face, who obviously had too
much on his mind to be troubled with something as trivial as feeding himself.
“Say,” The Gringo With The Ugly Finger began, “I ever show you boys what happened to me when I worked for Pan Am?”
Only about six hundred times, Don Fidencio wanted to say. But he knew better than to acknowledge the question or to so much
as look in the direction of the man’s left index finger, which was snipped off at the end like a cigar about to be lit. Don
Fidencio pulled his walker a little closer to make sure it wasn’t sticking too far out into the aisle. His own hands weren’t
in such good shape either, with a patchwork of scars and splotches scattered from his knuckles to the crook of his elbow,
most of them from bumping into this door or that fence or just about anything else that could tear his papery skin. He tried
to remember why he had a bandage covering part of his right hand and when nothing came to him he went back to inspecting the
rest of the walker. All four tires, front and back, were made of plastic, but he pressed his thumb into them anyway, same
as the men used to do when he drove up to a service station. He rattled the wire basket, where he sometimes carried his #4
shoe box, the one with the chocolates. Then he fiddled with the extensions on the handgrips, first making them longer, then
shorter, and finally moving them back to their original position, where they should have stayed all along.
“Now you wouldn’t think the tip of a man’s index finger would take so damn long to find, but when the rotor on that DC-3 caught
me, I was lucky the darn thing didn’t end up in Cuba. Wish I could blame it on somebody distracting me, saying, ‘Hey, Phillips,’
and me turning to look when it happened. But the truth of the matter is that the blame falls squarely on my lap. Just wasn’t
thinking, had my head somewhere else, in the clouds maybe, when it should have been down on the ground, concentrating on my
work. The other mechanics went looking all over the hangar and out on the tarmac, since the doors had been wide open. That’s
what they told me anyway — I was out cold almost as soon as it happened. Had a chance to see the tip of my finger was gone,
and it was lights out. I never was one for the sight of blood, most especially my own. That, I can trace back to my time in
the war. Saw things that stayed with me, inside my head, no matter how I tried to get rid of them. Anyhow, I think it was
one of the Mexican janitors who finally recovered the tip and wrapped it up in some aluminum foil left over from his lunch.”
The finger, the finger, dear God, the bloody finger. Who asked him? Did he think he was the only one who had a story from
his work? Don Fidencio had delivered the mail for forty-two years and had a few of his own stories. Lots and lots of stories,
about working his whole life, about his eleven brothers and sisters, about growing up on both sides of the river, even about
how his grandfather had come to this country with the Indians. Yes, real Indians! Indians on horses! Indians with bows and
arrows! And if he could remember any more of it than this, he still wouldn’t be sitting around driving people crazy.
A few months earlier he’d had a dream that had stayed with him. He was waiting in a long line at the bridge, driving back
from Matamoros to Brownsville, but instead of the bridge being where it always was, they had moved it closer to his old house
— either that or they had moved his house closer to the bridge. The point was, he could see his house from the other side
of the river, which in real life was no short distance, but in his mind he saw his front yard, the grass nice and trimmed,
the large orange tree that shaded most of the backyard and still produced fruit after so many hurricanes. He saw it all so
close to him and he couldn’t wait to get back. But when he reached down into his pocket for the toll what he found was the
bloody tip of The Gringo With The Ugly Finger’s finger. And what use did he have for a bloody fingertip when he was already
a few pesos short? The tollbooth worker didn’t want any part of the bloody coins he was offering him. He didn’t care if Don
Fidencio had to get home to watch the baseball game. Come back when you have more to offer me than a bloody fingertip, the
man told him. Then maybe I let you cross over.
After that night he had gone to bed asking God to please not torment him with these dreams of The Gringo With The Ugly Finger.
It was just one more humble request added to the short but growing list of things he prayed for every night: for the staff
to stop pilfering his chocolates, particularly the ones with the cherries that he was partial to; for the gout to go away
once and for all; for some rest from the aches in his muscles and bones each morning; for some relief from his constant need
of having to go make water; for The One With The White Pants to stop finding new pills to give him; and most important of
all, for him to find some way to escape from this prison where they kept him against his will; and for his freedom to come
soon, even if it should cost him his life, so long as he didn’t die here in this bed, surrounded by so many strange and unfamiliar
faces.
