brains out hasta que se echó una bota. Así, like you could a hear a boot hitting the water.”
He made his face all red and strained-looking. “All he could do was say, ‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die,’ and buy all the Gatorade he could buy at the Centrál. De verás güey, it was diarrhea from Satan.”
“Whatever, Smiley.”
He grabbed my arm, “No, no, no, it was The Evil Runs, güey. For reals, true story, I’m not kidding.” I was laughing now, forgetting all about Llorona and Rey.
“I’m serious, ése. Let me tell you, my jefe, he almost died from dehydration and frustration from having to sit on the toilet so much. He even lost his job because of it. So then what he did right, was he hired a curandera to do a cleaning on him, and she rubbed the egg over his body and he was all better. The little egg sucked out all the curse from his body like some kind of spiritual vacuum cleaner. Afterward, my jefe was laying there, sweating. He was thinking how nice it would be to go to the restroom like a normal person without having to kick everybody out of the house, because when he was cursed every cagada was like an exorcism. Then the curandera said she wanted to show my jefe something. She broke the huevito and poured out the yolk, which is normally yellow, right. But let me tell you, the yolk looked all black, like tar or something, and it smelled gacho, like menudo that had been left outside for three days. The curandera poured the evil yolk into a coffee can, and said all the evil was there in the Folgers. Let me tell you my dad could never eat eggs again. He would just smell eggs cooking, right, and then get real bad asco like he needed to throw up or have the runs and have to go drop water again. Así.”
His face went all red again like he was on the toilet. “‘Ay Dios mío, I’m dying. Give me peace.’ That was my jefe. He always told us stories like that.”
I looked at him as he stared off, thinking about his jefe. What was it like to not have your father anymore, to know that he was gone forever? Mine was a drunk and I barely saw him, but at least he was still physically around. The crazy thing was, Smiley and Ángel’s dad was more present in their lives than mine was. I knew because in their apartment, their mom had a shrine set up in his memory. There were snapshots of their father when he was an old school pachuco with the black hairnet and the Stacy Adams shoes. Old school. When Ángel was born, he straightened out, quit hanging out on the streets, but it didn’t matter. The cancer from the cigarettes got him. The way Ángel and Smiley talked about him, he was a good man when he was alive, letting them smoke cigarettes and drink beer with him if their mama wasn’t around, playing cards and always talking about the old days when he was in the gangs in McAllen. My father knew who he was back in the day, and said he would fight with knives or tire irons, always fighting dirty. But like I said all his gangster ways changed when he had Ángel and then Smiley. He had taken care of them and was home a lot. It wasn’t good or fair that he was dead.
Real quick, because he could see something else starting in my eyes, he said, “Cirilo, it’s a true story, carnál, and I tell it to you so you’ll forget about her. Ella no vale.”
He was probably right. She wasn’t worth it. “You think so, huh?”
“No, I know so. If I looked like you, I’d have all kinds of girls calling me all the time. I would be the biggest player around.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, güey.”
four
Later, when I was ready, we caught up with Ángel, Monstruo, Bobby, and Rigo at Spencer’s. They were flipping through the posters. This club kid cashier kept looking at them like they were going to steal something, as if they were actually going to try and put one of those poster rolls inside their pants or something.
Rigo looked at the cashier and said loud, “¿Qué onda? HCP love.” Rigo was as loud as Monstruo and Bobby were quiet. He was the one always throwing the signs, trying to get all the attention any time we went anywhere. I couldn’t remember how many fights he had started. Rigo was the one who said he was puro thug life more than he actually was. Basically, he was a wannabe who hadn’t officially been jumped in, but not like I was. I associated with HCP, but I wasn’t always trying too hard like Rigo, and didn’t roll with Ángel and Smiley because I wanted to belong. I was friends with them because of what we had been through together, how they always had my back and how I had theirs. I didn’t have their backs because it was expected, or because I claimed HCP with them. The only jumped in members, the only Puro HCPs I rolled with were Ángel, Smiley, Monstruo, and Bobby and they didn’t really care that I wasn’t official. It’s not like we were Vallucos or Mexican Mafia or Sureños 13 or Norteños or any of the other big gangs. If I really thought about it, when it was just us, we never thought of ourselves as a gang. Ángel and the others took on this identity only when we were around others that didn’t roll with us. That is when the throwing of the signs happened, when the tattoos started to come out.
I walked up to Monstruo and Bobby and they put out their hands and gave us their usual silent saludos, the lift of the chin, the smile and the old school handshake, with the three different shakes in one. Monstruo and Bobby went with us to Dennett High School too and were in my grade, but I didn’t have any classes with them because we had different schedules. They took classes in the Resource.
Ángel said to me, “You all right?” He raised his big single eyebrow, looked me over, patting my shirt, as if he was looking for stab wounds or bruises. Ángel always spoke in a voice low enough so only we could hear, like even our greetings were not meant to be heard by others. “Don’t even stress it, carnál. Don’t even worry about it, I told you and told you already. Esa chisquiada, she’s not worth it.” I didn’t like when he called her crazy like that.
Monstruo and Bobby flashed their new Tec-9 shaped rings they’d just bought in Reynosa. Every couple of weeks, Monstruo and Bobby came back from Mexico or the Pulga with some new piece of jewelry. A couple of weeks before this, they had bought pendants with the $ symbol, that had thick “gold” chains.
Rigo said, “You fools showing off that fake gold again? You all killed it already.”
Ángel said, “Cállate, güey. Better fake gold than being a fake Mexican who can’t even speak Spanish. Puro Almond Joy.” Rigo just sucked his teeth and didn’t say anything. He never said anything to Ángel.
“Don’t be popping your gums at me. ¿Oye Almond Joy, te calmas o te calmo?” Rigo just rolled his eyes and looked away, either because he didn’t understand or because he knew better. Rigo could talk real loud, and wasn’t afraid of anyone else but Ángel, but couldn’t back it up with fists and if he did with words, none of it was ever in Spanish. This was why he was Almond Joy, just as brown as anyone on the outside, but white on the inside because he couldn’t speak any Spanish. He basically understood and could say a few words, but if he had to order food, talk smack, or talk to someone’s grandma, forget it. Rigo was like my opposite because I was white on the outside and brown on the inside, I laughed to myself.
Smiley backed up Monstruo and Bobby and said, “Miralos. Todos bling-blings.” They bought the cheap fake gold in the same stores you could buy the fake Rolex watches that had the hour-marks that fell off and rolled around inside the crystal and the second hands that didn’t flutter like the real ones did. I could tell a real Rolex from a fake one because Pop had the real thing, two of them even. The gold Monstruo and Bobby wore faded a week after they bought it, which was why they were always buying something new.
Monstruo and Bobby looked at me to see what I thought of their new jewelry.
“De aquellas, güey,” I lied. It was cheap, not good quality
