A Wetback in Reverse

by Frederick Martin-Del-Campo

  By the way, what else do you remember of that night when that slimy Jorge broke into our house and fought with me?

  Hope you remember,

  Freddy ~

  Surprisingly, she replied forthwith, and supplied details even I had forgotten about:

  ~ Yes, Primo, I would be glad to ~ Well, it was such a long time ago, it is all hazy now. But, wait a minute ... That’s right, I was only 18 when I lived with you guys, or your sister Clara, whatever was the case. What I do remember with some clarity is that your parents had gone out to a dance, they were all dressed up, and even invited me, but I was too tired from work. I used to get along with your younger sister, Helena, really well and I remember she used to come over on weekends from West Los Angeles where she lived. I remember I was there because we were going to do something special for the holiday, though I am not sure if it was for Thanksgiving or for the 1st of December, and we had to watch the grandchildren because your parents went out. Your friend Louie was there, and we were in the living room when that creep Jorge came in all bloody, and you behind him with the baseball bat; you looked so angry and scared at the same time.

  Of course, I did not lose all respect for you: on the contrary, I knew that fool Jorge was something else, had suffered with him at the Pizzeria, and knew you were not so psychotic that you did not know what you were doing. Like I said, I knew that guy deserved it. I remember Fabian was on your side back then too.

  I remember seeing him laughing at the issue, and then got serious because stupid Helena was going nuts with terror. I think Clara was on your side too because, back then, she was really bitter that Jorge, who had known Clara well from high school or some place of mutual acquaintance, and he happened to live up the street, accused her and Helena of being lesbians, and assured your father that he had seen them. He ranted and raved about what “sinners” they were.

  And, your father was just stupid enough to believe a criminal street thug rather than in the sanctity of his own daughters.

  Just out of curiosity, what exactly did Fabian say about me? Not that I really care; honestly, it was so long ago, and as you know me by now, I do not hold grudges against people that don’t deserve anything from me, not even a second thought. I wonder, just like with you and your unfortunate encounter with Margara, I didn’t do anything consciously to hurt them at all. I really wonder (as I am so innocent) what I did to him? What did I say?

  tu prima,

  Becky ~

  My dear friend had obviously treaded on the cemetery of forgetfulness, and I was loathe to summon up painful recollections of people and events, which added nothing to our collective existence but rancor and palpable resentment. Despite my hesitation, I lifted myself from the lethargy the Pacific currents had imposed on me by now as I lolly-gagged on the warm sands, but I managed to reply to her questions as well as I could:

  ~ Hey babe, good to hear from you again. Frankly, I am surprised. You do remember details well, right down to the point about my parents having gone out for a dance that dreadful night so many years ago when all Hell broke loose and I ended up in jail with a genuine asshole! What I had totally forgotten about was this stuff about Jorge saying that Helena and Clara were Lesbians. Remarkable! How could you remember such a thing?

  But, then again, life dealt me such a deadly blow by giving me epilepsy. So, for one such as I who lives for the contemplation of the mind, I have lost so much of my memory banks thanks to the damned epileptic seizures, and yes, they plague me still, but in a different way; instead of losing consciousness and shaking all over, now I get this horrible, head-ache like pain that runs from the top nerve of my brain, all the way down to my testicles. It feels like (I imagine) someone has cut into me from top to bottom with a razor blade, then I stiffen up, like I am suffering through a full-body cramp. It is so painful, my heart starts pumping fast, and I get dizzy but don’t entirely lose consciousness. This sort of epilepsy only happens to people after a certain age, and though these seizures occur infrequently, they can lead to something deadly, like a stroke.

  Stress triggers these attacks, and, since before I had taken off for this Mexican adventure, they have occurred more frequently, and yes, thanks to you-know-who (my own selfish and stupid family).

  In fact, I had suffered a couple of seizures in the hospital after the police took me and that idiot Jorge after the terrible fight. But that fuck-head acted like he was fine and nothing had happened. I guess he was used to getting his ass whooped, so it was no big deal.

  As for Fabian, well, again the epilepsy has done its part to wipe out many memories (some of which are strangely coming back in my dreams, as I’d mentioned earlier), and I have survived so many horrors from these pinche hijos de la chingada (dirty, rotten bastards) called my family, that it has become a blur.

  But, of what I do remember, he basically would start out by mentioning certain times he would take you places (oh, and all those passes I gave him for the movies? Now he says he paid for all those just to take you out ~ what a rotten crud he is, eh!).

  He would say then that you would order the most expensive things all the time, like at a restaurant, then you would act all “despota” (“miss high and mighty”), and that you would “tease him” about giving him some “pink taco.”

  During other times he would make fun of you, claiming that you were so picara and picuda (coquettish and horny) that you could not get enough of his chorizo (sausage). Nonetheless, he would end up disgusted because, according to his slander, you “were not a clean woman,” that you had some dirty habits down there, which left him “afraid of getting a disease.”

  Then, he would complain about your “dirty mouth,” that YOU would criticize and make fun of everybody and everything, and all that would leave him feeling like he had made a mistake about going out with you. In other words, he described himself and all the things HE did, and does, but then blamed you for it ~ just like other drug addicts would do, like Jorge or your brother Lorenzo.

  Finally, of the little I remember, he would especially complain to my mother or yours, or to your sister Margara, that you were using him, that you were manipulative and trying to find some way of getting at his property, trying to get at his money. He accused you also that you were a habitual liar. According to him, during times he suspected that you were “cheating” on him, and after you had just been willingly defiled by some other guy, you would not even clean up before seeing Fabian. Then, to show up your alleged shamelessness, you’d beg for his mondongo (genital bulge), and have him “ravage” you either orally or anally, which caused him to “lose respect for her,” which, again, just makes me wonder about his shameless hypocrisy.

  Also, he would allude to your alleged dependence on marijuana, and that you loved cocaine and tried crack-cocaine. According to Fabian, most of these stories were due to the rumors spread by your own mother, who supposedly confided to Fabian that you were a pot-smoking libertine, and had tried everything, including “cow-pies and golden showers” (feces and being urinated upon), when you were especially drugged out on LSD, heroin, or some other awful drug.

  ¿Como lo ves? (how do you see it?) And this is considering the fact that my memory is fucked up due to the epilepsy!

  Take care babe, and believe me, I DO NOT BELIEVE ANY OF IT ... unless it was actually Fabian who had done all these things himself, then I would believe it!

  Your Primo,

  Freddy ~

  I am sure I left her aghast with these confessions; so much so that she forgot momentarily the suffering of Gamaliel in order to fire back a reply within hours:

  ~ Thanks for the trust you’ve placed in me, Primo, but what can I say about Fabian? Hijo de la fregada! (Son of a Bitch!) I didn’t think he was such a marica (pussy). I really have just lost the little respect I had for him ~ yes, I actually still had some respect for him. Obviously he was, or still is so bitter because I never fell for his fucking desires.

  I knew, and could understand how he would think I was using him
when he kept on taking me places without my having to give it up. Once again, how could I cheat on him when we were cousins and nothing else? You all knew I had a boyfriend who even came to visit me from Arizona, right? Don’t I have the right to my own life?

  I can see now why all of you changed with me after I’d gone out with him, before finally putting a stop to his persistence. He trashed me with all of you, and, like usual, only the most stupid ones believed him. I thank you for trusting me, and for not believing it all; none of it, in fact, was true. The thought of sleeping with him always made me puke, now I am glad I never even tongue-kissed him.

  Like they say, only time can tell and sin querer queriendo (without expecting anything), life has given me the opportunity to prove myself. Time shows who is who in this life. You are so right when you say you suspected that all he accused me of are things that he probably did when he was high on drugs. I do remember he was a heavy cerveza (beer) drinker and pot smoker back then. Some of the things that used to bother me about him I ignored, and yet I always tried and pushed him to stop abusing drugs because I did care for him and because he is my blood kin-folk, not as nothing else.

  Thanks for sharing this with me. I really had no idea how much he had said, I would never have guessed it, or believed it if someone else told me.

  Que hijo de la chingada! And your mother believed all of this crap?

  By the way, what is “pink taco”?

  Tu prima, Becky ~

  My delightful fall by the wayside in Zihuatanejo assuredly gave me much to reflect upon. I despised having to gather my things and leave all the soothing sensuality and physical beauty behind, but I would have Acapulco to garnish my expectations. It took a few hours to get there, but the bus-ride was peaceful enough, except for a corpulent swine of a bearish man who’d snored the entire way. Checking in at the EL CID hotel proved to be an unexpected hassle, but it was high season for visitors, and the demand for rooms brought out the bloodthirstiness in both tourists and the hoteliers.

  Ah, lovely Acapulco with her rocky cliffs, looming beach-side hotels, fiery white sands, flying sails of wind-surfers, flying divers with their rich copper-hued skin risking limb and life for a tourist’s loose change, the enchanting fair-skinned pretties giggling at every passerby, it almost made me forget about my stay in Zihuatanejo! In between swishing the gin of my authentically prepared mint-juleps, I just had to reply to Becky’s inquiry:

  ~ Hey, babe, Looks like I really gave you much to think about ... sorry about that. Imagine if I had a better memory, and really told you all the things Fabian had actually said about you, especially all that he confided to both of our mothers.

  First of all, in answer to your last question: “pink taco” is one of those metaphors for panocha (vagina).

  Second, yes, my mother, like I mentioned before, is very gullible, especially when it comes to things about her precious “Fabiancito.” You can only imagine the Hell I have been through having to live with both of them. I have sacrificed so much for that damned pinche vieja, and when Fabiancito came running after our parents had put all of their assets and property into a trust, to make his demands, ella me manda a la chingada (she sent me to Hell), and made it possible for Fabiancito to take everything I had worked so hard for; my rights to the house to begin with, and then so much more.

  So, yes, she believed every little thing that he slandered against you, everything. And then, with your own mother trashing you, pues mas iba creer lo peor de ti (well, the more she was going to believe the worst about you). I tell you, she is a stupid, easily malleable, reactionary, narrow-minded, super-egotistical, provincial, superstitious, obscurantist, intolerant and racist bigot ~ and THOSE ARE HER GOOD POINTS!

  Third, I disagree that he is, or was bitter for having said all those things about you. He is a bastard, a canalla, hijo de la chingada (a rat-fink son of a bitch). No warm, human feelings for anybody, not even for his own mother who has helped him in everything, y listo para chingar a todos los demas’ (and ready to screw everybody else).

  Like all those exploitative drug-abusers, he just uses people to get what he wants, and when they are no longer useful, he trashes them to the ultimate degree. You were no longer useful to him, so he spread the slander wherever he could, achieving what this type of bastard wants: convincing idiots, like my mother and your sister Margara, that you were the trash and he is the wounded saint.

  Again, this was a show of the egotistical, mean-spirited self-pity that drives his type of warped, drug damaged personality.

  Anyway, I have to admit that my respect for you during those awful days was compromised, but not for the reasons you think; I never thought you were capable of incest, as he alleged or some such shit, and I never believed Fabian, having grown up knowing about his lies and twisting of the truth. Yes, even though we were not enemies at the time, I still had already learned to hate and distrust him since much earlier on.

  When you started accompanying him, and I stopped being overtly friendly to you, it was not because I thought you were trash ~ instead I thought: “God, how can Becky lower herself to the level of that piece of garbage Fabian? I thought she was so much finer than that! ¿Que le pasa? (what’s wrong with her?) Has she lost all hope for the future? Has she lost all respect for HERSELF? Why, oh why is she dating that scum-bag?”

  But, alas, being timido y aislado (timid and isolated), I could not approach you with the question. I figured, well, it is her life; as long as she dates Fabian I have lost her as a friend, so what can I do? And, believe it or not, he is such a perro mierdero, miandose por todos lados para marcar su territorio (stray, crap-eating dog, urinating everywhere to mark his territory), if I had continued to be friendly with you, he would have taken that as a threat to his manhood, and he would have accused me of trying to “take his bitch away from him.”

  And, that would have led to a big fight with him!

  Time heals all wounds, nevertheless, and rectifies the wrongs and injustices that Life itself presents us. Over the years you have justified my faith in you, and have shown that you were, and are the remarkable person I always thought you were.

  Fabian was just a bad dream, and it is true that, because of our ignorance and blindness to the things Life throws at us, we end up having to put up with certain rotten people for a while until we can be freed from their stinking, rotten influence. Look at me, I am stuck with the rotten, stinking influence of my family, and am suffering still from the shit I got from Fabian, whilst you’ve been rid of the stench of his influence for a long time!

  Tu primo,

  Freddy ~

  I suppose the last email soothed her troubled brow because she did not insist on clarifying any other issues. Things were probably intensifying with regard to Gamaliel, but she would not tell me as of yet. I was too busy enjoying myself by the Acapulco coast, and even inquired around about investing in an apartment or condominium which were selling cheaply at the time, to feel any guilt about her own domestic woes.

  About three days had passed when she answered:

  ~ Well, Primo, thanks again for clarifying the reason why you’d distanced yourself from me. I just did not know the bastard, and I thought he was my caring, though kissing, cousin who just wanted to show me around town and treat me the way I would have treated him if he had gone to Mexico.

  “Pink taco”? Ha! I learned something new today!

  Pues una ultima palabra sobre esta tema (Well, one last word about this subject): As for Fabian, as much as I hate him now, I cannot judge what his actual motives were back then. Maybe he started out really liking me, so, as you observed, maybe there is some bitterness attached to his invective.

  On the other hand, he did end up trashing me to the third degree, and it is the final result that counts. Thanks to him, I learned without a teacher to really hate, unless his was the subtle hand that guided me to the edge of the abyss. Rather than being decent about the whole thing, he just succumbed before his beastly passions, and did what he always
does when he is defeated: he lies and slanders the person, and attaches his own crimes to them. Since I had lived with him more than 20 years ago, believe me, he is the one with the filthy habits, and I thought I would catch a disease from him just by using the same bathroom. He has a filthy mouth, is capable of fucking over anyone for their money, he stinks big time, and cheats on people while abusing drugs. Fear of him forced me to suffer his caprices time and time again, but I finally awakened to the truth that the thing you fear has no power over you; it is the fear itself that has the power. Until then, I was a helpless little “pink taco” to him.

  That’s all I’ll say about that piece of fetid feces that is your brother.

  Love,

  Becky ~

  I surely am glad my dear friend was no longer pulling any punches about a much reviled past and persons. I thought I would change the subject, since I despised having to think of Fabian in any case, and was morbid about an email I had just received from my own, nagging mother, so I again inquired about her pathetic son:

  ~ Becky, my dear, about Gamaliel, how the Hell is he doing?

  Your beloved aunt showed signs of some spirit with the last email she sent; she actually just took off when her friend, who manages excursions, just up and invited her to go to Izamal, in Yucatan ~ like I really care. According to her, it was alright, and it felt like the real Mexico, not like our shitty barrio. It’s just the authentic Mexico I’ve been searching for, and wanting to experience all along. Perhaps, though, I may just be chasing stereo-types not realizing they are not to be had, anymore.

  Acapulco is fabulous; recently I went to some strange, abandoned beach called, of all names, Santa Clara ~ they assuredly weren’t referring to my sister!

  I am genuinely glad I’ve had this opportunity to see some of the beauty of Mexico, never mind my mother’s “authentic” experience.

  I pray that by next week you will be calling me, or writing to tell me that your son is FREEEEEE! Again, at this point, I feel like I am the one doing the time. You must be beside yourself with grief. I’m sorry you have gone through so much, and for what? Incompetent police!