Cry Macho

by N. Richard Nash

Then, the hell with adults. Especially the hell with his father.

  Except . . . Rafo wanted to see him again. Perhaps after seeing him he would again say the hell with him. But there was always the doubt.

  He had no doubt about his feelings for his mother: the hell with her. He hated her far more than his father. Really hated her. Despised her. Bitch, whore, lunatic. Once he had seen her in bed with three men. In the middle of the afternoon, simultaneously, three naked men and his mother as naked as plucked poultry, with all of them intertwined in a way that, in memory, he still was not able to figure out. He couldn’t imagine it possible that she could fuck all three of them at once. From what little he knew of female anatomy . . .

  Maybe his mother was a pervert. He didn’t like to think about that. A person who thought of his mother that way was himself perverted.

  The worst part of such thoughts was that they began to make him do things he was ashamed of. It would start with his thinking about Big Dolores who sold coconuts in the Merced, or about Xavier’s wife Enrica who was always rubbing herself between her legs, and it often wound up with his shutting himself into a closed stall of the Merced where he would open his trousers and toy with his taco.

  Afterward he always had black feelings of guilt. But it wasn’t fair that he had to shoulder the guilt alone—his mother had to share some of it. If he was a pervert, tacoplaying more and more often, it was because she was. And she even asked his approval of it. Be nice to Pacas, she would tell him, or say please to Rubén or Gustavo. And if he didn’t, she’d beat him. Then cry over him and kiss him. And beat him again. One night he accidentally dropped a crystal carafe and it broke. She slapped him for it and he called her by the gringo word, cunt, so she went at him with the jagged neck of the broken carafe, cutting him, cutting herself, blood everywhere, the house full of screams. That was the night he left.

  It had been miserable at first, in the alleys. Never enough food and not sleeping in the same bed every night but in the abandoned warehouse, the basement under El Picador, the toilet of one of the bus stations, anywhere. Always running from the police, fighting to get into the banda, outwitting hungers of every kind, outwitting men with wet mouths who were always groping for his ass and his genitals. Miserable and beginning to think misery was all there was, but never so miserable as he had been at home when he hated himself for hating her and hated himself worse for wanting her to love him.

  Why did his hatred always have to be mixed up with love? Couldn’t he hate his father without ever wanting to see him again? Couldn’t he simply hate his mother without . . .

  Was there nobody in the world he could simply hate, altogether hate?

  The gringo. The man was a gift from heaven! He had nothing lovable about him, nothing. Certainly he wasn’t quick—the fight had proved it. And not brave either. If he had a single bone of bravery in him he would not have been so cautious about Macho—he’d have let the bird come along, uncaged and untied, without all that weasel shit about suppose he got lost and the police chasing them. No, not brave.

  Worst of all, not smart. How stupid he had been to take a chance on Rafo’s coming back. Rafo would never take a chance on a stranger, never. Promises counted only among people one knew, never among strangers. And never between a Yankee and a Mexican. But this gringo, after only one meeting, had relied on Rafo’s word that he would return. Stupid.

  So, after all, Rafo was not totally destroyed by the fact that the gringo had won the first fight. Not at all destroyed. For the man was not quick, not brave, not smart. And there would be other fights—and the poor, slow, stupid coward would get his head knocked in. Rafo was looking forward to it. It would be a game. By the time they got to Texas, Rafo would make a rag of him.

  9

  Mike still ached from the boy’s kick in the balls. A dull throb that didn’t subside even when they were well out of the city. He would be glad when the trip was over, three days hence, and he could deliver the little goon to his father. If Howard remembered the boy as a well-mannered lad with a starched shirt and shy, doelike eyes, what a surprise he was bringing him. Thinking of Howard’s shock gave Mike pleasure, alleviating the pain in the testes.

  They were making good time. There was little traffic this hour of night and the road was excellent. The truck responded beautifully; it was quiet, as comfortable as a sedan. Far from the smog of the city, the sky was cloudless, the moon so low on the horizon and so directly ahead it looked to Mike like the enormous headlight of an oncoming train. How fast it seemed to be coming at him: and he put his foot down on the accelerator as if to go and meet it, moonbound, a head-on collision. He was enjoying himself.

  What delighted him most was that he had gotten the boy not by violence but by using his head. A few simple little lies had done it and, except for their fight about the rooster—which really had little to do with the kidnapping itself—not a hair of the boy’s head had been harmed. What a relief.

  He heard no sound from the kid. By now, a few hours after the start of the trip, he must be asleep. But when they were coming to Querétaro, Mike saw the boy lighting a cigarette. As he smoked, the little buttons of flame appeared and disappeared, then stopped. A little while later, after Mike had opened the window to dispel the smoke, another match flared. This one didn’t go out immediately; Rafo was apparently using it for illumination. Mike heard the rustle of the food bags, then a strange little mouselike screech, steady and rhythmic, a sound Mike couldn’t identify. He realized what it was—a can opener. Rafo was opening something, the beans perhaps or the tuna fish. Finally, the eating sounds, not quietly polite ones, but lip smackings and grunts, like the snorts of a wrestler.

  Mike couldn’t tell when the eating stopped and the snoring began. He had not realized the two functions could sound alike or be indulged in with such din.

  Just before dawn, Mike too became sleepy. He pulled over to the side of the road, closed all the windows against the cold, folded himself in half on the short front seat and fell quickly asleep.

  When he awoke, well after dawn, the boy was still sleeping, quietly now. The rooster also appeared to be asleep, hunched down on the floor, its head almost buried in its neck, even its coxcomb seeming at rest.

  Mike started the truck again and continued northward. He was three-quarters of the way to San Luis Potosí when he noticed the cars were slowing down. More cars than he had seen through the night, and it was still too soon for them to be coming into San Luis traffic. He slowed, straining to see what the delay might be. By the time he got a quarter of a mile farther, the line of cars was completely halted. The single file extended beyond sight now, hundreds of yards ahead, all the cars stopped and waiting, some of the drivers standing out on the road. With vague disquiet he got out, stood by the truck and wondered what the trouble was. Knowing no Spanish, it was useless to ask the other drivers, and he didn’t know whether to take a chance and walk to the front of the line where he might see what was causing the stoppage. At last, as inconspicuously as possible, he ambled forward.

  There was an official roadblock. At the head of the file of cars, two vehicles barricaded the road. One was a national patrol car, ocher-colored with dust; the other was a police motorcycle. A policeman and three national troopers—one in gray, the others in olive uniforms, all armed with rifles—were searching the cars. Watching them more closely, Mike realized they weren’t studying the cars so much as the drivers and their passengers. Not looking for things, but people.

  A boy, perhaps. Yet, it seemed impossible that Lexa would know he had even found Rafo, much less gone off with him. For the last few days Mike had neither seen nor heard any sign of Pacas—had even forgotten about the man. Still, she hadn’t specified it would be Pacas who would be keeping a watch on him—she had simply threatened to keep a watch. Had even made him repeat, rotelike, that she would do so. What else have you learned? she had asked. Not enough, he was answering now, not enough to take you lit
erally, to respect your shrewdness and money and power, not enough to be properly wary of you, you maniac.

  He had an urge to run, full speed, back to the truck. He resisted it; he walked.

  As he was approaching the truck, his heart stopped. Rafo was coming toward him. If they were to see him . . .

  Mike must show no sign of his anxiety. He didn’t change his gait.

  As the boy got close enough, “Why we stop?” he asked.

  Mike said quietly, “Patrol cops.”

  The boy was as openly alarmed as Mike pretended not to be. “What they want?”

  Mike smiled. “You, I think.”

  It was odd to see where the boy’s concerns were. “For stealing a rooster? No.”

  Mike didn’t dare whisper the word kidnapping, not here. He pointed to the truck and said, “Get in.” It was a quiet command.

  Rafo turned quickly to him, ready to dispute the authority. But something else determined the issue. The sound of a police whistle. It came from one of the troopers at the head of the line. Sharp, imperious. Hastily, Rafo got into the back of the truck.

  Mike started the motor but didn’t move the truck immediately. Were they far enough from the barricade for the officials not to notice? He had to take the chance. He backed up a few feet, as close as possible to the car behind him, turned his wheel out and started to make a U-turn on the highway. He heard a commotion in the back of the truck and instantly felt Rafo standing beside him, his breath close to his neck.

  “What you do?” the boy asked, alarmed.

  “Get off the main road,” Mike said. “Stay on the back ones.”

  “Is no good.” Rafo shook his finger. “No good. Is bump, bump, bump.”

  “Is better than jail, jail, jail.”

  When they were well on their way, on a dusty back road, going bump, bump, bump, precisely as he had predicted, Rafo more openly revealed his anxiety.

  “You think I go to jail?” he asked.

  “Maybe both of us.”

  “You too?” Rafo said. “For kidnapping?”

  “Could be.”

  “You think my mother call the police—to bring me back?” The boy was amazed at the possibility. “You think so?” he repeated.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think . . .” He couldn’t answer.

  Mike realized it might be more than the question of whether the kid believed his mother had sent the police to retrieve him, but whether he wanted to believe it. The boy seemed unsettled. Whatever his mood, he was soon out of it.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “You know where it is,” Mike answered. “Look in the bags.”

  “I ate it,” said Rafo. “Me and Macho.”

  “You ate all of it?”

  “Only the bread and beans,” he said. “The rest we don’t like. I’m still hungry.”

  “After eating all that? Holy mackerel!”

  Rafo had never heard the expression. “Holy what?”

  “Mackerel—it’s a fish.” Then, teasing. “You want some?”

  “You eat a holy fish?”

  He thought the boy was sharing the joke, but he wasn’t. Mike wondered if the kid believed in holy things.

  Rafo, famished, was digging into a bag of overly sweet bizcochos and swilling Orange Crush. It was full morning by now and Mike was getting hungry too. He stopped the truck, drank a bottle of warm Coca-Cola and opened a can of sardines. He could only eat half of it—it was already too hot to eat. Besides, there was a smell in the truck that he was certain was rooster dung, although neither he nor Rafo could find the droppings.

  He went back to driving on the miserable, rutted road. It was nearly noon when he felt something go wrong with the steering. It didn’t respond. He turned the wheel, twisted it, tried to keep the truck on the road, straight ahead. It refused. It slipped, it skidded, it insisted on moving sideways, right, left. He jammed on the brakes and jolted the vehicle to a dusty stop.

  Rafo rushed forward, frightened. “What happen? What happen?”

  “Steering. It went crazy.”

  The moment he said the word he realized. It hadn’t been the steering that had gone crazy. His head. Again.

  He put his forearms across the wheel and lay his head down onto them.

  “What happen?” Rafo asked again. “You are sick?”

  “No,” Mike said. “Nothing—just a little dizzy.”

  The boy studied the man, the head down. “You are going to faint?”

  “No.” Mike slowly raised his head. “I’m all right.”

  He said it with a trace of irritation, for he was indeed starting to feel better. He was trying his eyes on the road, to test whether he could see far enough ahead, and if the view was steady.

  Rafo watched him closely, with shrewd, sharp judgment in his eyes. “You want me to drive?”

  Mike tried to smile and was managing. “You’ve got a license, of course.”

  “Who needs a license? I can drive. Once I drive my mother’s car all over the city—but she say she is going to arrest me, so I stop. But I can drive.”

  Mike didn’t know whether or not to believe the kid. But it didn’t matter—he was feeling better now. He put the vehicle in motion again.

  A few miles later he heard the boy making strange sounds in the back of the truck, then he heard angry crowings from Macho. He looked up in the mirror. The kid had a can opener in his hand. He was jabbing at Macho, sticking him with it, his legs, his feet, his wings, poking with the point as if he were going to gouge the rooster’s eyes out.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mike shouted.

  “I have to do it,” the boy said. “If he don’t fight, he will turn into a plain rooster.”

  He made the vicious sounds again and Macho clawed at him. The boy laughed and threatened once more. “Chah!” he said. “Chah—chah!” And he jabbed the rooster time and again.

  Mike thought: I was wrong to see him only as his mother’s child. He’s like both parents. Mean. It’s in the blood.

  * * *

  • • •

  Late that afternoon they stopped in San Luis Potosí. One of the reasons for the stop was to see a doctor. This, at Rafo’s insistence. Not that he gave a damn about Mike’s health, he said, but if he was going to get dizzy while driving, the truck could go over a precipice, Rafo in it. So Mike had two alternatives: either let Rafo drive, or go to a doctor who would give him, the boy was certain, some immediate and miraculous cure for his ailment.

  San Luis was an industrial city, larger than Mike expected it to be, and they go lost finding the doctor. When they did find him at nightfall, the portly and pompous man was on his way out of his office, in a hurry to get away. He had absolutely no time to stay for another patient and Mike was convinced nothing would keep him here. But he hadn’t counted on the histrionic display of Rafo’s tears, great freshets of them, and the quaking of the pathetic boy who commiserated so heartbreakingly with his dear friend’s affliction. The doctor stayed.

  In fact he stayed to give Mike a lengthy, laboriously thorough examination. He flashed a light in his eyes, his ears, down his throat. He thumped and tapped, he poked and probed in a thousand different places and asked at least that many questions, some in bad English, some in Spanish which Rafo translated. One question made sense in neither language and was utterly untranslatable. How, the doctor said, did Mike manage the pushing of barrels? Mike looked to Rafo for interpretation, but the boy was as nonplussed as he was. It was only when the haughty doctor began to squat and grunt that Rafo caught on.

  “He want to know if you shit regular,” the boy said.

  “Clockwork,” Mike replied.

  Rafo thought Mike had said cockwork and replied, “He did not ask you that.”

  In a moment it appeared he would. The doctor was gestur
ing to Mike’s trousers. “He wants you to take your pants off,” Rafo said unnecessarily.

  By this time Mike got the sense that no great good would come of the entire visit and refused to take off any clothing. Both the doctor and Rafo prevailed on him.

  He knew when he got out of his trousers and shorts that he should have followed his impulse not to do so. For Rafo was looking at him as if he were beyond nature, a freak.

  “Where you get that big thing?” Rafo asked.

  “Shut the hell up!”

  “What do you feed it?” the boy asked.

  “I’ll break your head.”

  “Well,” said the boy philosophically. “Is like anything—if you give a lot of exercise, it will grow.” Then he added, “Too bad you don’t do the same thing with your head.”

  While this was going on the doctor was feeling and probing and pushing for hernias and ruptures and strangulations. But when he put on his rubber glove and Vaselined his finger to examine Mike’s prostate and when Rafo, seeing the doctor’s intention, said la-la-la, Mike had had enough of it. He gave the doctor the fifty pesos he asked for, paid little attention to the physician’s assurance that Mike was in excellent health and walked out of the office.

  The minute they got into the dark street, Rafo moaned with hunger. He’ll never stuff enough food into himself, Mike thought, not if he eats ten meals a day. He tried an experiment. He took the boy to a restaurant and urged dish after dish on him, force-feeding him like a goose, whatever the kid wanted. What he wanted, always wanted, was beans. He had one enchilada and the rest was beans, every kind, fried and unfried and refried, black, white, red and brown, with and without sauces. As to Mike, he ate sparingly, a cheese enchilada and two cups of the blackest coffee he had ever tasted.

  After dinner, the boy groaned, this time with the pain and pleasure of an overfull stomach. Mike too had a feeling of fullness and felt the need of exercise. Perhaps that was why his dizziness came back, he speculated—a sluggish liver, he was out of shape; for months he hadn’t had a hard, sweating workout in a stadium.