Flying Shoes (29 page)

The terrible white-boy music throbbed in Teever’s leg and skull. “What the fuck we listening to?” he asked. He put his hands up to the heat vents to warm them and felt the music in his fingers.

L. B. chuckled. “Slobberbone. They played at Jerry’s the other night and gave me one of their tapes. You don’t like it?”

“More like
Clobber
bone, to me. Shit’s hurtin’ my head
and
my foot,” Teever said.

L. B. laughed again and turned the tape off. The big hospital building rose before them, every window a coldly glowing, fluorescent square. “
That’s
where you need to be, bro. The ER. Their electricity don’t never go out.” He pulled up at the D & L Package Store across from the hospital.

“No way.” Teever shook his head. In the ER he’d have to wait for hours, and there were always too many cops around. “No way,” he said again. Now that the music had stopped, he hated to get out of the cab and its smoky, grapey coziness. Drops of sweat crept from his temples, but he was stone cold.

“You really think these Mexicans gonna fix you up?” L. B. asked. He got out again to help Teever climb down. “At least that sleet shit has quit.”

“I’m good,” Teever said. “I’m like a worm in hot ashes; I got to keep movin’. Thanks for the ride, bro. I appreciate it. Look out for those fires, now.”

“Man, you sure you’re not gonna end up in a enchilada?” L. B. grinned.

“I’ll be okay.” He tried to smile back at L. B. To himself he added, sure do hope so.

L. B. cranked up his Slobberbone and drove off into the night. Teever dragged the foot across the parking lot. The package store was open, of course, and lit with dinky, colored Christmas lights. Dog and Lena must have a little generator, he thought; maybe he’d borrow it for the hooch after the storm. He felt seriously in need of a drink. Dog and Lena were smart; put a liquor store across from the doctors. Doctors had to have their toddies, buy shit by the case, in and out of there twenty-four/twenty-four in their green doctor pajamas. One time he had even seen a patient coming out of the store, a brown bag and a smoke in one hand and using the other hand to hold together one of those butt-crack hospital shirts. He hoped the Mexicans at least would have enough liquor or beer to knock him out. He felt like his heart was beating in his toes.

Teever limped around the big ice bin to the side of D & L. The front trailers were set like a wagon train circled up in a cowboy show. More trailers were rowed up in the woods beyond, and a path that wasn’t really anything but an old pig trail led to them. Somebody had paved the path with flattened Bud Light cans set in the mud in a kind of pattern, with some of the cans flattened length-wise and others stomped into disks. They picked up whatever light was around—not much—and shone blue and silver in the night. Two hooptie vans sat off to the side and some old bikes covered in ice leaned against a tree. Rising up from the circled trailers was the Mexicans’ sad
Zorro
music, smoke, and sprays of golden sparks. They’d already built a kind of teepee bonfire to burn off all the skinny pines and junk that had fallen in the storm. The warm, orange glow of the flames lit up the scrubby blackjack and bare sweet gums that were still standing around the outside of the camp.

The trailers looked horrible because they were owned by Booger Britches. They were the most pitiful, raggedy-ass ones in town. Broken windows were patched with cardboard, mangled blinds hung in many. A few had sagging window units that probably didn’t work, and some had no steps, just cinderblocks stacked to the doors. The trailers sat, rusted and peeling, back in the brush on the dirt lot, which in summer was a baking dust bowl and in winter a muddy bog. Black folks wouldn’t live in a Booger Britches property; only these guys or students who’d use them for parties or fuck huts. But Mexicans had a lot of shit figured out. Had the front trailers set up for different things, separate from the ones back where they really stayed. There was a store trailer where they could rent leaf blowers or weed eaters to make extra cash on weekends, and they could buy beer or bread or Cokes or candy, whatever. They could live off the land, too, selling squirrel and birds and deer parts out of a freezer chest in the store trailer. Teever knew that for a while they had had a deal with some rednecks who were spotlighting deer and selling them to the Mexicans, who processed them and sold them again to each other. Another trailer might be a party trailer where they played their music and watched TV; and another, Teever was pretty sure, was a church because the blue and white spray-paint sign that said
iglesia de dios pentecostes monte de los olivos
had some crosses on it. In a few months, some new Mexicans would come and these old boys would move on to better trailers, or wad up together in a pitiful house. Edna Hill, his brother’s mean-ass ex, owned a lot of them out on Old 7. She was like a black Booger Britches.

Teever limped on into the circle where a handful of men sat on milk crates and lawn chairs around the fire. Meat sizzled on a jinky grill. The pieces were long and bony, some kind of nub or claw on one end. Not like anything regular folks ate. Their food always smelled delicious, but Teever knew better than to try it unless he could see that it was an animal he knew. He wasn’t sure if Mexicans ate dog like the gooks did or not. Anyway he was not hungry and the idea of strange meat brought on a powerful quease. He began to salivate in a bad way and had started to shiver and wanted to be closer to the fire. Moving in, he swallowed and said punily, “Aayyy amigos. Que pasa? This storm somethin’ enough, ain’t it?” to the men, who looked at him blearily. He always liked the way they had different outfits: some of the young ones dressed like gangsters or students. A couple older dudes sported straw cowboy hats. One pointed to Teever’s foot and rattled off some Spanish, another reached back behind him and with one hand retrieved a milk crate and tossed it to, or at, Teever without even looking at him. Teever decided to interpret this as a welcome though he wasn’t sure.

“Thanks, amigo, but I’m gone to have to stand or lay,” he said, not sure that the pain in the foot would allow him to lower himself to milk-crate level. The men looked away. They all had Bud Lights and were studying the bonfire. Two liquor boxes of empties sat next to the grill, and pop-tops were scattered thickly in the mud like coins at the bottom of a fountain.

“Y’all got a extra beer?” he asked. What he really hoped for was some of that homemade shine he knew they had for special occasions.
That
shit
was
stout.
He really needed to take the edge off, bad. His whole damn leg was hurting. Someone passed him a beer, which he popped and chugged gratefully. Pointing at his gimped leg with its sorry, raggedy bandage, he said, “Me footo choppo.” Pantomiming a big machete slicing his foot, he added, “Son of a bitch
killing
my ass.” He grimaced and grabbed his leg to make the point. “El medicine-o?” he queried, tipping an air shot to his lips. A couple of the men looked at him and looked back at the fire, ignoring him.

The two youngest-looking guys, just kids, spoke to each other, and one got to his feet and started toward a trailer that a tree must have fallen on. Blue plastic was spread across the crushed part of the roof. The kid called out “Antonio!” as he went inside. Teever sucked down some more beer. The
Zorro
music played on—guys singing with old-school acoustic guitars. Everyone seemed glum. Teever could see it wasn’t going to be party night at the trailer-ios.

A new Mexican emerged from the smushed trailer with the young dude behind him carrying a jar of clear liquid. He held the door with his elbow for a rooster the size of a turkey vulture who hopped down and began pecking in the frozen mud. The new guy was heftier and older, a little sinister, with a massive head and an unhappy face on the front of it. He approached Teever, holding up a plastic Walmart bag. Teever was surprised to see the guy had a silver grille. “No fucking
way
!” He laughed a little and shook his head. He hoped that jar was filled with shine. The guy pointed at Teever’s trashed foot and said some Spanish—
Pinche chupacabras cayó en una trampa
—that made all the Mexicans laugh. “Y’all laugh all you want, amigos,” he said to the headman. “Just please, please,
please
help me out, bros.” The headman came closer, pulling a big Coke bottle from the inside pocket of his beat-up hunting jacket. The liquid inside looked like Gatorade, greenish but thick. The rooster followed, and stood beside the man. Both regarded Teever carefully. Rummaging in his bag, the Mexican brought out two dried yellow flowers and a small dinged-up metal bowl. After crumbling the flowers into the bowl, he poured a finger of the pale greenish liquid from the Cock bottle over the buds. Using his big fingertips like a pestle, he emulsified the mixture and then bent down to nestle the bowl in the glowing coals.

The headman gestured to the rooster and said, “Es Muhammad Ali,” and handed the Coke bottle to Teever, miming for him to drink. “He ees thee greatess.” On cue, the rooster crowed.

“I can see he a badass,” Teever said. This shit did not taste like the other shit he’d had with Mexicans before, which tasted like the cough syrup Mudbird gave him, but he figured it was best to do whatever dude said. With the bottle still upturned, he cut his eyes over at the headman before swallowing to be sure he was doing right. The guy waved his hand and nodded, wanting Teever to hit it again. After four or five pulls, the headman reached for the Coke bottle and capped it. He ordered one of the men off a chaise and gestured for Teever to sit down. Most of the nylon webbing was busted out, but he slung his ass into it—the pain was excruciating—and tried to situate the throbbing leg and watermelon foot. It had become so swollen and hurt so much it was taking on a life of its own—a separate, faceless, limbless, and cruel being. Someone threw a Stuckey’s Indian blanket on him.

As the headman began unwrapping the sodden bandage, the kid lit a cigarette and handed it to Teever. Teever gave him a bright, grateful smile that he hoped signaled international goodwill. He said, “We are the world, dudes. Fuckin-ay.”

Out of another deep pocket, the head guy pulled a biggish knife with a broad, shiny blade. On each side was a cutting edge and it was pointed, like a leaf, broad in the middle. More like a spear. The handle was darkly stained and crudely carved with a figure on all fours. It looked familiar to Teever but he couldn’t think why. With his wide, brown fingers the Mexican began slicing through the twine and dirty T-shirts to get at the wound, the whole time talking and laughing with the other men around the fire.

Teever was sorry to see the T-shirts get cut; the outermost one was his favorite. Even though it said
kkg-sae swap 1993 pimps and hos
, there was a picture of Shaft and Foxy Brown. But he was pretty relaxed and feeling better now, so whatever. That shit is
goood
, whatever the fuck it is, he moaned to himself.

Now Teever could see that the guy did not have a grille but that each of his upper teeth was actually silver. The yellow and red flames reflected off the silvery choppers and inside the dude’s mouth his red and blue tongue was globular and fleshy. Like that flying, flaming heart thing they prayed to, Teever thought. Could this dude be some kind of preacher?

“Hey!” he said woozily to the headman. “What’s your name, amigo?” Teever pointed at himself. “Teever.” Then he pointed at the guy and raised his eyebrows. The Mexican laughed, showing his mouthful of silver and juicy heart again, and said something Teever couldn’t begin to pronounce. It sounded like “queer and arrow.”

“Naw man,” he said, shaking his half-fro. “Far as I’m concern, you Dr. Bernardo.” Teever called most Mexicans “Bernardo” after the best character on
Zorro
, the weird little bald dude in the bullfighter suit who couldn’t talk but knew everything that was going on. He liked him because Bernardo was always saving Zorro’s gay ass and fucking with that fat fuck, Sergeant Garcia.

“Sí,” Dr. Bernardo laughed. “Sí. Bernardo.” He pointed to Teever and said, “Mayate loco,” cracking the other men up.

Teever grinned. “Y’all can speak all the spickish trash at me y’all want to long as you keep passing that bottle.”

The mummified foot was now unwrapped and the disgusting, clay-caked wound was revealed, causing all the men to make sick faces and shake their heads. One muttered darkly, “Ayy, asqueroso.” It smelled some, but not too bad. Roadkill, or the nasty water in the zinnia jar when his grandma had thrown dead flowers out. Everyone was looking at the foot. It was porno. The toes were swollen to bursting like purple grapes, and the angry slash ran from the ball of Teever’s toes to his heel, red and gaping and oozing. A guy on the far side of the fire pointed at the foot and said something and the others chuckled but didn’t look too happy. “Yeah, I know,’ said Teever, “look more like bad leftover pussy than foot.” Maybe Mexicans had never seen black folks’ feet, how different they were, black on top and baby-ass pink on the bottom, nor somebody with such funky toenails. Ever since Nam his toenails had looked like Fritos, thick, yellow, and opaque, the nails on each toe the size of a nickel. Couldn’t blame them for looking ill. He looked around at the Mexicans’ hands, stubby and tan all over. Funny how that was. Black folks’ hands and feet told the whole story of black and white, how they had both in them, and these guys had nothing but pure, one-hundred-percent brown Mexican.

An ambulance wailed and Teever was glad not to be in the emergency room, even if he didn’t know what these guys were fixing to do. The kid set down the jar of clear stuff.