by Heidi Ayarbe
“Garbage Disposal,” he mutters.
Garbage Disposal. Everybody knows about them. But Nim? Nim’s part of some who-knows-what-supremacist group? Nim? I look around for Moch but don’t see him. It’s not uncommon, since he skips every other day of school anyway. But last time Garbage Disposal hit the streets, Pacho ended up with a broken jaw and Moch had two broken ribs.
Garbage Disposal and la Cordillera are things people talk about—things that I don’t want to believe are real beyond some lame dress code. All talk. No action. But lately, there’s too much action. I hate to think of Moch as a gangbanger. I hate that Garbage Disposal is real—with guys from my class in it. “Garbage Disposal? Are you serious?”
“Listen, you want to hang out with Cheech and Chong, that’s your deal. At the end of the day, we’re just doing the good citizens of Carson City a favor. Look around you.” Nim motions to the kids walking up and down the courtyard. “They’re like fucking cockroaches.”
“They?”
“Let me correct that. You,” Nim says.
When Nim needs me, I’m white. When he wants to demean me, I’m Mexican. And it’s always like that—I’m not enough of one or the other. I wonder what happened to the melting-pot theory of America.
“You people take our jobs.” He tugs on my shirt. “My money is earned.”
Earned? A set allowance from his parents is earned? I stare at Nim and try to imagine Garbage Disposal—a group of guys who get spray-on tans, don’t have accents, and eat beige food have decided how America should look and sound and taste.
“Why do you hate so much?” I ask Nim.
“None of your business.” He shoves his bruised right hand in his pocket, gripping the title with his left, raking it from my hand, giving me one awful paper cut. Nim whispers, his voice an angry growl. “If you ever mess with me again, you’re dead.”
“Likewise,” I say.
He doesn’t hear the last thing I say because I’m barely speaking above a whisper, sucking on the thin line of blood across the palm my hand. The buzz of Monday and taking bets is gone, leaving me with an empty, sick feeling in my stomach.
The bell has rung. Students pass and swirl around me, making me feel like I’m the center of a whirlpool—that abyss of nothingness. Ten minutes ago I was on some kind of vengeance high. Now all I want to do is swim my way out and make sure Moch hasn’t been left for dead somewhere.
There are two places where time is eternal—heaven, from what I’ve read, and Carson High School, from what I’ve experienced. Ninety-minute blocks are spent in a twisted time warp, and no matter how much I look at the clocks, the hands don’t advance. I feign concentration, only thinking about getting to Mocho’s house. He wanted to talk. He asked me over the other day. I didn’t figure it was anything, and now I don’t even know if he’s alive. Garbage Disposal.
After school I run to the parking lot so I won’t get caught up in the lineup on the way out.
“Michal!” Josh Tool Ellison catches up to me just as I get to my car. I’ve managed to avoid him all day. “Can we talk?” he asks.
I shove one of Seth’s preview papers at him. “I think you’ve talked enough.” I should’ve known he’d be like the rest of them. I wriggle my key in the door. Figures right now would be the time it decides to get stuck. C’mon, Little Car.
Josh watches as I struggle. “Can I—”
I hold up my hand. The Buick makes it virtually impossible to have a dramatic exit. Locking this car, in fact, is probably a monumental waste of time. It’s not exactly robber bait. The lock finally budges and I pull up on the metallic handle with all my strength. The heavy door swings open, and I throw myself in front of the steering wheel.
Josh stands between the door and me. “I’m sorry. Really,” he says.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
“Please, just give me another shot. Let me make it up to you somehow.”
I stare at the line of cars streaming out of the parking lot; I’ve missed the window of time to get out of here before everybody else does. “I’ve gotta go,” I say, closing the door. I look at Josh in my rearview mirror and can’t help but think he really is sorry.
When I drive up to his house, Mocho is sitting out front on an old lawn chair, its plastic weave frayed at the ends. Mocho’s cousins run around the yard, playing whack-me-with-an-aluminum-tube game. I feel a surge of relief and wave like a maniac through the window. There’s a three-legged table propped up against the side of the trailer house, and two recliners without their backs. The brown tufts of grass are barely visible underneath patches of dirty snow, old tires, and what looks like an impromptu car-part garage sale. I don’t know what Moch wants with all that junk.
Before I have a chance to get to him, Mrs. Mendez is waving me into the old trailer house. I see Mocho say something to her, and she swats him with a dish towel.
Mrs. Mendez gives me a warm hug when I walk up the crooked aluminum steps. “Where you been, Michal? You never come by no more. How’s Liliana?” She’s wearing a maid’s uniform—some retro-aproned gray dress, like she’s just stepped out of a TV sitcom.
Mocho walks in behind us. I flinch at his swollen face—bluish-black cheeks and split lip, a bruise shaped like a class ring on his jaw.
“Are you—”
“Fine,” Moch interrupts.
I follow his eyes, scanning the kitchen: peeling wallpaper; a cardboard box covering a broken window; linoleum, worn and yellowed with time, bubbling in one spot so everybody stumbles on the same bump in the floor except his mom, who sweeps around the crammed kitchen gracefully.
It bothers me he pays more attention to some peeling wallpaper than the smells coming from bubbling pots, the kids running around the neighborhood, the laughter coming from a back room. The place is alive with its broken window and peeling paint. I sit next to Moch on the couch and watch the soccer match between Barça and Celtic.
“¡A comer!” Mrs. Mendez hollers, and the kitchen fills with bodies of all ages. Chairs, stools, and wooden crates covered with towels are shoved next to two card tables. I’m placed at the head of the table, squished between two kids who I understand to be Mocho’s niece and nephew—both recently arrived from Mexico. They giggle every time I try to say something in Spanish.
“You never learned your Spanish.” Mrs. Mendez tsks.
I’m a little embarrassed. Lillian left Mexico behind and never spoke Spanish at home because she did all she could do to put a sea between us—first Mom, then me—and Guadalajara. It’s weird not to have roots in a place that’s full of what I could be. Lillian washed the Mexican away.
The only thing that lingers in our home is a candle she lights to the Virgin of Guadalupe some days. It’s the barometer to her stress, and when it hits the fan, the candle comes out on the kitchen counter with a small statuette. “Old habits,” she says.
Mr. Mendez smiles when he sees me, patting me on the shoulder. “It’s been a long time. How is Lillian?”
“Good,” I say. “Thanks.”
Mr. Mendez wears a tired smile and kisses Mrs. Mendez on the forehead, washing his callused hands in the sink before sitting down. He smells like car grease and petroleum jelly.
“Dad’s got a new job,” Moch says. “It’s kicking his ass. They’ve got him hauling heavy machinery—stuff he shouldn’t be doing at his age. Salud to Ellison the Great.”
I wince and feel embarrassed and defensive at the same time. Josh isn’t all that bad.
Mr. Mendez shoots Mocho a look, narrowing his eyes just a bit, then cracks a smile—two missing teeth on the left side of his jaw, making him look almost cartoonish. “My job puts this food on the table and in those pots. Be grateful.”
Moch turns away, his anger clouding his six-word memoirs, covering the aromas of chocolate and chilies, grilled meat and plantain. The cousins start to giggle, and the tension dissipates.
I’m passed steaming plates of shredded meat, spicy green salsa, and thin homemade tortillas heated on the stove. They war
n me away from a plate of hot chilies and all laugh when my eyes tear just by smelling them. Even Mocho.
Everybody talks over everybody, and I catch some words in English, none in Spanish, and the rest of the time feel like even though I’m not understanding ninety percent of things, I’m part of it—part of this table.
Mrs. Mendez stands to sweep the dishes off the table, pauses, and sits.
“You okay?” Moch looks over his glass of water, his forehead a washboard of worry.
“Borracha,” she says, “but without the tequila. Better get a pregnancy test,” she says, and laughs.
“Ma!” Moch says.
Mr. Mendez looks pale, like he needs to sit down, too. Except he’s already sitting.
She looks at us, her mouth a straight line, smooth chestnut face glistening with sweat.
Time stops.
“Just kidding. You’s funny. You need to look at your faces right now. So so funny.” She dabs her forehead with a tissue, her laughter filling the small kitchen. It’s almost as if the walls seep up the laughter and happiness, giving them texture and life. “Embarazada? Ha!” She winks at Mr. Mendez, who turns from pale to crimson in about two seconds.
“Por dios, Ma.” Moch rolls his eyes.
I laugh so hard, Moch’s cousins jump in their chairs. “What would Lillian say to that?”
“Ahh, Liliana,” Mrs. Mendez laughs, sweeping the dishes off the table.
I rush to the sink. “Please,” I say. “Let me wash dishes. Sit down.”
She bumps me away. “Come back next week.” She pinches my arm and tsk tsks. “You girls all want to be skinny these days. Flacas.” She wrinkles her brow and shakes her head.
I swallow a laugh. Skinny I am not. But I revel in the fact that somebody out there thinks I could use more calories.
“You come back to eat. You wash dishes. Bring Liliana.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
She motions to a plate and I pass it to the table. We cut the sweet empanadas in half and a burst of flavor fills my mouth—sweet raisins, cinnamon, and a twist of lime in a flaky crust. Mrs. Mendez slaps Mocho’s hand away from the last one on the plate. “That’s for Abuela Liliana.”
I wonder what Lillian will taste when she bites into the empanada: home, family, a sense of place—or just a pie.
Mocho nods and doesn’t look all that mad about it.
“Thank you,” I say, wrapping the empanada in a napkin. “I guess I’d better be going. I’ve got a lot of reading to do tonight.”
“I’ve gotta get going, too,” Mocho says, standing up.
A heavy silence falls over the room. “I thought you was staying in tonight,” Mrs. Mendez says.
“Were, Ma. Were staying in.”
Mrs. Mendez blushes.
“I’ve just got some stuff to do.” Mocho puts on his face—the one he uses at school. The Mocho he was at the table—the aluminum can–collecting Moch—is gone again. “I won’t be late.”
“Dime con quien andas y te dire quien eres,” Mrs. Mendez says.
Mr. Mendez translates for me. “You are who you spend time with.”
“At least I’ve got some pride. Yes, señor. No, Señor Gringo, thank you, Señor Gringo.” Mocho’s anger consumes the room.
I keep my eyes glued to the empanada crumbs on my plate.
Mr. Mendez puts his hand on Mrs. Mendez’s forearm and squeezes. His voice sounds strained, as if each word is a needle scraping across his throat. “You think I don’t have pride. Every job I do, I do with pride, to put food on this table, so that you—” Mr. Mendez is pointing at Moch with a trembling finger. “So that you can do better. You think being in a gang is pride? Under this roof, at this table, you respect your mother, this family, and our guest.”
Moch stands up.
His father points at him until he sits down again.
Mocho’s cheeks burn.
“You may be excused, Hijo.” Mr. Mendez’s arm drops to his side.
Moch shoves his chair back and leaves, slamming the flimsy aluminum door behind him. It makes a clanging noise and doesn’t shut all the way, tapping the frame, again and again, until the house is stuck in silence. His car squeals out of the driveway, throwing gravel against the side of the house like thick patters of rain.
Mrs. Mendez stoops over the sink, her hands absently wringing a dishcloth. She looks out into the dark neighborhood, streetlights dimly illuminating the other trailer homes; a street with chewed-up asphalt; cats scrounging around garbage cans; the heavy bass of reggaeton coming from a house three doors down.
And for just a moment, I see what Mocho sees.
Mrs. Mendez squeezes my arm. “Flaca,” she repeats. “I expect to see you here more.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Mendez. I’d like that.” I swallow and say in a lame attempt to get back some of Mexico, “Muchas gracias.”
Mrs. Mendez smiles and hugs me, wrapping her arms around me. “This is your home, too. Always.”
When I pull up to the house, I look at the yard, shoveled walk, cleaned-out flower beds. We need to trim down the bushes Lillian keeps around the house—bright purple geraniums that bloom year after year. She’s had the geraniums ever since I can remember.
I watch Lillian’s silhouette through the window. She sits alone at the table, stooped over her dinner, a soft glow of light coming from behind the shade. She stands when she hears me turn off the car. I watch as she pauses, looking outside, then sits back down at the table.
I go inside, give Lillian the empanada. By now, though, the dough looks gummy and tough, the cinnamon scent and steaming flavor is lost to the grease that seeped in while the empanada cooled. She bites down and chews on her Mexico—leftover and cold. “Thank you, Mike,” she says.
I nod and go to my room to do homework, writing in my Creative Writing notebook:
Heart bursts with words not said.
Chapter 8
AFTER LILLIAN GOES TO BED,
I sneak out and drive to American Flats, cutting down an old access road nobody ever uses. I follow tire tracks in dirty snow patches, a trail of trampled sagebrush bushes, until I see Mocho’s car. I need to talk to him, to make sure he’s not—
Not what?
Not who I’m afraid he’s becoming. Not who Nim is.
I hate this place.
My phone rings, making me jump so hard I bang my elbow against the door; dizzying waves of pain shoot up my arm. Josh. Now he calls. I click it to vibrate.
As soon as I park, it feels like something is squeezing on my chest. It’s hard to tell between real and fantasy at the Flats—it’s this area’s urban legend: ghosts, neo-Nazis, devil worshippers, poltergeists, spirits, raves, séances, and death. Always death.
I hike down the hill to the abandoned cyanide mill; the skeleton buildings are bare, graffiti-painted ruins—Nevada’s version of the Acropolis, without the Yanni concert, complete with cyanide residue to make you sick.
And ghosts. I’m pretty sure there are ghosts because even at night, there’s an eerie light out here. Like the place glows. Unless that’s cyanide, too.
Welcome to Weirdville, USA.
The knot that was in my stomach has grown and filled up my entire torso—like I’m a solid chunk of ice inside. I clap my hands against my arms and try to rub off the chill, pulling on my gloves, wishing I’d brought a hat.
Altitude. It’s higher here.
But the chill isn’t the normal kind of cold-wind chill. The crunch of my footsteps on packed-down snow echoes in the concrete corridors. Fear rises in my chest. “Moch?” I whisper.
Maybe I can talk him out of what he’s going to do up here. That’s reasonable. I can just plead with his rational side. I practice, keeping my voice as low as possible. “Moch, please stop all your illegal activities and—”
The wind answers—a shrieking sound that rips through the canyon and burns my face. I walk halfway up the exposed staircase in the main building, slip on a layer of ice, grasping a crumbly step so I d
on’t fall down. It doesn’t lead anywhere—just half-crumbled, icy stairs to nowhere. I listen. I shine my flashlight on some graffiti. FUCK YOU.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Moch wouldn’t set a campfire to call attention to himself. Maybe he’s just out here to think about stuff.
He’d want to be inconspicuous since it’s BLM (Bureau of Land Management) property. He’d be fined, possibly sent to jail, then deported if he were caught here. I’ll just be fined . . . and maybe sent to jail.
I can hear voices—muted, lost in the wind. It’s hard to follow where they’re coming from in the emptiness—as if voices are all around me, like I’m stuck in a drum. I turn off my flashlight and follow the path to where Moch used to set off pipe bombs with his friends, hoping he’s there.
I circle around the main building, hiking down a chewed-up ramp that was probably once a staircase, trying to keep my footing when I slip, fall down a few stairs, tearing my jeans. A jagged piece of glass sticks out of my knee. I bite my lip, wincing with pain, pulling out the glass.
Have I had a tetanus shot? I can practically feel my jaw starting to spasm. Stop it.
I pull out the glass and whimper.
“Who the fuck’s out there?”
The voice isn’t Moch’s.
I’m right below them. The moon is bright—full; its light spills down the canyon, glowing blue on drifts of snow, illuminating the face of the main building of the Flats. I tuck myself into the shadows sitting in a puddle, pushing myself against the side of one of the outer buildings, holding a filthy pile of snow to my throbbing, bloody knee.
“Who’s there?” the voice shouts again.
“Can you keep it down, man?” Moch’s voice.
“You alone?” Whoever the guy is, he sounds really nervous.
“I could ask you the same,” Moch says.
“Like who else would wanna come to a place like this? This place creeps me out.”
“Afraid of the dark, huh?”
“Fuck you, man. You got it?” Silence followed by the sound of a plastic bag being opened. “Wow. This is mad good.”
I hear Moch’s monosyllabic grunt. “Yeah, insanely good. You keep dipping, though, you’ll smoke all your profits.”
