“I know. It’s just I see a little girl like that, all happy and shit, and I want to shake her. I want to fucking strangle her, it just hurts so fucking much.”
Chon didn’t say anything. He walked to the back room, slid the envelope under the office door to be counted along with the rest of the week’s receipts by Sammy Alba, Art’s cousin, tomorrow, like on every Monday.
Ana was standing at the front of the store, watching the girl from Premont tell her brother what had happened in the store.
“Ha,” she said, “he flipped me off.” She stood there, looking at the dust kicked up by the brother and his sister and the car that would carry them to their loving home three towns over. “We’re out of Bud Light tall boys and Miller Lite caguamas,” she said. “And four of the microwave burritos were cut into. I think Rocha did it when he opened up the box. I bagged them, they’re in the cooler, leave a note for Sammy so he can write them off and order more beer.”
“Okay, Ana. Thanks,” Chon said.
Ana turned around and looked at him.
“Sometimes I just want to fucking scream. Hell, sometimes I do. I get home and I call detectives and call Bill and I cry. And then I get two days off, and I’m too sad to even go to Flojo’s so I sit at home and drink and cry and, sometimes, I scream.” She gave a laugh. She always laughed at awkward moments. “I’ll see you Wednesday,” she said.
“Well, I’ll be here if you want to drop in,” Chon said. A month ago, she might have taken him up on the offer—showed up on her day off with leftovers and helped him mop the store or stock the cooler.
“I’ll see you Wednesday, Chon-Chon,” she said walking out of the store.
She stood in the doorway trying to light her cigarette. When the wind wouldn’t let her, she crouched down in the corner made by the ice machine and the storefront. Small as she was, she disappeared from Chon’s sight. She could have been crying or curling up in a ball to give up on life or crawling away in the thirty seconds she was down there.
She popped up, cigarette lit, waved goodbye to Chon, and walked around the side of The Pachanga to get to her car. In the drive-thru window, Chon saw a woman tired and alone and who, in a bigger city, would fit right in pushing around a shopping cart and screaming at traffic passing by. She honked her horn when she pulled onto Main, waving at Chon with the back of her hand.
The John stars were Ms. Salinas’ idea. The Mejias were left with some debt after the funeral. Keeping up with the Robison’s arrangements was no easy task. Andres refused any of Arn’s offered money to bridge the gap. Julie had life insurance policies on herself and Andres and had even taken one out on John, but it was a minimal thing—who can ever foresee having to pay for the funeral of your youngest son? Who would want to? Everyone in town knew of the Mejia’s financial problems, so Ms. Salinas took action. What better way for the boys’ teacher to get over her own grief than by helping out?
Ms. Salinas brought up the idea of selling car magnets—stars, like the Johns were and would have been—to raise funds to erase the Mejias’ debt. They agreed—so long as the money made from such a venture would be split evenly with the Robisons. Arn had reservations about accepting any such money but didn’t object because he knew his agreement on the matter would be the only way he and Angie could help Andres and Julie.
The magnets were bought at a discount from Ms. Salinas’ cousin, the owner of a copy shop in Laredo, who informed her of the fact that the color burnt orange is trademarked by the University of Texas and, as such, could not be used commercially. So it was decided that Greenton High’s spearmint green would do as the color for the stars, which read “JOHNS 3:16.”
Art Alba was the only storeowner in town who initially agreed to sell the stars profit-free. When the other stores caught wind of his offer and changed theirs to match, Andres Mejia told them they could all fuck themselves and made The Pachanga the exclusive handler of the stars.
The funeral costs were recouped after a week. The Mejias and Robisons, when they saw that the sale of the stars was not likely to soon die down, decided that all the proceeds would go to a charity.
They had discussed giving the money to UT, but what for? The school had more money than it needed and hadn’t regarded with wonder and awe the Johns the way the Johns had regarded UT. Then there was the Bee County hospital that had treated the boys. But it was agreed by all four parents, without being said by any of them, that the hospital that couldn’t save their boys could burn to the ground for all they cared—and this was also their sentiment regarding the rural ambulance company that responded to the accident. Angie Robison suggested Greenton High and they all agreed. The dirty business of wiping their hands clean of the profits made by the memory of their dead sons was complete. The money would buy new uniforms for the baseball team.
Fake stars were popping up in the surrounding counties, one or two actually surfacing in Greenton. They were shoddy replications. Ms. Salinas’ cousin in Laredo had made a simple but distinguishing augmentation to the shade of Greenton’s spearmint green, which lightened it a bit. The counterfeiters couldn’t seem to duplicate this. Some people were even coming into The Pachanga and purchasing scores of stars to sell at a marked-up price in counties farther away to people who were sympathetic to Greenton’s loss. The Mejias and Robisons, it would seem, were alone in their compunction regarding profiting from the deaths of two teenagers.
Chon was helping a customer, a man in a black Mercedes that had overheated, when Henry walked in.
“Well, sir, we have a water hose at the side of the building that you can use to cool your car down before you put the coolant in,” Chon said, giving Henry a nod. Henry gave him a nod back and walked to the soda fountain in the back of the store.
“But you’re not supposed to take off the radiator cap when the car is hot,” the tall man in khaki shorts and polo T-shirt said. Chon could tell the guy was a Mexican national from his accent and his clothes.
“Well, not really, but you’ve been parked for a while. We can be careful when we open it.” Chon tried to speak slowly, breathing out through his nose—the way the training video Art had all of his employees watch instructed in dealing with elderly and mentally challenged customers and armed robbers. “Listen, sir, I’m just trying to get you out of here as soon as possible. You keep saying you’re in a hurry.”
“Fine, fine,” the man said. “So we cool it with the water and fill it with coolant, but won’t some water stay in the radiator?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s fine. It’ll just dilute the coolant a little bit, but it’s totally fine,” Chon said, looking back at Henry who was calling the guy a jerk off with his hand.
“No. The manual says to only put 50/50 coolant in the radiator, no water,” the man said, putting his car’s manual on the counter and giving a chortle as if to tell this kid that there are complexities of German engineering that he would never comprehend.
Chon let the sarcasm roll off his back. He had become near immune to assholes of all nationalities.
“Alright then, you’ll want four gallons of coolant. They’re across from the Pepsi cooler in the back,” he said.
The man made his way to the automotive section. As he walked up the last aisle, Henry walked down the first—smiling and shaking his head the whole way. He leaned against the ice cream cooler and crossed his arms. Chon showed Henry the palm of his hand and gave him a nod. Just wait.
“$13.99?”
