(no subject)
im just getting warmed up.
The weather is bearable outside and Martirio’s feet step softly on the sidewalk outside. Gray clouds roam about the sky casting endless shadows along the border. He stares in disbelief at the sky above, wondering how he’s still got air in his lungs and life in his veins. Turning his head to walk, he sees Ricky sitting on a street curb a block away. Ricky smokes a cigarette steadily with his eyes wide and staring. As Martirio approaches, Ricky continues smoking without looking up to see him. Martirio says and does nothing for a few seconds standing above Ricky. Ricky exhales a long breath of smoke and ashes his cigarette.
“That was a pretty brave thing you did back there,” Ricky says.
Martirio looks back down the block at the bar before saying, “I don’t know, man. I just…I can’t explain to you why.”
“I thought we were dead,” Ricky says. “I thought we were all gonna die. That guy was so strong, so fast. I’ve never seen anybody move like that. It was like he wasn’t even putting any effort into fighting me off. He was smiling at me the whole time.”
With his left hand, Ricky twists the silver crucifix around his neck as his right hand brings the cigarette back to his mouth.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think we should get the fuck out of here. I mean let’s get the fuck out of Mexico while we still can,” Martirio says.
Ricky nods his head and throws his cigarette down at the pavement with anger. Martirio reaches down to help Ricky up to his feet. Now as they stand side by side, the two boys look like they could be cousins, brothers. The two are eye-level with each other with sullen faces.
“My names Ricky.” he says, extending his hand to Martirio. “Ricardo Jimenez.”
Martirio shakes his hand with a steady grip saying, “My name is Martirio Ramirez,”
“Mar-tee-ree-oh?” Ricky says, sounding each syllable out.
“Yeah, it’s kind of like a family name, like Baldomero or Octavio,” Martirio says. “Yeah…try introducing yourself to a bunch of white people who don’t speak any Spanish for the rest of your life. It’s a little tough. Um…Some people call me Marty, some people call me Mar.”
“I think Martirio will do,” Ricky says, turning to walk away. “Let’s go.”
“What about your friends?” Martirio says, looking scanning the area for the other two.
“Ha…my friends,” Ricky says, scoffing in shame. “My friends…they’re probably back at Bonesy’s waiting for me or something. I actually have no idea.”
“Are you mad at them?” Martirio says.
“Not really, but I could be…hell, I should be,”
“I…I guess they just got scarred. Those kinds of things just end up fucking with people’s heads and I guess you never know how you’ll react.”
“Well, you reacted like a fucking saint, Martirio. A fucking saint.”
On their way back to the bridge they come across a street vendor cooking cups of elote, corn in a cup mixed with hot sauce, cheese and other seasonings.
“You hungry?” Ricky says.
Now Martirio had been starving all day and all the excitement had taken his mind off food, but now the scent of the local delicacy is stinging his stomach.
“Uh…I don’t know, man.”
“Of course, you do.” Ricky says, nodding his head at the street vendor. Ricky raises his hand to the man extending two fingers to indicate how many cups he wants. The cook begins serving without hesitation, he’d come to understand that it was just best to get the orders out before his drunken American patrons changed their minds.
“Two dollars,” the man says in broken English, his heavy accent weighing down on his words.
Ricky gives the man three dollars and nods again. The man shoves the money into his cash box with a smile.
Ricky and Martirio now come up to the Mexican border checkpoint. Several armed men in green military outfits stand at the wait. A few stand off to the side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. There were always nuns dressed completely in white waiting by the tollbooths begging for any change that they could get; American or Mexican. Their brown skin and their sad eyes always tugged at Ricky’s heart. He drops a dollar in one of the nun’s buckets before coming up to the window for the tollbooth. The men working the toll usually knew enough English to get them by and if any altercations arose, the men in green uniforms with their automatic and semi-automatic weapons were never far away. Inside his glass booth, the toll collector is watching a Mexican soccer game between Club America and Club Guadalajara (other wise known as Chivas). He looks up from the game and asks “How many?”
“Two,” Ricky says.
“70 cents,” the toll collector says, and then unlocks the turnstile for the two boys to pass through.
They begin walking up across the bridge, their feet digging in as they climb the angle of the bridge. From down below, beggars yell up to the commuters for any spare change. Three American boys drop change from the summit of the bridge and laugh hysterically as the old beggars wrestle each other for drinking money. Ricky and Martirio continue along the bridge, joking with each other about their brush with death, all the while eating their cups of corn. As they come down the American side of the bridge, Ricky points out that there’s no line to walk across the bridge that day. They both smile in relief dropping their empty cups into overfilled trashcans. Now they cross into the American Customs building. There are four Customs agents sitting at computers waiting for commuters to cross through the building. It is the job of each agent to obtain Identification of the person or persons trying to come into the United States. These agents then usually ask the person where they’re coming from and what their business had been in Mexico. Ricky knew not to get into the lines that had women checking ID’s because they were especially harsh interrogators. Of course today, there were two women and they both picked away at Ricky and Martirio’s stories.
Ricky walked up to the first woman, a lady in her 40’s with glasses barely clinging to the edge of her knows. She looks like she’s been around a few times with an evil demeanor staring straight through Ricky’s cool smile.
“Why were you in Mexico?”
“I went to go eat,”
“Where’d you eat?”
“This little taco stand off the Strip,”
“Why Mexico?”
“Because they’re tacos are better than American’s”
“Any other business in Mexico?”
“I try not to…I mean, just the food.”
“Carrying anything illegal on you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She stares long and hard at Ricky and lets him pass through. Martirio is greeted with the same type of interrogation from the next woman before she finally lets him pass through. The Customs dogs stare at the two boys as they walk on by and exit the border checkpoint.
As they emerge back out into the daylight, they see Bones and Vegas. The two had crossed a long time before and now scream back at the Ricky and Martirio.
“What took you so fucking long?” Vegas shouts at the two, he dances in place as Martirio and Ricky approach.
The weather is bearable outside and Martirio’s feet step softly on the sidewalk outside. Gray clouds roam about the sky casting endless shadows along the border. He stares in disbelief at the sky above, wondering how he’s still got air in his lungs and life in his veins. Turning his head to walk, he sees Ricky sitting on a street curb a block away. Ricky smokes a cigarette steadily with his eyes wide and staring. As Martirio approaches, Ricky continues smoking without looking up to see him. Martirio says and does nothing for a few seconds standing above Ricky. Ricky exhales a long breath of smoke and ashes his cigarette.
“That was a pretty brave thing you did back there,” Ricky says.
Martirio looks back down the block at the bar before saying, “I don’t know, man. I just…I can’t explain to you why.”
“I thought we were dead,” Ricky says. “I thought we were all gonna die. That guy was so strong, so fast. I’ve never seen anybody move like that. It was like he wasn’t even putting any effort into fighting me off. He was smiling at me the whole time.”
With his left hand, Ricky twists the silver crucifix around his neck as his right hand brings the cigarette back to his mouth.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think we should get the fuck out of here. I mean let’s get the fuck out of Mexico while we still can,” Martirio says.
Ricky nods his head and throws his cigarette down at the pavement with anger. Martirio reaches down to help Ricky up to his feet. Now as they stand side by side, the two boys look like they could be cousins, brothers. The two are eye-level with each other with sullen faces.
“My names Ricky.” he says, extending his hand to Martirio. “Ricardo Jimenez.”
Martirio shakes his hand with a steady grip saying, “My name is Martirio Ramirez,”
“Mar-tee-ree-oh?” Ricky says, sounding each syllable out.
“Yeah, it’s kind of like a family name, like Baldomero or Octavio,” Martirio says. “Yeah…try introducing yourself to a bunch of white people who don’t speak any Spanish for the rest of your life. It’s a little tough. Um…Some people call me Marty, some people call me Mar.”
“I think Martirio will do,” Ricky says, turning to walk away. “Let’s go.”
“What about your friends?” Martirio says, looking scanning the area for the other two.
“Ha…my friends,” Ricky says, scoffing in shame. “My friends…they’re probably back at Bonesy’s waiting for me or something. I actually have no idea.”
“Are you mad at them?” Martirio says.
“Not really, but I could be…hell, I should be,”
“I…I guess they just got scarred. Those kinds of things just end up fucking with people’s heads and I guess you never know how you’ll react.”
“Well, you reacted like a fucking saint, Martirio. A fucking saint.”
On their way back to the bridge they come across a street vendor cooking cups of elote, corn in a cup mixed with hot sauce, cheese and other seasonings.
“You hungry?” Ricky says.
Now Martirio had been starving all day and all the excitement had taken his mind off food, but now the scent of the local delicacy is stinging his stomach.
“Uh…I don’t know, man.”
“Of course, you do.” Ricky says, nodding his head at the street vendor. Ricky raises his hand to the man extending two fingers to indicate how many cups he wants. The cook begins serving without hesitation, he’d come to understand that it was just best to get the orders out before his drunken American patrons changed their minds.
“Two dollars,” the man says in broken English, his heavy accent weighing down on his words.
Ricky gives the man three dollars and nods again. The man shoves the money into his cash box with a smile.
Ricky and Martirio now come up to the Mexican border checkpoint. Several armed men in green military outfits stand at the wait. A few stand off to the side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. There were always nuns dressed completely in white waiting by the tollbooths begging for any change that they could get; American or Mexican. Their brown skin and their sad eyes always tugged at Ricky’s heart. He drops a dollar in one of the nun’s buckets before coming up to the window for the tollbooth. The men working the toll usually knew enough English to get them by and if any altercations arose, the men in green uniforms with their automatic and semi-automatic weapons were never far away. Inside his glass booth, the toll collector is watching a Mexican soccer game between Club America and Club Guadalajara (other wise known as Chivas). He looks up from the game and asks “How many?”
“Two,” Ricky says.
“70 cents,” the toll collector says, and then unlocks the turnstile for the two boys to pass through.
They begin walking up across the bridge, their feet digging in as they climb the angle of the bridge. From down below, beggars yell up to the commuters for any spare change. Three American boys drop change from the summit of the bridge and laugh hysterically as the old beggars wrestle each other for drinking money. Ricky and Martirio continue along the bridge, joking with each other about their brush with death, all the while eating their cups of corn. As they come down the American side of the bridge, Ricky points out that there’s no line to walk across the bridge that day. They both smile in relief dropping their empty cups into overfilled trashcans. Now they cross into the American Customs building. There are four Customs agents sitting at computers waiting for commuters to cross through the building. It is the job of each agent to obtain Identification of the person or persons trying to come into the United States. These agents then usually ask the person where they’re coming from and what their business had been in Mexico. Ricky knew not to get into the lines that had women checking ID’s because they were especially harsh interrogators. Of course today, there were two women and they both picked away at Ricky and Martirio’s stories.
Ricky walked up to the first woman, a lady in her 40’s with glasses barely clinging to the edge of her knows. She looks like she’s been around a few times with an evil demeanor staring straight through Ricky’s cool smile.
“Why were you in Mexico?”
“I went to go eat,”
“Where’d you eat?”
“This little taco stand off the Strip,”
“Why Mexico?”
“Because they’re tacos are better than American’s”
“Any other business in Mexico?”
“I try not to…I mean, just the food.”
“Carrying anything illegal on you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She stares long and hard at Ricky and lets him pass through. Martirio is greeted with the same type of interrogation from the next woman before she finally lets him pass through. The Customs dogs stare at the two boys as they walk on by and exit the border checkpoint.
As they emerge back out into the daylight, they see Bones and Vegas. The two had crossed a long time before and now scream back at the Ricky and Martirio.
“What took you so fucking long?” Vegas shouts at the two, he dances in place as Martirio and Ricky approach.