Rogelio Alcocer, who’d had high blood pressure since his first chase of a woman at age fifteen, did not have, unlike his father, a violent temper. That may have all changed had Rogelio been a year older and drafted to Vietnam, witnessed the horrors of guerilla warfare and the scattering of limbs in the blood-soaked, Agent Orange-infested jungles, but fortunately Rogelio was spared that fate. Juan Antonio, Rogelio’s father, wasn’t so lucky. On the morning of July 27th, 1950, Juan Antonio was in Korea, stationed in the village of Hadong with the U.S. Army’s 29th Infantry Regiment, when at 8:45 a.m., the North Koreans ambushed the regiment. They were on higher ground, in the mountains, and attacked Juan Antonio’s unit from all angles, spraying them with gun fire and mortar. Juan Antonio’s regiment, consisting mostly of new arrivals—acned young men with love notes stuffed in their pockets—lost almost its entire command staff in the first few minutes. The young soldiers retreated, digging foxholes and taking cover behind anything they could. The attack lasted two hours—an eternity. Juan Antonio witnessed dozens of his brothers-in-arms shot and blown to pieces. He would never unsee those images, never forget how when a person is shot, he doesn’t fall down, but rather collapses awfully, as a marionette whose puppeteer is fed up and lets go of the handle. For the rest of his life, Juan Antonio would feel as if he was on borrowed time, riding on the backs of his lost brothers. Back at home, whenever things spun out of control, say a mouthy wife or a willful son who didn’t seem to understand the meaning of respect, Juan Antonio’s solution was simple: use swift force, teach them a hard lesson. Juan Antonio believed he needed to remind people to be thankful they hadn’t seen what he’d seen, experienced what he’d experienced.
Rogelio lacked the animalistic switch his father could flick on instantly, but at age twelve, in Mrs. Lewis’ English class, a boy sitting behind Rogelio stuck the tip of his eraser into Rogelio’s ear and Rogelio snatched the eraser—nearly the boy’s arm off, too—and threw the eraser across the classroom. Adult words, military language flew out of his mouth—phrases he’d picked up from his father. The boys and girls in the classroom shrieked and snickered. Mrs. Lewis grabbed Rogelio by his ear and dragged him to the principal’s office. This was a story Rogelio enjoyed frequently telling, even the part where Juan Antonio punched him in his stomach as punishment. Rogelio was careful to clarify that his temper had not originated from his father, but rather from managing a bunch of kids at Whataburger when he was promoted to supervisor at the tender age of sixteen. Even then, Rogelio was broad-shouldered, wore a full Pancho Villa mustache. No wonder he commanded respect from his peers, young and old. Rogelio, it seemed, was practically born to manage people.
“Pops, how were you cool with Grandpa hitting you like that?” sixteen-year-old Troy asked Rogelio as they sat in the living room watching the Houston Astros get their butts handed to them by the Texas Rangers. Richie was with them, too, keeping quiet per usual.
“Had no choice,” Rogelio answered, sipping Bud Lite from the bottle. “Times were different back then. We didn’t question things, not like the way you kids do now.”
“But still,” Troy countered, “you didn’t ever try to defend yourself? Hit Grandpa back?”
“No,” Rogelio answered. “He was my father. I respected him. And that’s why this country’s going down the toilet. Because nobody has respect for anyone anymore.”
An Astros player hit a homerun, a grand slam. They were back in the game. The announcers went crazy, the crowd wild.
Troy imagined that if his father ever hit him, he’d sock him right back—go for blood—and not give a damn about it.
“Pops, you really think things were better back then?”
Troy had asked his father this question many times, and his father’s answer was usually yes. But every so often, Rogelio would rub his forehead, think a few seconds, then respond no, things weren’t better back then.
Rogelio sipped his beer, rubbed his forehead.
“Yes and no,” he answered this time. “Yes and no.”
Richie stayed quiet, munching on potato chips, soaking it all in. When it came to his father, Richie preferred to play it safe.
• • •
One evening, when Troy was eight, Rogelio got home from work exhausted, his light-blue work shirt stained with oil, which meant a machine had broken down. All day long, Rogelio handled difficult personalities, most of them men, and sometimes he enjoyed it—but when it came to rolling up his sleeves, throwing himself into an old machine to locate and fix or to replace a part, it put a strain on his body, and later on he’d always feel it at home. A broken machine at the milk plant often required several hours of work to repair—hours of throwing yourself into tight spaces, reaching as far as you could into small crevices. This is the work required to produce America’s milk, make its citizens’ bones strong. Rogelio was not quite an old man, then—he could still tackle the physicality of his job—but he was no longer what his father called a spring chicken. His back, his knees ached increasingly.
When he got home from work—especially this evening, physically and mentally beat—all Rogelio wanted to do was crack open a beer and turn on the TV.
But this evening, what happened instead was Alma, his wife, intercepted him at the front door, not greeting him with her usual kiss; this time, she told her husband what had happened and demanded that he do something about their son. Rogelio sighed, rubbed his protruding brow ridge.
“I tell him again and again to get inside and he just ignores me,” Alma said. “He doesn’t listen.”
Rogelio spotted Troy standing in the living room, a defiant look on his face.
“Then I sent Richie to get him but he pushed him,” Alma said quietly, aware of Troy listening. “Richie bled all over the damn carpet. We just got that carpet installed.”
Rogelio sighed again and rubbed his forehead. He figured a quick spanking was in order. Okay, he thought, one spanking and I’m calling it quits.
“This true, boy, what your mother’s saying?” Rogelio asked Troy, still lurking in the living room.
Troy stared at his father, his lips pursed, his eyes filled with child anger. Rogelio recognized the glare well. He briefly recalled his father’s reactions to his own outbursts—large fists slamming into his stomach. Rogelio’s father had never asked confirmation questions; he just hit.
“I asked you a question, boy,” Rogelio said louder.
Silence.
When Troy was a toddler, Rogelio prophesied that he would be a difficult child. Indeed, early on, Troy was temperamental, wanted to do things his way and on his terms. Rogelio possessed little patience for his first-born, and thus decided to start spanking him then, which often led to vicious tantrums. It was a cycle, but Rogelio, proud and stubborn, wasn’t about to let his son rule his roost. However, Troy did have a tender side. Some days, he could be as kindhearted as his mother. Certain days, he could look you straight in the eyes with an understanding beyond his age. But most days, Troy’s iron-willed gene dominated, and this inheritance from his father was one he could never return.
“Go to your room right now,” Rogelio commanded.
Troy didn’t budge.
“Now!”
Troy sped off, a frightened cat.
“Take it easy on him,” Alma said, a drastic change in mood.
Rogelio gazed at Alma, pulled her close to him. He kissed her and said, “Of course I will, Almamacita.”
Inside Troy’s room, Rogelio told Troy to drop his pants, but to leave his underwear on. He knew soon, in the next year or so, this course of action would be inappropriate.
“You’re getting three and we’re done,” Rogelio said, a judge sentencing his convict.
“Why you have to do this to me?” Troy protested. “None of my friends get spanked.”
“I don’t care about your friends.”
“Their parents ground them. Why can’t you ground me?”
“I decide what happens to you, boy.”
“So stupid!”
“You’re getting four spanks now and if you raise your voice at me one more time, you don’t wanna know what’s going to happen.”
Troy grunted, the sound reminding Rogelio of an old toothless abuelita. He maintained a straight face.
After three, not four, spanks with his bare right hand—not hard spanks at all by his estimation—Rogelio left the room to let his son cool down. He heard Troy scream into his pillow, and Rogelio allowed this. If he didn’t, he believed, there’d be trouble later on.
It usually took Troy twenty minutes or so to emerge from his room fully recovered. On this evening, only ten.
Troy found his father sitting in the kitchen, drinking Bud Lite from the bottle, his white-socked feet propped up on the dining table.
“You all right, boy?” Rogelio asked.
“Yeah,” Troy mumbled.
“Good.”
Father and son stared at each other for a couple seconds, then Rogelio asked, “Hungry?” He knew the answer would be yes.
“Yes,” Troy muttered.
“Go get your brother and let’s go to Whataburger.”
Troy sped off, now an excited dog. Rogelio watched his son disappear. Gulped down the rest of his beer.
• • •
In college, Troy often swung by the Whataburger near campus, especially on Thursday nights after he and his roommates closed down the rec playing basketball. Whataburger was affordable, tasty, a classic choice. Plus, many of them stayed open 24/7.
One Thursday night, in the midst of guy-talk about girlfriends, crazy exes, grandiose business ideas, Troy almost shared with his roommates about how his father used to take him and his little brother to Whataburger after spankings. A sort of family tradition. He thought the guys might get a kick out of that.
But then Troy decided that some stories were meant to stay in the family.
• • •
It was June, scorching hot. Rogelio climbed the metal steps up to the rooftop. A bad hailstorm swept through San Antonio the day before, and the news said it was likely the costliest in city history.
Rogelio could’ve had one of his younger employees check the roof. The young guys always had the energy, something to prove, but Rogelio decided on this day to do it himself. Anyways, he thought, I need to burn off those breakfast tacos.
Rogelio walked around the rooftop snapping pictures from his work phone. There were holes in the silos, the damage significant. Rogelio whistled through his teeth and thought how this would be a huge dent on the budget.
Halfway coming down the metal steps, Rogelio belched, then felt a sharp tightness in his chest. He placed his hand over his heart as if to recite the pledge of allegiance. The tightness became stabbing, and Rogelio lost balance and barreled down the steps. A black curtain draped across his world.
Half an hour later, Kenny Chansombath, one of Rogelio’s supervisors, found him collapsed on the steps.
“Ro!” screamed Kenny, rushing toward Rogelio.
He knelt down, put his hand in front of Rogelio’s mouth, his nose. No air.
“OhmyGodohmyGod,” Kenny said as he dialed 911.
When the EMTs arrived, Kenny watched them perform their jobs with rapid, precise movements—enough to inspire hope. But he noticed how their faces appeared as masks. Just another day on the job. Kenny wiped sweat from his forehead as he watched the EMTs work on his boss. He admired Rogelio, respected how he was direct and honest. He was a family man, Ro, always praising his wife and children. Ro was often politically incorrect, he’d bloviate how the Democrats were flushing the country down the toilet, but the milk plant wasn’t a place for political correctness, and Ro was old-school anyways. He reminded Kenny of his own dad, who had died five years ago from a heart attack back in Laos.
Kenny wanted Rogelio to wake up so he could hug him, tell him he appreciated him, maybe even loved him. But when he saw he wasn’t waking up, that the EMTs were wasting their efforts, he wanted to shout at them, “That’s enough.” But he was scared that if he tried to talk, no words would come out.
• • •
The first thought that entered Troy’s mind when he saw his father in the casket was the realization that he’d thought nothing at all. That his mind had been empty. You’d think something would’ve popped into his head, but no. Nothing.
Troy touched Rogelio’s hand, which felt cold and waxy. Not human anymore. He tried reciting a prayer, but the words evaded him. A few seconds later, Alma placed her hand on top of Troy’s. Troy looked at his mother and saw emptiness in her eyes. A shattered heart. It broke his own and he cried.
Richie, on the other side of Alma, hugged her, almost enveloping her. Alma buried her face in Richie’s shoulder and wept. Though Richie wore a tweed jacket, he could feel the wetness seeping in. He rubbed his mother’s back and prayed: Lord help us.
• • •
Troy was in his apartment, in bed, lights off, when the memory came to him.
He got up, went to the bathroom to urinate, wet his face. He washed his hands and examined himself in the mirror, his light brown eyes, wide shoulders.
The world beyond understanding, he thought. Existence a miracle, everything else a bonus.
Troy recalled his father’s leathery hands. You earned every single one of those whoopings, he thought.
When I have kids, I’m going to whoop them too, and I’ll let them throw their tantrums, and after they come find me, I’ll ask them if they’re all right, and after they say yes, and I say I love them, we’ll go and celebrate.
Troy put on basketball shorts, a sleeveless shirt. He grabbed his car keys and hit the road. Almost 1 a.m.
He drove past McDonald’s and almost turned around because he was whooped, but he pushed forward because otherwise it wouldn’t feel right. Troy pinched his thigh.
He pulled into the drive-thru at Whataburger, squinted at the lit-up orange-and-white menu. He rolled down his window to accept the familiar greeting.
“Welcome to Whataburger, how can I help you?”
“One sec,” Troy replied, eyeing the Number 1.
“All right, I think I’m ready.”
“Go head.”
“I need your help, actually.”
“Oh-kay?”
“You see, a part of me really wants to order the kid’s meal so I can get the toy that comes with it, but another part of me wants the Number 1. What’d you think? This is my dilemma.”
“Uhhh.”
After a few seconds of silence, the voice said, “That’s up to you, man. That’s your call.”
Troy, smirking, couldn’t believe what he was making happen right now.
“Look,” he said, “I just need your recommendation. I won’t go into all the details, but hypothetically speaking, if you were me, which option would you choose? The Number 1 or the kid’s meal?”
More silence.
Poor guy, Troy thought, he probably thinks I’m gonna shoot up the place.
Finally, the voice responded, “Got kids?”
“Nope. Not yet at least.”
“Well, I say you still go with the kid’s meal. The toys we got are pretty freakin’ awesome. They’re these little spinny helicopter things. I was just playing with one before you pulled in, straight up.”
Troy scratched his chin and said, “Spinny things, huh?”
“Yep, and if you buy two kid’s meals you get two of them. Limited time only.”
Limited time only, Troy thought. “You know what,” he said, an idea coming to his mind, “let’s make that three kid’s meals, kind sir.”
• • •
Richie got home from the gym, his gray Under Armour shirt almost black from sweat. He threw all of his mail on his kitchen counter except for a cardboard envelope labeled Priority Mail. He ripped it open and reached inside, retrieved a small object wrapped in clear plastic. It was painted dark blue and had a ball bearing in the center where attached there was a propeller. Richie wasn’t sure what to think, but he thought it looked like a toy that came from a fast-food restaurant. Something else was inside the envelope.
The note said, in red capital letters: LOVE, POPS.
Richie stared at the note in awe and disbelief. The script looked exactly like his father’s—sloppy, all caps. Quite unbelievable.
Richie brought the plastic-wrapped toy to his nose and sniffed. The scent faint, but unmistakable: French fries.
He sat on his couch and felt his whole body sink into it, as if he weighed one thousand pounds.
Richie had believed in God his entire life. Before his father had died, he’d attended mass most Sundays, chatted with friends about the goodness of the Lord, even encouraged some of them to go with him, especially girls he was trying to date. Because of his good listening, a few of Richie’s friends confided in him certain hardships of their lives: breakups, drug and alcohol addictions, money problems, family secrets, and in the case of one young woman, the death of her father, which spawned her depression. In those days, which weren’t long ago, Richie seemed to have all the free advice in the world, but not so anymore. He went to work, worked out, went out, drank, sometimes slept around, went home, and drank some more. The other night, he downed a whole bottle of whiskey. Vomited his guts out, called in to work. Each morning, facing his latest self in the mirror, Richie realized he’d been all talk. Hot air. The Hindenburg. He ignored calls from his friends and sometimes from his own mother, though he couldn’t say why. The only person he talked to on occasion was Troy.
Staring at the note, Richie traced the handwriting with his thumb. Eyes closed, he clutched the toy, trying to crush it. If anything, maybe it’d melt to goo in his hand. But in reality, he wanted there to be nothing in his hand. He wanted to open his eyes and find the world as it had been.
He loosened his grip. The plastic wrap crumpled, warm and slick with moisture.
Richie walked to his kitchen, opened the cupboard, pulled out a glass and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Filled the glass to the brim, swooshed the dark liquid around and around, tasting the burn before it was.
He couldn’t hear his cell phone buzzing because he hadn’t realized it’d slipped out of his shorts and into his couch cushions. If Richie had had his phone on him, he would’ve taken his brother’s call. Would’ve been asked if he’d checked the mail, and the conversation that followed, the laughs, probably would’ve relieved his mind off that first drink.