Oscar Casares
Copyright © 2003 by Oscar Casares
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
First eBook Edition: December 2008
Little, Brown and Company
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The Little, Brown and Company 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.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following publications in which some of these stories were first published: “Yolanda,”
The Threepenny Review;
“Jerry Fuentes,”
Northwest Review.
ISBN: 978-0-316-05517-8
Book design by Fearn Cutler de Vicq
Contents
I Thought You and Me Were Friends
Don't Believe Anything He Tells You
Oscar Casares
was born and raised in Brownsville, Texas. His stories have appeared in
The Threepenny Review, Northwest Review, Colorado Review,
and
The Iowa Review.
A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, he has received the Dobie-Paisano Fellowship from the Texas Institute of Letters and the University of Texas, and the James Michener Award from the Copernicus Society of America. He lives in San Antonio and is working on his first novel.
Para mis padres,
Everardo y Severa Casares
The author wishes to thank the Texas Institute of Letters
and the University of Texas at Austin for the Dobie-Paisano Fellowship,
and the Copernicus Society of America
for the James Michener Award.
I Thought You and Me Were Friends
T
he boy rode in the car with his father. It was late afternoon and they were on their way to buy fireworks. The father had worked a full day and was tired, but he had promised to drive his son to the stands. This was the Fourth of July. They had made the short trip to the edge of town for as long as the boy could remember in his eleven years. He had two older sisters, but they had never enjoyed doing this with their father. When the boy was little, his father lit the fireworks on the sidewalk as the boy watched from the porch with his mother. He would let go of his mother's hand and clap at each small explosion as if he had forgotten the one that had gone off only a minute earlier. Now that he was older, he lit the fireworks with other boys from the neighborhood and sometimes his father stood on the porch to watch.
The fireworks stands were just beyond the city limits sign for Brownsville, Texas. The long and narrow wooden structures were scattered along the dry edges of the highway like giant matches that had fallen from the sky. Behind the stands, the flat sorghum fields stretched for a couple of miles until they reached the Rio Grande. The father stopped next to a stand with a large sign that read MR. Z'S FIREWORKS. The owner of the business introduced himself to the father and they shook hands. “Juan Zamarripa, para servirle,” the owner said. Then it was the boy's turn to shake hands. “Diego Morales, sir,” he said. The owner was an old man and he wore a red baseball cap with the words MR. Z'S FIREWORKS stenciled across the front. His long white sideburns reminded Diego of cotton strands glued to brown construction paper. On his right forearm the owner had a faded tattoo of an eagle. The two men spoke in Spanish while Diego picked out fireworks. A teenage boy who worked behind the counter helped him. After his father paid for the fireworks, the owner motioned for Diego to come closer.
“I think you forgot something,” the old man said as he dropped an extra bottle rocket inside the bag.
“What do you say?” the father was quick to ask.
“Thank you,” Diego said.
The old man nodded. “How old are you, son?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven?” the old man said. “N'hombre, by the time I was your age I had a job and my own money. Are you good in math?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Vamos a ver, let's say I buy three dollars and fifty cents' worth of fireworks and I give you a five-dollar bill. What's my change?”
“One dollar and fifty cents,” Diego said.
“Hey, you're faster than some people I know,” Mr. Z said and glanced at the boy behind the counter. “You should come work for me, son. I don't pay a lot, but you get all your fireworks for fifty percent off.”
Diego looked up at his father.
“If you want the job, you can have it,” his father said.
“Bueno, I have enough help right now,” Mr. Z said. “But I'll call you before New Year's and let's see what we can do.”
That night Diego popped his fireworks in the street with the other neighborhood boys, but he couldn't stop thinking about what had happened earlier that day. He thought of all the other jobs in the world he could have, and none of them were as great as working at a fireworks stand. His sisters didn't even have jobs yet. They were always asking for money to go out with their friends. And now he would be earning enough to buy his own fireworks. Who knew how much he could buy if they were only half price? He told his friends, and some of the older boys wanted to know if they needed more help at the stand. He told them he couldn't say, but he would let them know. The dark sky flashed before him in brilliant colors and New Year's seemed as if it would take forever to get here.
The summer and autumn months passed slowly until Mr. Z phoned Diego the second week of December.
“Are you still interested, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you're willing to work hard?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“That's good, because the boys I hired last summer were lazy. They started off okay, but they got lazy on me.”
“I'll work hard. I'm not lazy.”
“I didn't think you were. Your father doesn't look like a lazy man.”
“No, sir.”
“Bueno, we're opening next week, a few days before Christmas, and going all the way to New Year's. My boys come in at noon and work late. How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds good. All my friends, they wish they could work at your stand.”
“That's good to hear, son,” the old man said. “You stop by next Wednesday and I'll show you how we work at Mr. Z's. Tell your father I can give you a ride home when we close down.”
Diego spent the next few days wishing that he could be at work already. It was a good thing he didn't have to share a room the way his sisters did. He wanted to be alone. He heard his parents talking the night before he started. His mother thought he was too young to be working until the stand closed, but his father said Diego had already promised the man he would work. His boy was not going to back out now. He wouldn't let her treat him like a baby. They were quiet after that. Diego fell asleep wondering how different his life would be if tomorrow ever came.
His father drove home at lunch the next day. He wanted to take his son to his first day of work. Diego had spent some time getting ready that morning. After he showered, he brushed his teeth and put on his favorite blue jeans. He used a few drops of his father's Tres Flores to comb his hair. When they heard the car horn, Diego's mother kissed him on the cheek and told him to be careful. He said okay and ran to the car where his father was waiting.
They cracked the windows open at the top to let in the cool air. The sky was ash gray, as it had been for the past week. On the way to the stands they passed the cafés along International Boulevard, the panadería and its glorious scent of fresh sweet bread, the restaurant that sold barbacoa on Sunday mornings, the service station where the father had worked as a young man.
“You need to pay attention to Mr. Zamarripa,” his father said. “Don't be playing around with the other boys. I want you to be serious. ¿Me entiendes?”
“Yes, sir.”
These were the only words they exchanged on the way to the stand, but Diego knew what his father meant. He wanted Diego to behave and not do anything to embarrass him in front of Mr. Z. The tone of his father's voice was serious. It was the same tone he used right before he got angry. Once, his father had told him to be careful with the orange soda he was drinking in the car and then a minute later, when the soda spilled on the cloth seats, his father slapped him. His father had hit him a couple of other times, enough for Diego to know that tone of voice. When they arrived at the stand, his father stayed in the car and waved to Mr. Z. “Pay attention,” he said.
Another boy was inside the stand with Mr. Z. His name was Ricky and he had also been hired to work. Although they were about the same age, he was shorter and huskier than Diego. Ricky lived in the projects near Diego's house, but they had never met.
It was warmer inside the stand and Diego put away the windbreaker his mother had made him wear. The old man handed each of the boys a red MR. Z'S FIREWORKS cap. They thanked him and put them on. Diego was too busy adjusting the size to notice that his cap was bent and the brim was worn down and dirty.
“Bueno, I'm going to tell you what we got here at Mr. Z's. Black Cats is the most popular firecracker there is.” The old man showed them the black and red package. “You got no Black Cats, you got no New Year's. It's my all-time bestseller. Nobody beats El Gato Negro.” He raised his hands as if they were claws. The boys backed up.
“These are the Black Snakes. You light the fuse and it starts smoking and a tiny snake comes out—these are good for the little kids. Sparklers, too. If a man comes in alone, he probably has kids at home. And, Diego, what do you offer him?”
“Black Snakes and sparklers.”
“That's right, son. Now you're using what God gave you,” the old man said and pointed to Diego's head. “Over here are the smoke bombs, another bestseller. Who doesn't like smoke bombs?”
The boys stared at the old man.
“Who?” he said.
“Nobody?” Ricky said.
“Good answer,” Mr. Z said. “The older kids go for bottle rockets, guaranteed. Roman candles are Roman candles. If you don't know what those are, you're in the wrong business. Silver Jets are new. They make a loud sound like a coffeepot when it's ready. Every pinche perro in the neighborhood barks when they hear it take off. It's for the big kids.”
The boys listened to Mr. Z explain how to sell some of the less-popular fireworks, place the money in a tin box under the counter, and bag everything the customers bought. He covered the stand from one end to the other. Diego already knew all the fireworks because he'd been buying them for years, but he didn't want to tell the old man this and be disrespectful.
When Mr. Z finished, he left the boys in the stand and walked to his pale yellow truck. He had parked it a few yards beyond the stand, the front end pointed into the ditch. There was a camper on the bed that looked rustier than the ancient truck it was attached to. The old man sat in the driver's seat for a long stretch of time. He finally walked to the front of the stand to watch the boys help some customers. After the people drove away, he brought Diego and Ricky together.
“Diego, what's the matter? How come you don't smile more? Who wants to buy fireworks from somebody who's got a serious face?”
“I don't know.”
“You need to smile, son. Right now you look like you're going to the rest room, making number two.” The old man strained his face and pretended he was sitting on a toilet.
Ricky laughed. So did Diego, but then he remembered what his father had said and he tried to be serious again.
