We’re rolling around the northside, looking for some place called Arturo’s. It’s this club that Nacho says we can get into without ID. I don’t really want to go because this place is for old people, but Nacho’s hot for some chick he met at the mall and she told him she’d be there tonight. She sold him some ugly sunglasses and he spent an hour trying to look cool for her. He even put the fucking things on right after he bought them. I kept laughing at him standing in front of that Sunglass Hut cubicle, but he didn’t pay attention because I was sitting at one of the benches behind him as he talked to this girl. He looked like a clown, wearing those shades and trying to convince her to give him her number. But she did it. “So fuck you, fucker,” he said, waving it at me. He didn’t even have the smarts not to wave it around in front of her.
I know Arturo’s will be lame, but I didn’t want to stick around the house with Grams another night. Tonight this new kid, Leo, is riding around with us. He’s alright, but he’s real quiet. An unsettling kind of quiet, a Christopher Walken kind of quiet. He’s from L.A. and his parents sent him to the academy to keep him from doing the shit he was doing in Califas.
After half the night, we find the place. It’s worse than I thought it would be. I like joints that are shitholes but know that they are shitholes. This place is a shithole that thinks it’s not. There’s a bunch of older people prancing around in suits and tight dresses. They have a band playing, but they suck. They’re trying to do an imitation of Sonny & the Sunliners, playing these old fifties love ballads one minute and then the faggy lead singer going into an Engelbert Humperdinck routine, shaking his fat ass up on the stage. Even the Mexican music sucks. No cumbia or polka. Just some tired orchestra shit.
Nacho finds his girl. I have to admit she looks kind of hot. She’s wearing this tight, short black dress, showing off her thinness and her nice legs, long and all shapely. I try not to look at her too much because I’m high and I’m a little paranoid. So Leo and me are sitting at a table watching Nacho dance to the corny music, but he’s doing a good job. That motherfucker can dance. Leo’s not much of a conversationalist. He’s more the cold-blooded starer, with an almost stalker type of intensity. I don’t feel much like talking, anyway. So we drink rum and Coke and chill.
“Wanna dance with Diana?” It’s Nacho and he’s trying to be cool, like, “You fuckers don’t threaten me.” I say sure and I take her out for a spin, only I’m not too coordinated at that moment and I’m bumping into people. Thing is, this girl’s kind of grinding me. Maybe I’m imagining it, but my pingo knows what’s up. I can’t lie to him. The way I look at it, I got no choice. I didn’t ask to dance with this chick and Nacho took his chances trying to be suave, so I go ahead and lean into it a little bit. The band goes off for a break and by accident the DJ puts on a nice slow groove. I spin her around a little bit and notice that Nacho is watching us, but I don’t care and I feel her put her arms around my hips. So I go with it and slide them around and she’s holding me loosely so that I can feel her hands gliding down around my ass. I put one of my hands on the back of her head and she puts her face on my shoulder, only she’s facing my neck and I can feel her breath, her lips so close that my pellitos stand up around the edges of my mouth. So what’s all this about, but before I can finish the thought, the song goes off and the DJ puts on some old heavy metal song, so I walk her back to the table. Nacho’s looking at me funny, but I play it off and just shrug my shoulders. “She’s hot, motherfucker.” He seems to be satisfied with that. He takes her back on the floor without skipping a beat.
After a few drinks, with nothing else to do, I find myself almost missing my pops, regretting that I’ve never heard him play at a club. I wonder where he is. I never ask Grams anymore. It makes her feel bad that her son doesn’t call very often. He does send some dough, but Grams needs it all to help out with the tuition.
Elena shows up and she says, “Hey,” but I’m not in the mood to talk. I sit at the table and drink up, all the while Nacho and even Leo, who’s loosened way up, lead the girls around the floor. “Come on, get out there. Diana’s a good teacher,” Nacho says, grinning. He’s good at picking up heavy vibes.
“Nah,” I say. I don’t want to go out there. I’m bummed now and I feel like going home. “I’m fine right here. This isn’t my bag. This stuff is for old folks.”
“C’mon, sad boy,” Diana says, grabbing me by the hand. She leads me out on the floor again. She’s a little drunk now and I get the sense that she’s tired of Nacho. Having my arms around her makes me sad and excited. She smells sweet, her breath like the wine we’ve been drinking at the table. We go around in a circle, and I realize that I am hot for Nacho’s girl.
After, we decide to go to the park. First thing Nacho does is roll a joint. He steps outside the car with Leo to smoke it. I’m about to go out, too, but Diana holds me back and whispers, “Why don’t we stay here and talk.” Nacho doesn’t seem to care. He’s tripping by now anyway and he’s more concerned with whirling Elena and Leo around a merry-go-round, laughing like all hell is breaking loose. “He’s a maniac,” she says, but not like it’s a compliment. “You’re already older than him, I can tell just by the way you look at me.” She leans over and kisses me. “Watch out,” I say, backing off even though I don’t feel like it. “Nacho’s been talking about you all day since he saw you at the mall. It wouldn’t be cool for him to come back and find his boy messing with his dream girl.”
Diana acts mad. “I’m nobody’s girl. I’m just here to see what’s what. I like you better already, but suit yourself.” I look back at Nacho and he’s acting a fool now, lying on the grass singing and laughing. I look over at Diana. She really is beautiful, light brown hair and smart, playful eyes that make me want to be with her. I reach over and pull her to me again, this time kissing her without thinking about anything but how good her lips taste, how warm her tongue is as I smooth my tongue over her slick teeth. I’m crazy, I know, but I’m into her already.
* * *
A couple of weeks later, I find out that Diana’s father owns this barbacoa joint called Los Reyes Molino. And she tells me that he always needs part-time workers there, especially on the weekends. I’m not that interested, but I agree because it’s kind of hard to say no when she’s rubbing my belly, lying in my bed. Plus, the sixty bucks for two days’ work doesn’t sound so bad, either.
I show up at five in the morning feeling hung over. I didn’t want to come. I’d changed my mind, but Diana called me up this morning to wake me up. I guess her dad has had too many workers who’ve blown it off when they feel that morning hammer come down at four A.M. when they try to drag themselves out of bed.
The building is a squat beige deal with an ugly tin roof and a tacky white sign that says LOS REYES MOLINO: BARBACOA, TAMALES Y TORTILLAS. I can’t imagine any king wanting to eat that shit, but I don’t have too much time to consider the irony. Once inside, Diana’s mom, this fat, short woman who seems to be moving constantly and talking at the same time, throws an apron in my direction.
“You Robert?”
She doesn’t seem to know who I am. Diana’s been sneaking around behind their backs. She’s only sixteen and not supposed to be going out, let alone fucking cholitos like me. That’s why her parents send her to Incarnate Word High School for girls. They’ve made the mistake of thinking that being around the nuns and the Virgin will make her good.
“Yes, I’m Robert,” I say, already getting a vibe that this isn’t gonna work out. She makes me nervous flapping her jaws like she is, not bothering to look at me while she busies herself looking around for something to give the new boy to do.
“Yeah, well, m’ija told me you’re a hard worker, that right?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, tying the white apron around my waist.
“Well, we’ll see.” She gives me a suspicious look, already sizing me up. “You know I take care of my boys so long as they work, but you gotta be busy all the time. You won’t believe how busy we’re gonna get today. You just wait.”
I don’t know whether to wait or get busy, but she doesn’t give me much time to think about it. “Okay, you take one of those washcloths, dunk it in that water with the bleach in it, and start cleaning the counters.”
I take one of the cloths and start shining up the stainless-steel counters, which are streaked with congealed grease. The bleach smells strong and it covers up the whiff of corn that’s barely hanging in the air. “Smells good in here,” I tell her, but she doesn’t say anything and I decide that will be the end of my chitchat for the day. After a while, maybe about fifteen minutes, this other kid comes in the door. He’s thin but wiry and he has big teeth that make him look kind of goofy except for the fact that he doesn’t look too happy about anything.
“Who are you?” he says none too friendly.
“Who’re you?” I say without even looking at him.
“I’m Renaldo, vato. And I’ve been here a long time.” He keeps staring at me while he ties on his apron. “Yeah, that’s right. Been here for two years. So, who are you? Some goddamn relative?”
“I’m a friend of Diana’s.”
“That lazy puta?” he says with contempt. “I hate that little bitch.”
“Watch your mouth,” I say, “it doesn’t sound like you know her well at all.” He gets this look on his face, like he just discovered a Jerry Springer–type secret.
“Oh, you’re that kind of friend. You bangin’ that nalga?”
“Hey, vato, I told you to watch your mouth,” I’m getting ready to clock this motherfucker.
He turns back toward the bucket with the washcloths and I decide to ignore him because I can see that he’s a punk, anyway.
After a few more minutes this other guy comes in. I like him better than Renaldo right from the beginning. He’s a body-builder type, but you can tell he’s cool. He walks in humming some song or something and he says hello to everyone with a smile. He comes up to me and offers me his hand right away. “I’m Jorge. You new?”
“Yeah, I’m Robert.” He shakes my hand Chicano style—thumb-grip, to hooked fingers, and ending with the palm-to-palm. But he doesn’t do it corny like some of those old-timers who try, only they’re so drunk they get it all wrong.
“I gotta do my stuff in the back,” he says, “I’ll talk to you later.” As soon as he splits, Renaldo comes up to me.
He hates Jorge. “That son of a bitch thinks he’s strong,” he says. “He ain’t so fucking strong. He thinks he’s bad, always taking off on those body-building contests, trying to win, coming in here bragging about how he placed.” He watches him walking across the store. “He don’t got shit. I got more muscles than him. Look at this.” He lifts his shirt up and shows me his stomach, which I have to admit has no fat, just a pretty defined six-pack. “And this,” he says, flexing his shoulders and biceps at the same time. This is getting a little gay, but I nod. “You see, I just don’t go showing it off.”
I find out that Renaldo lives in the Alizondo Courts, a housing project close to the stockyards, la matanza. That place stinks so bad that coming in from town, when you have to pass the yards where you get off the highway to get to the westside, you have to roll up the windows and hold your nose so as not to smell that sick-sweet stench. Fucking slaughterhouse makes you want to throw up. People usually drive fast to get past the yards. But they drive even faster through Alizondo, or Tripa Courts. Motherfuckers get dropped there. It’s known as the most violent spot in San Antonio. Me and Grams live on the westside, but I don’t go near that place. The courts are surrounded on one side by the stockyards, on the other by a huge length of drainage canals to keep the area from flooding in the rainy season. Renaldo has to walk to work on the weekends, maybe an hour in the dark, cold morning. He tells me he doesn’t care; in fact he prides himself on it. “I’m no fucking punk-ass, man. Lots of pussies in the courts, dude, but I’ll walk around by myself and shit. I don’t need a fucking gang to watch my back like some punk bitch.” He flashes a set of knuckles that’s got a Phillips screwdriver head attached between the middle two rings. “I’ll fuck anyone up with this. I always got my hand in my pocket, too. Once, this pendejo tried to jump me on my way home. I punched him in his eye. Motherfucker’s walking around like a cyclops now.”
Jorge lives on the westside, too, but in the neighborhood, and he goes to Kennedy High School, which is the best in the area. That’s part of the reason that Renaldo hates him, I think. Renaldo dropped out of La Techla, the worst high school in the city. But more than that, it’s like some westside East of Eden setup, the two of them competing for Diana’s mom’s attention and approval, only Jorge knows he has it, and skinny, shifty Renaldo knows he doesn’t. I don’t guess that he’s got a mom, either, but I’m lucky that I don’t have to consider that crazy-assed manic midget my moms.
The three of us make sure everything is ready for opening, sweeping and mopping the cement floor, wiping the counters, counting the register money. And then Diana’s mom opens the doors for the people lined up outside in the gray dawn. The crowd never lets up on Saturdays or Sundays. People line up holding their four or five dollars, buying the meat and a couple of dozen tortillas, ready to take the food home for their families to eat together on the only day they can spend with each other since the old man probably works like a dog during the week, and the mom, too. What’s behind this barbacoa thing is that the family can just hang together, eating some tacos, making that goddamned hard week bearable.
Hardly anyone drives to the molino. Most people walk since they live in the neighborhood and most of them don’t have their own ride. This is the westside and if you can afford the bus, you’re lucky. The cars around here are mostly big-assed, rumbling, beat-up pickups or station wagons, driven by some poor, tired-looking migrant type wearing a sweat-stained cowboy hat. Those guys come in, sometimes in twos, compadres, talking in Spanish, laughing every once in a while while they talk shit about the new pendejo foreman or some white fuck who took a fall or stepped through a ceiling. They order a pound of this and a pound of that.
Women come in, too. They come in wearing rollers and chanclas, the cheapy terry-cloth ones you buy at HEB for two dollars. Those shits come in three colors: baby blue, pretty pink, and vanilla white. The women don’t care what they look like at this time in the morning. They’re there to pick up some food for their kids and husbands, and anyway, they only live down the block, and who the hell is there to impress?
We work fifteen, sixteen hours straight. No official lunch. Just a few breaks in the back where you can eat anything you want for free. I try everything. Hot pork carnitas wrapped in a corn tortilla. Tamales from huge tin cans that hold twelve dozen. Barbacoa, always the “all-meat” for me, which I comb through back there, making sure it is the leanest I can get. I stay away from the menudo. That shit smells good, like warm corn, but its full of tripa and I’m not into eating intestines. There’s pan dulce, too, and Mexican candy, and sodas and juices. Eating is not going to be a problem, but we do it fast because always there’s pinche customers waiting.
Diana lied to my ass. She said it was an easy job, just take the money and give the customers the food. But she didn’t tell me all of them would be ordering in Spanish and fast Spanish, too. “Dame dos libras de barbacoa, toda carne. Dos dozenas de tortillas de maiz. Un cuarto de menudo, doz regalitos, y dame un ojo.” They say it quick and I’m trying to process that info, write it down on a little slip of paper and weigh that shit out, and they’re holding on to their rolled-up wad of ones looking impatient. There’s this mojado type who’s looking like he wants to fuck with me because he can tell I’m a pocho. “Andale muchacho, chingado, que tienes?” I don’t like his face, so I give him my “Fuck you, motherfucker” look and slow down. Everybody’s in a hurry and I got all this barbacoa grease on my face and hands and leaking all over my clothes. They keep the barbacoa in two huge metal tins, and when someone orders it, I go scoop it out onto some butcher paper, weigh it, wrap it. The “all meat” isn’t as popular as the “regular” because it’s more expensive, but I wouldn’t want to eat the regular. We’re always pulling chunks of cow lips out of that shit. I find big-assed cow teeth in there, too. I put them in my pocket so I can freak out Nacho when he’s stoned.
The thing of it is, I don’t mind the barbacoa. It’s the other stuff that the Mexican cooks in the back scrape off of the cow head that makes me want to throw up. Those guys get to the store Friday night and start cooking up the heads. They load them into this huge metal pressure cooker that looks like an atomic bomb or something. It takes a while to load those heavy heads in there and arrange them just right. They take hours to cook and then those guys go to work, scraping all the meat off. They take everything that’s edible off, too. First, there’s the lengua, a six-pound cow tongue that looks like it’s ready to take a big lick even though it’s been cooked. It grosses me out to have to serve that shit, but these westsiders love it. “Dame una libra de lengua.” I hate to hear that. It means cutting into the big tongue and it gives me the willies. After a couple of times, I don’t even bother doing it. It doesn’t matter to me how much a customer orders, I give them the whole damned thing, being careful not to let it slide off the big fork as I plop it into a cardboard basket and wrap it up before it leaks all over the fucking place. A close second as far as nausea factor is sesos. A big pile of cold, gray brains sitting in a metal tub. I’m like, what the hell is that shit? Jorge laughs and says, That’s sesos, you know, brains. “People eat that?” I’m amazed at the idea.
“It’s good for your thinking, man.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “I mean, if I was some sort of starving Aztec son of a bitch, I might eat that, but right now, I wouldn’t give it to Grams, and she’ll suck a chicken wing till it flies.”
But the people order it. I’ve seen a big meat-eatin’ Mexican order a pound of it and say, “Hey, don’t wrap it up just yet.” And he’ll pull out a corn tortilla and spread some of that gray gook on it and munch the brain taco down in three bites flat. I guess my face contorts into a look of disgust, because the guy smiles at me with brain goo on his teeth and he says, “Mmmm, that’s damn good.”
But ojos are the worst. They pop those eyeballs loose from the cowheads and toss ’em in a pan, cow pupils all which a way, staring at nothing and everything at the same time. This dude, Pedro, his job is to sit in front of that pan on a stool with a filet knife and cut the brown pupil away. He takes a fork and pulls out the ocular nerve, also gray and looking like a big mushroom. He’s about thirty years old and he’s got a fat wife who comes in at about nine in the morning. She goes through the back door and takes home this garbage bag full of the shit that was rejected from the morning’s cowheads. “For the dogs,” Pedro says when he sees me checking out his hefty wife struggling with about thirty pounds of the most heinous “meat” I’ve ever seen. It looks like somebody just dismembered a couple of murder victims, or like an autopsy. “Dogs love it. It’s good for them,” he says, smiling at me.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering how long it’ll be before his dogs jump his ass for making them eat that nasty slop.
* * *
After a few trips back to the cook room, I notice the guys are talking shit about me. They’re looking me over, cracking a joke or two, but I try to be cool and join in the conversation during break, but they want to put me to the test. Finally, Pedro looks at me, giving me an “Are you a pussy?” look.
“Ay, Beto,” he says, shortening my name, “ay, we got a question for you.”
I stand there with a fifteen-pound tin of tamales in my arms. “What’s up?”
“We wanna know one thing, vato.” He looks at his pals to show me that they all really want to know. “Are you a man?”
“What?” I know that he’s up to something, but I’m kind of unclear. It’s a weird question. I think maybe I’m gonna have to fight someone.
“Are you a man, that’s all we want to know. Do you have huevos or do you have huevitos?” It’s a provocative question but I don’t think about it too long.
“My balls are big enough,” I say, trying to sound sure of it.
“Come here, then,” he says. I put down the tin and walk closer to them. They’re all smiling at one another. Pedro reaches into the aluminum bin and pulls out a big round eyeball, bigger than a golf ball. He holds it out, looking into my eyes. “Let’s see you eat it.”
Everyone is looking at me. Brown eyes everywhere, even the eyeball in Pedro’s hand is staring up at me, all dull and wrinkly, like maybe it would wink if it still had an eyelid. I take it out of his hand. It’s heavier than I thought and it feels like a peeled, boiled egg. “You gotta cut it first, m’ijito,” Pedro says, goading me. He hands me his dirty filet knife. So I take it and slice the pupil clear off. Then, with my thumb, I dig out the mushroomy nerve, pluck it free, and plop it in my mouth. I chew it a few times, and just about the time I think I’m gonna puke, I swallow the whole damned thing. Those fuckers are all laughing. “Damn, dude, I wouldn’t have done that. You’re gonna choke on that ojo. That was gross, man. Me dió asco.” They’ve had their fun, but fuck ’em, I figure, they’ll chill now.
The day passes quick after that and I’m bone tired by five P.M. Now it’s time to clean up, and it’s nasty work, but I’m so anxious to wash the grease off my body and hair that I rush through it. Diana’s mom is impressed, mistaking my speed for initiative. We’re done by seven and she gives us a big smile as we leave. “You come tomorrow. Tomorrow’s the big day. Pay tomorrow,” she says all loud.
Grams is out there waiting for me and I watch Renaldo take off into the dark. It doesn’t occur to me to give him a ride. “You look tired,” Grams says. “Apestas de pura graza,” she says, wrinkling her nose at my greasy, smelling self. “It’s not me,” I say, trying to defend myself. “It’s the meat. I brought us some for dinner.” And I hold up the grease-shined paper bag for her to see. “It’s the all-meat.”