Boricio Goes Camping (Dark Crossings)

by Sean Platt

  Inside the box, Rose stacked some of her best parts. She had a ritual she told Boricio of only once, when drunk. Whenever she finished a story, Rose printed it out, single spaced on both sides, in 8-point type. The type was so small that she sometimes fit an entire short story on a single page. The box was large and almost full, with many pages in packets, either stapled or clipped together. Boricio didn’t care what he read, though he had gone digging for an old favorite a few times before. Mostly he would just reach in, pull a story from the box, and start reading. It was one of his favorite things to do, and one of the few secrets he kept from Rose.

  Boricio pulled the box down from the top shelf and backed up onto the bed. He set the box beside him, lifted its lid, and fished until he drew a thin bundle of what felt like four sheets stapled together. He smiled at the title: The Nearly Silent Scream.

  His smile broke into a laugh. He was sure Rose hated the title. But she would never change it. She would just decide it was awful along with the story, and toss them together into the box.

  She was funny like that — critical like a Jewish mother about her own work in ways that didn’t make a dick hair of sense. Rose would think up a story, excited like a giggling girl on her way to prom, finish the story still excited, then hate it a day later. She would print the story in 8-point type, both sides, and add it to the box where no one could read her failure.

  Boricio hadn’t read The Nearly Silent Scream before, and was on the third page when he decided it wasn’t her best. That didn’t stop him from reading, nor had it ever. As always, Boricio would read every word through strained eyes. Tiny type meant spending more time with her words, and because Boricio felt tired when he finished, the weight and value increased in each one. He loved reading Rose’s work because it showed him sides of her — more than he could count — that he would never get from her speech. Writing was telling stories with different parts of your mind, and while Boricio was no stranger to inner whispers, he marveled at anyone who could keep them organized enough to lay them in rows on the page.

  Boricio finished The Nearly Silent Scream. It was about a family who sat around the table at dinner each night, all of them hating one another through their silent chewing. The story was fat with clichés and flat language. Rose’s best work was vibrant and flowing. It made Boricio’s heart beat faster by the page, and not just because he slept beside her and got to play with her panty hamster whenever he wanted.

  Even at her worst, Boricio still loved every word. He didn’t care about the clichés or boring language in The Nearly Silent Scream. He cared about what he knew Rose felt as she wrote each section. It was like seeing inside her. He could see her eyes wrinkle when the dad said he’d be working through another long weekend, the corners of her mouth turning down as the mom pretended to not know what that meant, and feel her bristle as the daughter asked her parents for the pitcher — either one — thinking, I hate your fucking guts and hope you both die.

  Boricio replaced The Nearly Silent Scream inside a stack of pages at the box’s bottom and set the lid back on top. He wasn’t worried about Rose finding the pages out of order. He didn’t think she kept track. Even if he did, Boricio wasn’t worried about her discovery.

  The only secret he cared to keep from Rose was his purging.

  He could live with her knowing about the box, and would have already told her if he thought she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Reading her stories wasn’t like purging because it wasn’t an outright lie. It was like watching Rose get undressed when she didn’t know he was playing voyeur. Boricio loved that. Two days ago he had come into their bedroom as Rose was getting changed in the bathroom. He looked through the doorway and saw her bent over, rubbing lotion on her legs. Her ass was up in the air. Boricio stood and stared. He could’ve gone in and taken advantage of her stance, Rose would have liked that a lot, but Boricio mined more from the moment by saving it for later, enjoyed it like living art painted before him.

  Rose didn’t know Boricio had seen her through the doorway, but she wouldn’t have cared if he had. This was like that.

  Boricio put the box back into Rose’s closet, wandered the house, waited for his lady to come home, and tried to forget about Mary and the kiddy diddler who was clearly a threat to (his friend) Paola.

  Of course, he couldn’t.

  **

  Boricio didn’t stop thinking about Mary. Not the whole rest of the day, nor any of the ones after that. Boricio was so bothered, Rose asked him what was wrong (twice). He said it was nothing deserving of a treasured spot in her valuable head, then shoved it to the back of his mind, determined to forget it, for the sake of his friendship with Mary and his balance with Rose. A day after that, Paola called.

  “So,” Boricio said as he answered the phone, expecting Mary from the caller ID. “You’ve changed your mind.” He dropped a packet of Rose’s pages into the box and stood from the bed.

  Paola said, “Changed my mind about what?”

  Boricio laughed. “Oh, it’s Rory. I was expecting Lorelei.”

  “What? Who are Rory and Lorelei? Are you doing drugs? What am I changing my mind about?”

  Boricio laughed again. “Your mom called a few days ago, was telling me some street priest was making circles round your bus stop and giving you the eye. Said she planned on calling the cops. I figured they did a quarter of dick on their way to get donuts and haven’t given a yank to the shaft since. So, I also figured she changed her mind. I wasn’t expecting Nick Jr.”

  “She did go to the cops, like she said. And they told her they couldn’t do anything, just like you predicted.”

  “Of course they can’t do anything!” Boricio yelled into the phone. “Diddlers get more rights than law abiding citizens!”

  Bullshit had Boricio pacing. Mary should have let him deal with it four days ago. Paola’s voice was shaking like a bird’s twitter.

  “I didn’t call to make you mad,” Paola said. “I just thought you would want to know.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Boricio said. “I could tell by the way you reacted when I expected your mom — you didn’t even know we had talked. You called because you wanted to ask me if I’d do what your mom called and asked me not to.”

  Boricio smiled, raising his brows though Paola couldn’t see it, waiting for her answer.

  “OK, fine. I need your help, Boricio. Can you help? I don’t want Mom to do something stupid.”

  “Oh, but it’s lollipops and Lik M Aid for Uncle Boricio to take the risk?” After a pause he added, “And what is it you think I can do, Little Miss Thing? We’re not somewhere over the rainbow in the middle of a what the fuck is going on. We’re back in black and white now, I can’t just go making people disappear.”

  The fuck is wrong with me? Mama Bear calls and I’m ready to roar; the cub calls and I want to stand down?

  Paola said, “How am I supposed to answer that, Boricio? I knew you over there. I knew you before Rose. I saw things, heard other things. Felt stuff. I’ve seen nightmares in your eyes. Mom, too. We talk about it.”

  “Say more stuff like that,” Boricio said, curious to see what the chickie would hatch.

  “You’re a killer, Boricio.”

  “You thanking me for keeping you breathing?”

  “I’m not saying it like a bad thing.” Boricio pictured Paola shrugging. “You’re right. I don’t think me or my mom would be alive if you weren’t who you are. I think I’m like Mom, I know when I’m right, and I don’t think you’re bad like you used to be. You make me feel safe, not scared. And I know you can help me. That’s why I called you. It’s probably why Mom called you, too. She just couldn’t go through with it because she lets herself feel so bad about stuff.”

  “I ain’t saying yay, nay, or neener neener neener, but what makes you so sure you’re right? Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous to call a man and accuse him of being a killer, whether or not he is one? What makes you think I wouldn’t hurt you if I was a killer, now that you know my s
ecret?”

  “You’re not like that. I don’t have to worry about you.”

  Boricio grunted into the phone. The girl was too cocky. A good way to get into bad trouble. He said, “You can never be sure.”

  “That’s not true. I can be. I don’t know if it’s because I know stuff, or because Luca fixed me like he fixed you, but I can feel you, Boricio. And you not liking it doesn’t keep it from being true. I feel the feelings inside you, and I know it’s not my imagination. I also know I’m safe. Or maybe I’m wrong and it’s all in my imagination. Either way, I’m not a dumb kid, and you shouldn’t treat me like one. I see stuff, and can figure out most of what I don’t.”

  “Fair enough, little lamb.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

  “I’m not saying yes, but I am encouraging you to keep talking. What is it you’re asking exactly?”

  “I don’t know. You already know what you know. I don’t want to ask you to do anything except make sure Mom and I don’t have to worry about him.”

  “What do you want me to do, Paola? Be specific.”

  “Whatever you have to,” she said. Her voice trembled. Boricio couldn’t push her anymore. She was scared, about to shatter and show it all over. He knew she wouldn’t say it, and didn’t want her to since even shit seemed to have ears, but he wanted her to step into what she wanted, to own it through her narrowed eyes and heavy breath.

  “OK, little lamb. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Do you need a name?”

  “Nope, I got it. Just need a ticket and a reason for Rose.”

  “Did Mom tell you his name?”

  “No, I did a web search for ‘dumb diddler that deserves to die, walking distance from a pretty young girl who’s too smart for her own good.’ Fucker’s address popped right up.”

  Paola laughed. “No really, did she give it to you?”

  “No really, she didn’t. I did a web search based on shit your mom said and kept on looking until I found the fucker. You have like nine sex offenders in your neighborhood — I’m thinking I should double down and make it a full-on vacation, scrub your neighborhood tidy.”

  Paola laughed louder. She already sounded happier, more confident, safer. She was a cool kitty, not quite like any other kid Boricio had ever known, not that he had known that many after he was one.

  “I have his address. I’ll see what I can do. OK?”

  “OK!” Paola squealed. “Promise?”

  Boricio had to laugh again as he promised to break the vow he’d made to Mary. “You promise to not say diddly shit to your mama?”

  “Of course,” Paola said. “She would kill me.”

  “Then yeah, I promise.”

  At least Paola’s promise was more fun to keep.

  **

  Boricio lifted himself out of Rose and collapsed back on the pillow, satisfied like she was beside him. Heavy billows rolled from his heaving chest: a lion’s purr. He scooted up against the headboard, wrapped his right arm around Rose, and pulled her against him. She ran her left hand up and down his abs, her fingers brushing the hard lines.

  Boricio had waited hours for this. Not just the jabbing and jiggling with his jumbo frank and her juicy fruit. He needed to seed more than the billion baby Boricios that swam in his batter, he also had to inform Rose about his impromptu trip, give her a good reason and make sure she thought it was a great idea. There was no better time for introducing new info to Rose than after he’d slid into her slippery and tickled her into a rattle.

  “Who has a giant dick, skills in the kitchen, and an upcoming trip to the land of polygamy?”

  “I’m sure it’s this guy,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. “But I didn’t know Utah had a restaurant scene.”

  “Oh yeah,” Boricio waved his hand in the air like he’d eaten there a week before. State got their shit together a couple of years ago, normalized liquor laws for the first time since 1935, so now an asshole can walk into a bar and order a drink like they were in any other city in the country. The film scene is cracking — Sundance is like a mountain and a cumshot away from Salt Lake — and the city passed an anti-discrimination law protecting trannies and whatnots, with backing from the Mormons. Even if they didn’t mean it, more people are coming to the city. Three out of four fuckers are still mostly honkies, but now there’s beaners and rag heads and probably some chinks.”

  “Boricio!” Rose cried out and slapped his naked chest. She was tolerant around most of Boricio’s vulgarity, but didn’t care for his racism even if he didn’t really mean it. Boricio was made up of who-knew-how many varieties. He was near sure he had some cotton picking somewhere in his blood — he had too much rhythm not to — but wouldn’t have been in any way surprised to find he had a bit of rice-eating slant eye sitting at the edge of some barely-there twig on his family tree. Boricio was certain his family’s seed had been spilling into random soil for generations.

  Rose lay back against the headboard. She softly said, “Well, then that sounds wonderful. So, they found you on the site, and wanted to hire you like the others?”

  Boricio had been lightly fabricating a few untruths. Not direct or exactly, just webbed up and all over the place, to support his purging, of course, which was the only thing Boricio kept from Rose, and did so with an uncomfortable ache he still found confounding whenever he did, which in one way or another was pretty much all the time.

  He laughed. “Turns out there’s more than a few fuckers smart enough to pay for Boricio’s way at the burners. This one’s a restaurant just outside Salt Lake. It’s new, called Garlic Proper. Guy who owns the Proper, Eddie Ames — looked 350 pounds easy when I looked him up online — went to culinary with Leon Walsh, the guy who owns Copper Sandwich.”

  Boricio paused, leaned over, and kissed Rose on her neck before he continued.

  “Anyway, Leon was singing ring around the rosy about all the tweaks and caramelized magic I’d given to his menu on our consult. He asked if I’d be willing to fly out to Salt Lake. I said I didn’t really want to fly anywhere right now, and that if I did I highly doubted Salt Lake would make my list. He said he’d fly me first class. I said thank you very much for thinking of Boricio, but he has a lady at home in need of his attention, and prefers it once, even two times, a day.”

  Rose laughed; Boricio stopped to inhale her.

  “Anyway, I said no, and the fat man offered to double my fee — it’s worth it to him since Leon said my consult paid for itself in a week.”

  “Wow,” Rose said. “I’m so proud of you. You said yes the second time, right? Tell me you said yes. These trips are so good for you.”

  “At first I didn’t,” Boricio kept on with his lie, “but then I got to thinking how great it was when I drove down to Georgia, and how refreshed I felt when I came back. I thought, hell, a drive to Utah might tumble both balls at once, except for the bit about missing you — but we made up for what we missed when I was in Georgia, I’m sure we can do the same again. So I said I’d do it for the price of first-class tickets plus double my fee, but I’d drive to meet him. He said deal.”

  Rose was glowing. Boricio loved her heat on his body. “This is so great, Boricio. You always come back refreshed, and not just after Georgia. You’re always worth the wait.” She hugged him tight. “I’m so happy.”

  Boricio knew she would be.

  People were science. Music. Art. Mechanics. Fine engines. And Boricio knew how to drive them, Rose better than most. Ninety percent was timing, arrangement after that, the right words in the right order, spit in a song with the right tilt to his voice.

  Again, these untruths were only there to support a purging that Boricio couldn’t help. And if he had to tell untruths, they should support his larger aims, like Rose thinking he was sun, moon, and most of the stars.

  Those truths made her happy.

  There were no fuckers smart enough to pay for Boricio’s way at the burners. There was also no restaurant called Garlic Proper, Copper Sandwi
ch, or any of the two-word, vaguely similarly sounding restaurants that had supposedly brokered his services. There was an Eddie Ames and a Leon Walsh, but neither asshole went to culinary, though both piles of shit worked at Paco’s, which made it easier for the story to roll from Boricio’s tongue.

  There were no consulting jobs, but Boricio had been smart enough to start building bridges out of town so he could get to purging early after moving in with Rose. One of the first things he ever did was start a blog: Beer-Battered Beautiful. He wrote a few posts. Rose told him he should have his work edited. Boricio said no, people would love his voice enough to forgive his misspellings and typos. She said she would be happy to do it herself. He insisted it would be part of his charm.

  Boricio proved he was right by going to Fiverr where he bought everything from traffic and comments to likes and attention on social media sites like Facebook and Twitter. For a few hundred dollars he had crafted something that seemed to make Rose absurdly proud, while giving him a way to leave whenever he wanted.

  Boricio always came back with his ample fee and plenty of presents. Money was easy to get since he was always leaving places where people wouldn’t be needing whatever they had. He hadn’t driven to Georgia, but had spent three days in Connecticut and Vermont, killing two fuckers then returning as relaxed as Rose had described.

  “So, you’re not going to miss me?”

  “Of course I’m going to miss you, but I really want you to go. This is great for you, and what’s great for you is great for us. Besides, you’re the worst distraction I’ve ever had. I would love to work on The Drama Behind It. The Billfold kind of clogged me. I’m glad it’s finally out there, but it’s hard to get going on something new.”

  Boricio brushed his fingers against her scalp through a tangle of hair. “It’s always like this,” he said. “Stop second-guessing yourself and write. Your best stuff is fast, always is.”