Drowning Tucson (26 page)

They stopped by the rose garden, and Freddie picked up a can of Crystal Light and poured the brown liquid on the ground, crushed the can with his boot, and tossed it in his trashbag. And that’s how it’s done, children. Empty it, smash it, throw it in your bag. You can even tie your bag into your belt loop like this—he demonstrated—then your hands are free for searching. And whoever finds the most cans gets a prize.

This excited Carlos and Yolanda, who talked rapidly with each other about what the prize might be, comparing search techniques, inventing strategies for finding the most cans in the smallest area. They didn’t notice that their mother had yet to speak a word. Or the frown on her face. And while they had been sleeping, they hadn’t heard Freddie whispering to his wife in bed, telling her that he had finally been canned. The Creasys, who had come to Tucson all the way from Marietta, Ohio, nine months earlier to buy the music store where he’d been teaching guitar and violin for the past twenty-three years, had told him they were willing to accept his resignation. The pinche gringos are still moving west and pushing us on top of each other, he’d whispered to his wife. Twenty-three years and they dump me like a stock boy. And I asked them how am I going to feed my family now, like someone will really hire a Mexican to come into their house and teach their pretty white kids to play the violin or flamenco guitar. They’ll bring the kids into a shop because it’s safe there. Where in Christ am I supposed to go now? But the bastards only shrugged and pretended they were making budget cuts when they’re really just trying to bring in a higher-class clientele. Let the hispanos—that’s what they call us—go to the YMCA or join the orchestra at school if they want to learn violin. It’s the new money they’re after, Isabella. The gringos who finally figured out they can get land cheap here. They’re the ones. Scooping up forty or fifty acres a pop to build what they think is a ranch. Some Spanish tile, cactus, a couple horses, and a lame cow, and you’re a regular caballero.

I know, Freddie. I know. You’ve worked so hard.

I loved those kids. When they scrunch up their faces and try to figure out chords on the guitar. Or notes on the violin. Remember a handful of them even got a mariachi band together to play every Sunday at the Southgate Shopping Center?

I know, Freddie. I’ve seen them. Back when we lived down there and I went shopping at Fry’s.

Freddie sighed and threw off the covers, too sad to speak. So he had walked out to the living room and stood over the head of his oldest son and came up with an idea. There’s all kinds of ways to make a little money until I find work. He only hoped this scheme might at least feed his family for a few days while he hunted for a job.

Standing next to his wife beneath a palm tree, Freddie watched the enthusiasm of his two youngest children scrabbling for cans and thought I’m pathetic. This isn’t happening. I’ve got my children collecting cans, gathering their next meal, and they don’t even know it. He avoided his older sons’ eyes. He grabbed his wife’s hand and told Peanut to watch after the young ones, your mom and I will be looking over by the zoo, and he and his wife walked, shoulders subtly slumped, away from their children.

Peanut took them over by the bandshell and pointed to the trashcans by the bathrooms. There’s your goldmine, guys. Really? Yep. Guarantee you’ll have your bags full before you’re halfway through with those cans. He watched his brothers and sister race to the cans, smiling when he saw that they were letting Yoli win on purpose. He walked behind the bandshell and saw a drunk lying on his side with vomit dried in his beard. Look at that fucker. Maybe Dad’s right. This guy’s worthless. He walked up to the drunk and rifled through his pockets and found a dollar crumpled inside an empty softpack of Basics—yeah, good trick dumbass—and then he kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could just for being such a fuckin fuck, and the drunk grunted and rolled over onto his back but didn’t wake up, so Peanut started filling his bag with cans, not bothering to empty any—they’re sucked bone dry before they hit the ground—and too lazy to crush them, thinking maybe I should kick that bastard in the head again, maybe smash in his face or—

Why’d you kick him, Peanut? Yolanda stood just behind him.

I didn’t kick him.

But I saw you.

You didn’t see anything. I was picking up cans. He grabbed his sister’s hand and led her back to where his brothers had dumped the
trashbarrels over and were picking through the spilled trash. Look, guys, just kick the trash out of the way and pick up the cans. Jesus. You’re gonna kill yourselves. Get AIDS like some homo. Yolanda let go of her brother and walked over to a trashbarrel and tried to push it over, but the metal barrel was too heavy for her. Here, Yoli. Peanut kicked it over. There you go. Just don’t touch the trash.

For the next hour, they kicked trashbarrels and grabbed cans, racing against each other. Peanut was on Yolanda’s team, so they finished first, then sat on a nearby picnic table to watch their brothers and invent prizes. Peanut didn’t really care about the prize at all, but he was amused by how excited Yoli was over the whole thing, so he played along with her. Yeah, Yoli, maybe they’ll take us to Disneyland finally and you can go on the teacups.

You really think so?

Sure, I mean, why not? We love Disney as much as the next family. And everyone gets to go to Disneyland. Yolanda trembled, trying to actually come to terms with the possibility of going and getting her picture taken with Minnie or in front of Cinderella’s castle. She smiled and grabbed Peanut’s hand and asked him do you really think they’ll take us, because I have to pick out my nicest outfit, maybe the one I wore for Easter this year, the sundress with the matching gloves and the hat with the daisies. What do you think? Would that be a good one? Peanut just nodded and decided to let her live in her little dream a bit longer. She was so happy. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Disneyland would never happen because not only was it too far away, but just look around you, Yoli, for fuck’s sake, we have nothing. But you’re still too young to know that. Too young to realize that your beautiful Easter outfit has been the beautiful Easter outfit of at least four other girls before you—and those are just the ones I know about. And all of them had gone on to become neighborhood whores. She grabbed his hand and smiled up into his eyes and loved him. He didn’t have to wonder what her eyes meant. The way she looked at him like he was one of her favorite cartoon characters or something made it obvious.

For the first time, he realized that this baby girl sitting next to him, holding his hand and loving him, was going to grow up one day. Soon
she’d stop asking for My Little Ponies and Care Bears. There would be no more Dr. Seuss books. Instead she’d start hiding makeup in her purse and putting it on in the bathroom at Mansfield Junior High with the rest of the girls who spent more time fixing their hair than they did in class. In fact, most of Peanut’s friends never bothered trying to peek into the girl’s bathroom whenever a girl entered or left because the sticky cloud of hairspray that escaped each time was practically intolerable. Yoli’s next step from there would be to become one of the neighborhood bitches.

He looked away from Yoli. He loosed his grip on her hand and felt disgust burrowing into his stomach. But it was natural. Fuck, it was more than natural. It’s the God-given right of the Kings to have any bitch in the neighborhood that we want. That’s why they come to us in droves, practically begging us to pull trains on them. Shit, last time Lucy came, she brought two friends over to Güero’s and they put on a sweet girl-on-girl show, pulling off each other’s bras and panties with their teeth, real slow, looking out the corners of their eyes at the guys sitting around them, leaning in to see if the chicks were really into it or if they were putting them on with the whole lesbo thing—since every bitch knows that all guys have lesbian fantasies—but they weren’t putting on, they were kissing and moaning and sliding their fingers into each other’s snatches and then licking them and smiling and writhing around in a pile on the floor while the Kings watched and passed joints around and decided which bitch they wanted to shove a cock up in. After Lucy and her two friends made each other come, they each turned around and grabbed the Kings nearest them and opened their zippers and pulled out their cocks and started jacking them off, and the Kings smiled and leaned back to enjoy the sluts rubbing their knobs until Peanut couldn’t stand it anymore, so he went up to the tiny little thing with the beautiful tits that had come with Lucy, and he got on his knees behind her and pulled out his dick and slapped it up against her sweaty back a few times and then he stuck it in her and fucked up a storm while the other Kings finally decided Peanut had the right idea and stood up and filled the various holes made available to them by the three slutty cunts in the middle of the room. And none of them were surprised because this is what being a King is all about. You kick a lot of fuckin ass and you get even
more pussy. Sure, you might get killed, but this is your family and you look out for each other and the neighborhood and get pussy on the off nights and life is good like that. But one day Yoli would be full-grown too, and she’d either be one of the rucas that fucked all the Kings or join a gang and get herself killed or knocked up, and fuck that.

Maybe there’s a way to warn her. He could write her a letter and leave it for her to find but not open until she was thirteen. Of course, she’d definitely open it long before that. He could threaten to kill anyone who touched her, but that wouldn’t work. There’s no way to be around her every minute, and someone somewhere would get his hands on her, and then she’d just be a slut like every other puta in this goddam neighborhood. He tried to stop himself but couldn’t help looking down at his sister and imagining her writhing beneath some kid on the mattress behind Torchy’s, or in the tunnels under Park Mall, or in someone’s living room smoking weed and letting the bastard feel her up because that’s what she’s supposed to do. Peanut had to get up and walk to the bathroom to sneak a cigarette where Yoli couldn’t see him. He never let her see him do anything wrong.

In the bathroom he thought maybe he could cry, but there’s no point in that pansyass shit. He took a long pull off his cigarette and felt the soothing smoke burn down his throat and into his lungs, where he held it and thought about never letting it out so it could swirl around inside him and then his lungs would stop working and they’d find him in the bathroom dead on the toilet with a chest full of smoke. He blew the smoke out. He took another pull. The burn was nice and it calmed him enough to let him think his new problem over. There was a solution and he was going to find it. There was a way to save Yoli.

When he finished his cigarette, he went back out to the table where his brothers and sister sat waiting on their parents, talking about what the prize might be and who would be declared the winner. He stayed a few feet away until the wind had aired the smoke out of his clothing. The breeze blew through the trees and ruffled Peanut’s shirt, and he watched it lift Yoli’s thick, beautiful hair and wrap it around the back of her head. He didn’t want to think about her growing up any longer, so he told them follow me to the playground because Mom and Dad will
know to find us there. With his brothers trailing behind him, Peanut grabbed Yoli’s trashbag full of cans and dragged it behind him while she ran ahead to the rocket slide, her favorite. The cans clattered and the liquid inside them sloshed around.

When Freddie and his wife finally appeared over the hill behind the playground, Yoli ran toward them screaming I’M GONNA WIN THE PRIZE. Peanut could tell by the looks on their faces that they had forgotten about that little detail. His father wrapped his daughter in his arms and lifted her up to his chest, nodding yes, someone will win today, and winking at his wife, who forced a smile. Peanut pretended not to notice and grabbed his and Yoli’s trashbags, ignoring the cloud of beer stench mixed with Coke and Sprite and the smell of park trashbarrels. He turned and began walking back toward their home, trying to push the thought of Yoli from his mind. No, she’ll always be good. She’ll always have us to protect her. He said this to himself, knowing it was a load of shit, because there wasn’t a single girl like that in the neighborhood—at least not that he’d ever met.

He stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change and his family to catch up with him. By the time they did, the light had gone through three cycles of walk and don’t walk, and he was irritated by how slowly they walked. The light changed to walk again and six lanes of Saturday traffic came to a stop. Peanut and his family stepped into the crosswalk, and he listened to his baby sister singing the Strawberry Shortcake song, ignoring the clatter of cans scraping against the asphalt as he dragged the bags behind him. Suddenly the bags became much lighter and Peanut heard the cans explode out of the bottoms and he stopped and looked toward his family, who watched in horror as the cans spilled all over the street, rolling down the sloping road toward the cars idling at the stoplight with a crash and slamming into tires and bumpers and burying Peanut in cans up to his shins. Lifting the empty bags up, Peanut looked down at the saggy bottoms, wordless. The stench was unbearable. In the middle of the intersection, Peanut tried to react, finally throwing down the bags and running out into the street while his family stayed on the median and turned around to watch him kick cans toward the side of the road, using his foot like a rake and
trying to ignore the embarrassment pushing against his cheeks. He didn’t look in the cars stopped at the stoplight, afraid of seeing someone he knew. If someone sees me, I’m gonna fuckin snap, cause here I am in the middle of 22nd kicking cans like an idiot with my brokeass family standing on the median and holding their trashbags like a buncha pathetic Mexicans. We look like goddam bums. Jesus. The light changed to green. Car horns blasted at Peanut and drivers leaned out of their windows and yelled for him to GET THE HELL OUT OF THE ROAD, YOU GODDAM ASSBAG, and Peanut flipped them off and tripped over the cans trying to make his way to the median where his family stood looking at him and at the angry drivers and at their own shoes, and he thought if I only had a gun with me I’d pump every one of these pricks full of lead.