—
One of the shoeshiners stakes his stool by the edge of the sidewalk, climbs on it, cups his hands like a horn, and directs his yelling at the crowd around the pickup truck. Chickens! Wipe their windshield while you’re at it. The boy grabs his stool and frogs away. The scrawny protester snatches a protest sign and raises it above his head like a sledgehammer. Then he charges against the pickup truck, leaping atop the hood and smashing the sign on the windshield. The blow crushes the cardboard part of the sign. The windshield does not crack. Not even a tiny bit. The splintered cane is light so he hammers on the windshield rapidly, like a teenager at his grandmother’s piggy-bank. The other protesters do not join him. They seem to be relishing their roles as spectators. Which doesn’t last long. When the men inside the pickup swing their doors open, the crowd charges forth. The driver and the passenger escape from them. Protesters climb atop the flatbed. This sudden invasion frightens Ernesto into trying to escape but it’s too late, they’re everywhere, surrounding the pickup truck and yelling mátalo a ese hijueputa, grab that fucker, bájalo a ese viejo desgraciado. Rocking the pickup truck. The unexpected unsteadiness loosens the arm lock on Ernesto. He tries to jostle and elbow himself free but the man behind him clamps his arms tighter. Others are climbing on the flatbed. They’re ripping Ernesto’s tee shirt as if about to inspect livestock. Someone punches him in the stomach. A woman jerks him by his hair. They’re inserting Cristian Cordero’s signs on the windshield. Rolando rips the megaphone from the rooftop. He lifts it to Ernesto’s face, as if about to broadcast a public service announcement. Decrépito de mierda, he tries to announce. Instead the megaphone yields an alarm sound. He tries to cover his gaff by raising his arms in victory, rotating with the siren above his head, the epicenter of an overthrow. The black stains on the scrawny protester’s armpits sadden Ernesto. Someone’s been chewing eucalyptus. Ernesto faints. That’s enough. Rolando tries to hold back the crowd but there’s too many of them already grabbing the old man from his ankles and arms, standing him up, a mock effigy. Caridad para el año viejo, some of them chant, passing the old man around until they tire of him. They flip the pickup truck. They begin to disperse.
Antonio runs toward the capsized pickup truck. The old man is nowhere to be, there, he’s there, by a jampacked bus behind the wreckage. Antonio pushes his way through the retreating protesters, who aren’t amused by him, hey, one of them yells, watch where you’re going. Don’t mess with me, Antonio says. Or I’ll have all of you arrested. The threat carries the necessary authority. The protesters shrug and continue their retreat. A white haired woman is kneeling by the old man. She’s swabbing his bloodied chin with a cotton scarf that seems tethered to her purse. Curious heads are sticking out of the bus. The toll collector is blocking the people from getting out of the bus. The old man opens his eyes. As soon as he sees Antonio he tries to lift himself up.
I’m so sorry, abogado. I was doing my job but . . .
The old man’s attempt at raising himself visibly hurts him.
You better leave, the woman says to Antonio.
I can help. You can’t lift him up by yourself.
Get the hell out of here.
The onlookers inside the bus seem to think Antonio’s at fault. You heard her, one of them yells. Lárgate. Antonio backs away, slowly, without turning from them, hearing the old man saying I’ll clean up the mess, abogado, I’ll pick up the signs.
XI / FACUNDO AT SAN JAVIER
Two revoleras infiltrate San Javier, searching for their Julito. Two revoleras who had to hail seventeen jampacked interplanetary buses to land here in San Javier and deliver a love letter to their Julito. How do I know? Did anyone besides the Drool and the Microphone see those two? You could tell by their cheap rumpled school uniforms that they probably jumpstarted their voyage way over in Chinchipe, where the mosquitoes don’t prickle to avoid catching trichina from the locals and the buses don’t risk slowing down either, especially not for a schoolgirl who looks like La Chilindrina, hey, maybe one of those buses slowed down for the other one, the dark muslona who shortened her school skirt so that everyone without binoculars could osculate her spider? Stop what, Esteban? Don’t be so pious, Pipí. Everyone here likes to osculate spiders except you. Stop interrupting me with your leguminous protestations. Huh? I’ll unfurl the word leguminous whichever way I want, Microphone Head. Roll your rodomontades on vinegar and stick them up your, okay, everyone shut your eyes and imagine La Chilindrina and our Spider Woman waving and shouting and jumping like teenagers at a Menudo show for any bus to stop for them and, wait, one second, interludismo: did you guys know that Julio and the Drool just had their hair straightened by the main maraco at the Gaylord salon? That’s why their hair looks like flaccid leaves, fellows. Sure, I’ll shut up, Drool, but who’s going to retell the bewitching you and your lord Julio did to those two revoleras? Where was I? Aha, yes, our revos were howling at a Menudo show but instead of climbing on Ricky Martin’s motorcycle they were flagging buses that wouldn’t take them. At last one bus snails down ahead of them so they’re both running after it, their skirts flapping like in those skits from Haga Negocio Conmigo where machine winds lift paper money and skirts and then, hey, I bet every Sunday after confession Cazares hides himself by a portable television and secretes his weekly sins while watching the skits from Haga Negocio Conmigo. If something I owe / with pigeons I repay you. Did you hear that on top of having a counterfeit whiskey business Cazares’s family also grows pigeons at home? Let’s omit what he’s probably doing to those poor pigeons while his mother’s in the other room, fitting the mouth of whiskey bottles with funnels. Aaaaaaviary bestiality / aaaaamen. So their skirts are flapping like in that show Cazares surreptitiously watches with pigeon in hand and everyone on the bus is cricking their necks and hooting corra mamacita, súbase que aquí le tengo la sorpresota, and just as they’re reaching the doorway of the bus where the toll collector is egging them on, it speeds up, the toll collector grinning and shaking his head as if he’s disappointed at, but at the same time sated by, their gullibility, oh no, but our two pigeons aren’t taking that kind of flout, our pigeons are going to showcase their prowess to those conchadesumadres by sprinting after the bus and look they’re catching up and jumping inside, the toll collector saying te la ganaste mamacita, the Chilindrina cursing everyone as everyone claps and the toll collector, who’s probably called Joni or Wasinton or Eusebio, is repeating the saeculorum bus dictum of siga, siga, plenty of room in the back. What? What did the Pipí say? Really? Doesn’t La Verga here know that this bus driver’s son rams Pipí’s mother inside that bus on a weekly basis and then makes her pay triple fare on the way out? Pipííííííí. Who wants to bet me an empanada that our two revos were embrangling about the love letter for Julio during their intergalactic ride? Did you hear that the Empanada almost knocked Pipí’s glasses for calling him Empanada? Down, Pipí. Down. So our pigeons are on the bus and La Chilindrina’s saying now let me see that pink letter, my pigeon, and our Spider Woman’s saying negativo, and La Chilindrina’s saying love is sharing, palomar, and our Spider Woman’s saying love you nots, pecosota, and La Chilindrina’s relentless nagging continues until our Spider Woman relents and pulls the pink envelope with the letter from her knee high soccer sock and lets the Chilindrina read its perfumed pages and La Chilindrina’s saying his what?, and Spider Woman’s saying shhh, and La Chilindrina’s saying moaning like a what?, and Pipí’s saying put down your perversities for the lord, and someone on the bus is saying come moan over here, gatita, and La Chilindrina and our Spider Woman are saying shut your hangar, pothole face. No, Drool. Wasn’t talking about you or your venerable father. I might be a Panza de Chofer but at least my dad isn’t the leader of the poor. Is he returning to defalcate us again? You started it, Drool. What did Esteban say? Sure. Buy me a sandwich from Don Alban’s and I’ll retell the story of our two revos starting from whenever you want. Who wants me to start when La Chilindrina was born? Anyone? So our two pigeo
ns arrive to San Javier and they’re outside the gates to our venerable school and what they must have done to the guard’s salted lollipop so he would let them in I don’t have time to go into. Unless Pipí here wants me to. No? All right. So La Chilindrina and our Spider Woman are, yes, Microphone Head, Wonder Woman is the superhero with the ultra short skirt but Spider Woman is the one with the spider. So La Chilindrina and our Wonder Spider Woman are, is that better, Microphone? Does that work for you? When the Microphone was born the first thing the vaginacologist did was tap his head and say check, check, is this thing on? So our two revos are standing by the entrance to our dignified school, right by our classroom where the inspiriting words of our patron San Francisco Javier, what? No, I don’t remember what the inscription says. I don’t go around memorizing saintly patron bullcrap like you, Saint Microphone. So our two revoleras from El Guasmo are standing there as if waiting for someone to let them in through a back door, I mean, there’s eight hundred boys in this school, how did our pigeons think they were going to find their Julito? Did they think he left a trail of, what do you fellows think Julio would leave as a trail? Definitely not breadcrumbs. Right. He wouldn’t leave a trail. Good one, Drool. Julito / Julito / why is your mouth tan bonito? Pa’ revolearte mejor. The bell rings for recess and that’s when everyone’s pouring out and our two pigeons are spotting all you perverts congregating at a distance as if female Martians had landed with a note excusing everyone from abstinence before marriage. Remember when the Microphone asked Father Francisco if performing La Paja Rusa on one’s wife’s tits was a sin? Sex only for procreation even with your wife, the Microphone was pissed. Chaaaambas. What are our two cholitas doing here in San Javier? Of course the Microphone volunteered himself to be our emissary and find out, prancing over to welcome them to our onanistic order. Good afternoon ladies, could I be of any assistance to you? Good one, Microphone! We’re looking for Julio, they said. Julio what? Of course our two revos didn’t know his last name but the Microphone’s a sly one. About this tall, he says, cute little eyelashes? Pinkie of a nose like Luis Miguel? Who knew that the Microphone amplifies his pecker for Julito? Did you tell them that Julio’s pinkie nose used to be a potato bulb before his plastic surgery? That’s our second Nariz de Chepa in less than two years, folks. I bet the Drool’s next. Get that crooked monster fixed, Drool. Man you’re ugly. This one is Aladino, La Chilindrina says. How’d you know? We know our Julio, Leopoldo says, ignoring their question about what’s Julio’s last name and introducing himself with a fake name: Antonio José at your service. The Microphone eyes the letter on Spider Woman’s hand, immediately deducing what this is all about. Behind him someone muffles his yell with his hands and we’re all hearing his chant of revolero / revolero. Everyone muffles their trumpets and chants revolero / revolero. Don’t mind those twits, our lowfi emissary says, they haven’t seen such beautiful girls in years. Beautiful? How does Leopoldo’s saying go? If she’s not green, doesn’t crawl, she’ll do. I’m a good friend of Julio, the Microphone says. I can hand deliver the letter to, oh, ho, that’s when our chorus of pothole virgins switches from chanting revolero / revolero to oh / uh. The Microphone turns and sees Father Ignacio rapidly approaching and you can tell the Microphone is already machinating excuses, soliloquies, whatever. They’re volunteers, Leopoldo informs Father Ignacio, but the Microphone knows Father Ignacio is the one priest at San Javier who does not fall for his verbiage so the Microphone doesn’t offer up a convincing embroidery of what exactly they’re volunteering for. What did you say? Lollipop volunteers? Sure, Pipí, I guess that could be considered funny somewhere. Just nowhere in a three thousand mile radius. Go tell it to the Peruvians. Do you have a delivery, Father Ignacio asks. Our Spider Woman looks at Leopoldo for answers and Father Ignacio looks at Leopoldo to check on his answers and Leopoldo opts out of giving answers by taking a step back and bowing to Father Ignacio. Father Ignacio asks for the letter and the girl hands it to him and says it’s for, for, Ju / Ju / Julio. I’ll make sure it gets to its appropriate destinatario, Father Ignacio says. Our Menudo pigeons bow to Father Ignacio and sprint away. Of course Father Ignacio knows which Julio, right? Isn’t Julio his nephew? And of course Father Ignacio knew why our pigeons were there. Why else would two cholazas like that be looking for Julio? What? Expelled? Don’t be what you are, Pipí. Everyone knows our Julito’s expulsion free. Remember when he showed up to class straight from Infinity Nightclub? Okay, the bell’s ringing soon and I have to pee. The End. Oh? You fellows wanted to know what Julio and the Drool did to those two cholazas? Why didn’t you say so earlier? Why don’t you tell them what you told me, Drool? No? I’ll retell it if you let me sit behind you during our final tomorrow. Pipí already rented the spot behind him. Back to our two pigeons then. Once upon a time José Eduardo, Julio’s most perverted cousin who happens to look like a perverted pug, bought a busted 1970s VW van especially for netting revoleras, enlisting Julio to do all the pickups because even revos from El Guasmo wouldn’t get into that rusted van if Julio wasn’t the one doing the sweet talking from the passenger window. I bet Pug Eduardo probably wets his pants just thinking about being cousins with someone who can actually convince the hottest cholitas on the street to get into his busted van. What kind of sick dog gets more satisfaction from luring revos into his filthy van by using Julio than from actually ramming them? So Pug Eduardo, Julio, and the Drool are driving in that crapsome van way over in that treacherous area where the Gremlin lives and Julio of course has no problem convincing three random revoleras strolling down the main street to get in, driving them to a squalid park where, after funneling cheap apple Boone’s wine on them, the fun starts, Pug Eduardo undressing his girl and our girl’s shouting no, no, please, let me out, Pug Eduardo saying you know you want it, conchadetumadre, slapping her and mounting her and rocking his van. Meanwhile Julio has had no problem undressing the other one, gripping her neck as she moans ay papacito, ay mi amorcito, and Julio’s howling and pounding her as if trying to capsize the VW van and his pants are down as if he’s taking a piss on the side of the road and just happened to spot a warm hole nearby. The penicillin shots come later. Does anyone want to guess what the Drool was doing? Anyone? That’s right. Nothing. Nothing at all. While Julio’s cousin is forcing one pigeon to witness the overpowering wattage of his pickle, and while Julio’s sausaging his pigeon at a speed worthy of Mazinger, Antonio is talking to his girl about, about what, fellows? Anyone? That’s right, Pipí. About the Virgin Mary.
The Revolutionaries Try Again Page 17
