Sebastian shook his head. Even when Meche was trying to apologize in her own Meche-way, she had a way of insulting you once again. And yet, looking down at the girl with her oversized green jacket, the sleeves covering her fingers, the collar of her shirt sticking out at an odd angle, he thought she was the only person who ever got him.
“You shouldn’t talk shit about other people,” he said.
“That’s what they do. What do you think they say about us?”
“Yeah, well. We’ve got to be the better persons and all. I suppose.”
“Says who?”
“I dunno. But I don’t like gossipy people.”
Meche snorted, shuffling her feet.
“Fine. I won’t talk crap about Isadora if you don’t want me to.”
“Thanks.”
Meche saluted, a mock-serious expression on her face. She stepped back and started walking away.
“Thanks. I’ll get it back to you later,” he called after her.
Sebastian pressed Play and the drums began to roll as The Who proclaimed this was their generation. Sebastian bagged his groceries to the rhythm, bobbing his head up and down.
WALKING HOME THAT night Sebastian decided to cut his way through the neglected, concrete wasteland of the park. It was arranged in the shape of a large rectangle with four paths leading to the centre, where the hobos and the hoodlums tended to gather. Sad trees and ugly bushes looked at the large cement benches. The northeast corner was an impromptu waste disposal facility: people who missed or did not care to wait for the morning garbage truck dumped their supermarket plastic bags filled with garbage there, attracting many stray dogs looking for a meal.
As he walked by a cement bench he noticed a wallet on the ground and picked it up. It had no identifications inside, only bills. Lots of bills. Sebastian looked around, checked nobody was watching him, and tucked it in his trousers.
THREE TIMES A week Vicente Vega stopped by a little travel agency and met with Azucena Bernal for an hour of sex. He could not say it had started innocently but he had never intended for it to become what it had become. Unlike many other Mexican men—fixated with the idea of being macho, with a desire for a casa chica, for a mistress and its ensuing complications—Vicente had never seriously considered establishing ties with another woman.
Yet there he was, with Azucena. Three times a week and just as many phone calls when they did not meet. They were into the fourth week of their relationship and it showed no signs of stopping or ceasing in intensity. Meanwhile, Natalia stared at him across the table at nights, ate him alive with her words, piled indifference and scorn upon his shoulders. Azucena, as plain as his wife was beautiful, was sweeter, more understanding, did not yell at him demanding he turn off the reading light or ask him to explain why he was still working on that worthless book. Vicente was seriously considering moving out. If he had a little money he would definitely do it. They could move to Puerto Vallarta and he would play his records until late at night with no one to tell him to turn the music down.
Vicente looked at the brochures he’d picked from Azucena’s office: beaches, happy couples holding hands. And he, still young, not yet old, trapped in the middle of his life with a woman who resented him, growing greyer and fatter by the day. To escape... to start anew...
If only he could finish his book. Vicente had thought that by now he’d have it all edited and proofed. Then he could sell it. He might not make a fortune, but enough to ditch Natalia.
Natalia who had never allowed him to go to Puerto Vallarta because the sun was bad for her skin even when, back then, her father had agreed to pay for the trip. Instead, they went to Cuernavaca on their honeymoon and Natalia spent the money her dad had reserved for the trip on a new wardrobe. When her father passed away, leaving Natalia a bit of money, she refused to take a vacation in Cancún. She had bought herself a new car—not their car, because he was not allowed to drive it—and some jewellery.
There was still enough money left from that time to go on vacation—at least a little one, at least Puerto Vallarta—but it was all in the family savings fund. Money which one day would go to Meche for university. Not a penny could be touched. Vicente didn’t have a say in the matter. Vicente didn’t have a say in anything.
Smoking his cigarettes in a corner of the apartment and nursing real and imaginary wounds with a few drinks, Vicente felt himself growing old.
“I DON’T KNOW,” he told his wife that night.
“You’re never going to finish that book.”
Vicente smiled and lit his cigarette.
“At the very least you should see about a promotion. Announcers don’t make shit. You should be a show producer.”
“I like being on air.”
“Announcers are becoming obsolete.”
“How are the acting classes going?” he asked, throwing the ball at her.
For the past year his wife had been taking acting classes at a little school downtown. He had seen the coach and could almost vouch she was also having an affair, but he wasn’t about to hurl stones. If it kept her off his case, he was frankly okay with it.
“Fine,” Natalia said, looking sour.
Vicente smiled. She had never been able to act her way out of a paper bag. At least Vicente could play an instrument, write songs, write a book (though it remained unfinished, remained an eternal work in progress). Perhaps that was where the animosity was first born. A bitter jealousy over his superior artistic talent. Talent which didn’t amount to much, but it was better than nothing, and that was what Natalia had: nothing. Not a splinter of artistic ability.
“Mmm,” Vicente said. “I’m going to listen to some music before going to bed.”
“Turn off the lights when you are done. You are always wasting power and then the bill comes very high.”
“I’ll turn them off.”
HE SAT IN the dark, listening to The Temptations and smoking.
He thought about what anchored him to this city, to this apartment, to this chair and found very little, the thread of his existence stretched thin.
Vicente saw himself exiting in the middle of the night, grabbing his leather jacket and his old guitar, and simply getting on a bus and heading to nowhere. He pictured himself as a shadow melting into shadows and disappearing.
He closed his eyes.
Vicente opened them when he heard voices. Male and female. Young.
“I found it in the park, just laying there. It’s full of money.”
“How much is in there?”
It was Meche talking to the tall boy, the one she was always with: Sebastian. He didn’t know what they were discussing. He checked his watch and saw it was late, stood up to remind them Sebastian should be home by now and promptly sat back down. Their voices sounded so content and happy. He remembered sounding like that.
He let them drone on until he heard the door close and Meche shuffle towards her room.
He thought what he might do if he was that young again, of opportunities lost and moments which pass you by.
MECHE LOOKED INTO the mirror, critically analyzing the neon yellow skirt. This was foreign territory. Her regular daywear included jeans, t-shirts and the occasional jacket, sleeves rolled up, with a pair of really heavy, masculine boots. There was no money for the latest fashions so she made do with leftovers from her older cousin or opted for cheap, unfashionable items. Meche looked positively... dainty in this outfit.
“Are you sure girls wear this stuff?” she asked Daniela.
“Look,” Daniela said, handing her one of the teen magazines tucked in her backpack.
She matched the girl in the picture. But Meche didn’t look like her—she was far less attractive. Meche felt like she was a cheap copy sold in La Lagunilla. This despite that they were shopping at a nice store because the money spell had come through in the shape of the wallet from the park, its contents promptly plundered. Finally, they could shop in Polanco. Sadly, nothing seemed to fit Meche properly.
; “I like it. Do you like mine?” Daniela asked.
Meche glanced at her friend’s outfit. It was predictably pink and purple. Daniela resembled a large meringue, but Meche supposed it did look like the stuff the girls in the magazine were wearing.
“I guess it’s alright,” Meche said. She leaned towards the mirror, zeroing on the zits around her mouth, and sighed. “I need to fix my skin.”
“You should put on a nice avocado mask before going to bed.”
“I need a major intervention, not an avocado mask. How can so many pimples appear every damn day? It’s like they know I want to go to a party.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“You say that because you don’t look like me,” Meche muttered.
“Do you want to see what Sebastian is wearing?” Daniela asked.
“Okay.”
The girls stepped out of their changing room and knocked at one of the other doors.
“Seboooos,” Meche said.
“What?” came the gruff answer.
“Show us.”
“No.”
“Sebos...”
“No!”
Meche tried jumping to get a look over the door, but could not reach high enough. Over the stores’ speakers What I Like About You began to play and Meche began knocking on the door to the rhythm of the music.
“Come oooon.”
“Fine!”
He opened the door unexpectedly, making Meche stumble back. He glared at both girls, crossing his arms over his chest. Sebastian—he of the minimalist, all-black attires—looked like he had stepped out of an episode of Miami Vice and was going to give Don Johnson a run for his money. He was wearing a bubblegum-pink t-shirt, a white jacket with wide lapels and loafers sans socks.
Meche couldn’t help it. She just laughed. This caused Sebastian to immediately retreat into the changing room.
“I’m sorry,” Meche said, following inside and laughing. “I’m sorry.”
“I knew I shouldn’t follow Daniela’s stupid advice,” Sebastian muttered, taking off the jacket and putting it back on the hanger.
“It’s not bad.”
“Yeah. Your reaction proved it.”
“Daniela, come here,” Meche said.
“What?” Daniela asked, poking her head in.
“Do you like it?” Meche asked, her thumb pointing at Sebastian.
“I think he looks nice.”
“See? You look nice.”
“I’ll change into something else. The trousers are too damn tight,” he muttered.
“I can ask for a bigger size,” Daniela said, happily scampering off in her pink and purple tutu-like dress.
Meche looked at the shirts and jackets Sebastian had piled on a chair, raising a skeptical eyebrow at a pastel-coloured tie.
“That skirt is short,” Sebastian said.
“It seems to be the purpose of mini-skirts,” Meche replied.
“Yeah, but you hate skirts.”
“I know.”
“I can see your ass.”
Meche resisted the impulse to pull the hem down, but she did give Sebastian a pronounced, irritated look.
“The point of this whole thing is to look cool,” she said. “You know, unlike we regularly do.”
“I think you shouldn’t confuse ‘cool’ with ‘mildly obscene.’”
“Thanks, Grandpa Smurf.”
“No... I mean, it’s... disturbing,” he concluded.
Meche didn’t even know what to say to that. She opted for nothing and went back to her own changing room. She picked a pair of neon green leggings and sighed.
THE GIRLS WANTED to get haircuts. That’s when Sebastian pulled the brakes. He was willing to go shopping for new clothes, he was even willing to show them the clothes he picked, but he was not going to the hairdresser with them.
Daniela looked crestfallen. She had brought numerous cut-outs from magazines showing various hairstyles she thought would look good on him. Sebastian’s longish hair, however, was going to remain exactly as it was.
As the girls wandered towards the hair stylist, Sebastian quietly made his way to a jewelry shop. He stopped before the displays, peering down at the sparkling diamonds and the flash of gold until he spotted a gold heart on a chain. He took out the wallet and counted the remaining bills.
“UGH... I DON’T feel very well,” Daniela said.
“That’s because you drank the milkshake too fast,” Meche said. “Brain freeze. When are you going to learn?”
“I suppose...”
Meche saw Sebastian’s spidery hand reach towards her plate, plucking a fry, dipping it in ketchup and throwing it in his mouth. She retaliated by reaching for his burger and giving it a big bite, then opening her mouth and showing him the food.
“Gross,” he said.
“Gwa,” Meche said, turning to Daniela and also showing her the food.
Daniela did not react. She blinked in confusion. Meche shrugged, closed her mouth and chewed.
“I want to go see a movie,” Meche said. “We should buy a big bucket of popcorn.”
“No more food,” Daniela muttered.
“A shocking development,” Meche said, pointing a fry at Daniela. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
“I want to go home,” Daniela said.
“Don’t be a spoilsport. Sebos, what do you want to do?”
“Finish my food.”
“After you finish your food?”
“Why don’t we go to the arcade?”
“How much money do we have left?”
Sebastian pulled out a bill and placed it on the table. Meche nodded thoughtfully. They’d get more bang out of their buck if they went to play at the machine in the pharmacy near home because it was cheaper, but that meant Meche might bump into her mom. Plus, there were only two machines and the little kids around the block tended to get on them pretty early in the afternoon. The arcade wouldn’t have these issues but it was more expensive.
“I think the arcade’s a good idea. Dani, you want to come?” Meche asked.
“No. I think I want to have a nap.”
“Alright,” Meche said. “Suit yourself.”
AFTER THEY FINISHED their hamburgers, Sebastian and Meche saw Daniela home. They dumped their purchases at Meche’s house before rushing off to Arcadeland, the arcade closest to their home. It had over twenty machines and two bored, young attendants who sold tokens and exchanged tickets for tiny plastic bracelets and other assorted crap. In a corner of the joint, there was a stand selling stale pizza and pop.
Sebastian and Meche ignored the bad food and bought a bunch of tokens, dumping them into the machines of their choice. For Sebastian, that was Pac-Man. For Meche, it was something which involved shooting.
Eventually they both got behind the steering wheel and competed in several driving games. The pixelated car did the Monaco circuit, animated girls in bikinis holding up signs saying ‘Number 1’ and ‘Race On!’ while some muffled music—Meche thought it might well be Eurythmics—pumped through the arcade.
“Win, win, win!” Meche yelled.
“Let’s try the air hockey table.”
Meche knew Sebastian wanted to play air hockey because he could easily beat her and rub it in her face, paying her back for her previous wins at the racing machine, but she felt like being a good sport and followed him.
They both stopped in their tracks once they were near the table: Constantino and some of the other boys were gathered around it.
Sometimes, when Meche looked at Constantino, she could almost feel her brain flying through her skull and exiting her body. Coherent thought escaped her and she was left with a terrible longing.
This was one such moment. The lights and sounds of the arcade seemed to dim, leaving only Constantino, standing by the table, looking down, a lazy smile on his lips. She had the urge to extend her hand, touch his shoulder or brush her fingers through his hair. To hold a minuscule part of him, just for a few seconds. To cup the soun
d of his laughter against her ear.
The boys, taking note of them, looked at Meche and Sebastian and grinned. One of the boys chuckled and someone—she did not know who—must have said something funny because they all started laughing.
Meche and Sebastian moved away, back to a corner of the arcade and she threw a coin into a slot, her fingers trembling as she gripped the joystick.
The sugar-high she had been on had emptied out and she felt herself crashing down, her stomach heaving and turning with the unpleasant taste of sadness.
Would they also laugh at them at Isadora’s party, when they wore their new clothes? If they did, they could curse them, make their teeth fall out; the benefit of becoming teenage witches.
From now on, Sebastian, Daniela and Meche were the ones with the upper hand. Which is why she had a hard time understanding why obstinate tears were prickling her eyes.
No crying. Ever. That was her motto.
Sebastian leaned down, rested his chin against her shoulder and whispered into her ear.
“It’s fine,” he said.
She turned her head by a small fraction and tried to smile.
Meche looked back at the arcade machine. Sebastian also threw a coin into the slot and pressed the start button.
Now that she paid attention, Meche was pretty sure Eurythmics was what they were listening to. It sounded like Here Comes the Rain Again.
PEOPLE WHO HAVE never spent time inside a radio cabin cannot understand the appeal of that small enclosed space, its turntable and its microphone. Behind insulated walls and tape reels hides a spark, a magic, you can’t find anywhere else.
Music.
Vicente sat in the cabin, closed his eyes and the world spun away.
Television, movies—they can’t compare to radio. To the music over airwaves. It’s like a portal to another world.
He was needing other worlds more and more these days. Things at home were nastier than ever and the book was going nowhere.
Signal to Noise Page 10
