Names on a Map

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

  But you know, I gotta say it, I really felt like pushing my fist down Gustavo’s throat. A part of me really wanted to beat the

  holy fuck out of him. To begin with, I never liked the guy. Just didn’t. You know, he was kind of a bookworm. I was never into

  books. Not my thing. It’s like, what are you trying to prove, reading all those books? I don’t mean to imply that Gustavo was some kind of uncool sissy. That’s not what he was about. I mean, the guy had long hair and all of that and I never met a girl whose heart didn’t beat a little faster when that guy was around. One of my sisters told me he was the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen.

  I told her boys weren’t supposed to be fucking beautiful. And to keep away from him.

  And another thing, the guy was into pot. You could just tell.

  a b e l 43

  He and a group of fellow long-haired types took to wearing black arm bands to protest to the war. I guess they were sort of like hippies. Only they were all Mexicans, so I’m not sure if that was the right thing to call them. They called themselves Chicanos, that was it. But I more or less just kept away from them. Anyway, what the fuck did they know? Where did they get off disrespecting the guys in Nam and calling themselves Chicanos when they should

  have been calling themselves Americans? You know, Gustavo, he

  was one superior son of a bitch. So he read a lot. Big fucking deal.

  That didn’t mean he knew more than the rest of us, didn’t fucking mean he was better. His whole family was like that. I know that most Mexicans weren’t into books. At least that’s how I saw it.

  But that family, they were real different.

  You know, back then, most Mexicans were pretty much

  poor. But the Espejos, they weren’t poor. And they were a pretty formal family. I went to their house a couple of times with Jack Evans. And hell, there were books everywhere in the house. It

  was kind of strange. I mean, who had that many books? And

  his dad wasn’t even a professor. I didn’t get them. But God,

  Gustavo’s twin sister, Xochil, she was a looker. Jesus Christ. She would have made a believer out of an atheist. But that Gustavo, well, I just didn’t like him. And I sure as hell didn’t like his attitude. He didn’t give a damn about the guys fighting in Nam.

  He didn’t. Him and his fucking long hair. You know, when he

  talked to Jack that way, I decided right then that I was going to enlist. Right then and there. That day. Fuck Gustavo Espejo and his fucking attitude. If the guy didn’t get what this country was all about, well, hell, Mexico was just a spit away. He could take a hike across the bridge and never fucking come back.

  That’s how I saw it. Where did he get off ? Look, everyone has a right. But shit.

  That afternoon, I went and talked to someone about enlist-

  ing. I was only seventeen. He said my parents had to sign. I told

  44 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e him I was about to turn eighteen in a few months. Hell, I knew my father would be proud of me if I enlisted. But I also knew he’d never sign for me. I knew he wanted me to finish high school. So, hell, I had to wait. Man, those last few months of school seemed like a goddamned lifetime.

  Fuck Gustavo Espejo.

  adam

  Da Nang, Vietnam

  You remember the day you enlisted.

  You borrowed your mother’s car. You made up some lie about

  a girl.You held the thought Marine in your head as you drove.

  You see yourself signing the paperwork, getting a physical, arching your feet that were always too flat.

  You see the look on your mother’s face when you finally de-

  cide to tell her. Marine, she whispers. She makes the word sound like a prayer.

  You see yourself holding your orders.

  You see yourself sitting on a plane and smoking all the way to San Diego.

  You arrive at the airport, call the number from a phone booth.

  A voice yells at you and tells you where to wait. When the military jeep arrives, the driver looks as if he might spit on you. As you sit in the jeep, the driver keeps repeating that you better be fucking ready. You sorry piece of shit. You don’t look ready.

  46 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e You tell him you have your orders and you hand them to him.

  He takes the orders and then slaps you and smiles. Who the shit asked for your orders? Who asked you? You say nothing as he drives you to the base and he orders you to sit up and look straight

  ahead. As you drive, you forget and turn your head to look out the window. He reaches over and smacks you on the head. I said look fucking straight ahead. A little later, he smacks you again.

  You become a statue. You do not move.

  When you arrive at the base, he makes you stand on some

  yellow footprints that are all lined up in front of a building. You stand at attention with others like you. Your drill instructor looks you up and down until you understand you are nothing. You are

  taken in to get a haircut. You feel your hair falling away from you.

  You hear your mother’s voice: Such beautiful hair.

  You are marched back out and again you stand on the yellow

  footprints. You catch a glimpse of a man in the window of the

  building. Windows can be like mirrors and you are staring at the man. And you think he is the ugliest thing you have ever seen.

  Then you realize that you are looking at yourself.

  The man is you.

  g us t avo

  You study your face in the mirror as you shave.

  Such a strange thing, your face. You wonder what they see—

  your sister, your mother, your brother, your father, that girl who said she would carry your touch until she died. But what did that girl know anyway? You were a face she liked, a body she liked to touch. And what did it mean, anyway, to like a face as if it were nothing more than a nice picture hanging on a wall?

  You look deep into your own eyes and wonder at the darkness,

  wonder if those are the eyes of a soldier. You look at your hands—

  hard and pitiless—and wonder if those are the hands of a solider.

  They are callused from work. They could hurt. You have always

  known that. And that rage in your heart? There is a fire there that could scorch, that will kill. You would make a fine soldier.

  But you remind yourself that a solider does not kill for sport.

  He does not kill because there is something in his eyes or his hands or his heart. A soldier is made. He is trained. And he must

  48 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e believe in the fight. In the cause of the nation. You remember your uncle telling you that soldiers were like priests—they had to believe in their sacrifice. You wanted to tell your uncle that you did not believe in that religion. You will not make a sacrifice of yourself. You do not think it is beautiful to donate your blood to a thankless earth and a heartless country. That is what you told your civics teacher when she gave your class a lecture on patriotism. You remember the hate in her face, how your words hit her like an unexpected slap. You know nothing! Nothing! You’re a boy!

  She held you in contempt. You wonder why her contempt mat-

  tered so much.

  You try to picture yourself in the jungles of Vietnam. In a uniform. With a rifle in your hand. Or a machine gun. Or whatever weapon they hand you. You refuse this image of yourself.

  You wonder what will come of your refusal. In the end, you

  will succumb. You will put on a uniform. You will let yourself be trained. You remember what your father told you once: You do not have to believe to attend Mass. There are other reasons to go. But your father had been silent about those other reasons.

  You think it’s strange, now, and you don’t even know why, but

  you grew up with a feeling that something was going to go wrong with your life—and you know it’s no one’s fault and you don’t
<
br />   blame anyone; no blame, no blame, not even your father. You do not know where the feelings come from. You will never find the source of that river.

  Your mother reminds you that you are an angel, but you know

  your wings were broken from the day you were born, a premature Icarus. And anyway, your mother holds overly generous opinions regarding her children. She is especially generous in her opinions of you. But you have never made the mistake of taking her literally. And even she has always known that you resided in an exile that was beyond her reach. You were never like your brother, Charlie, never had his innocence, his optimism, his unforgivable

  g us t avo l 49

  ability to forgive everyone for everything. You laugh to yourself and you want to keep the envy from your heart. Envy is a poison you refuse. You will not sin against your brother. He belongs everywhere he goes. So at ease, as if the world were a suit he tried on one day and discovered it fit him perfectly. You do not know what that is like—and you will never know.

  Charlie—the center of the world. You have always resided

  on the margins, always felt awkward, uneasy, out of place. When you were a small boy, you read books that had little games: one of these things is not like the others. You were one of those things. Not like the others.

  You remember telling Xochil that some people weren’t meant

  to be happy.

  “Are you some people?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m one of those people.”

  “You’re full of cold coffee.” She loved saying that to you.

  Cold coffee. She kissed you on the cheek and said, “Pursuit of happiness, baby.” She held your face in the palms of her hands and said, “You know what your problem is? You’re too Mexican

  and too tragic and too serious. You can’t help it. But if you’re going to be that way, you should at least enjoy it.” She laughed, and then she poked your heart. She liked poking your heart. You picked up that habit too. All the good things about you, you got from her.

  It wasn’t true, anyway, what Xochil said, not any of it. Maybe the Mexican part—you always thought of yourself as Mexican.

  But you weren’t tragic and you weren’t serious. Not serious at all.

  Most things were nothing more than a game to you. It was Xo-

  chil who was serious. Serious, beautiful, brilliant, brilliant Xochil.

  When you were growing up, she was the most serious human

  being you’d ever known, that girl, that sister, minutes younger than you. The most serious person in the world. And the happiest. No—Charlie—Charlie was happier. He couldn’t even get

  50 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e mad convincingly. You ask yourself, How can they be your blood, these perfect creatures?

  All those years when you were in school, if something was

  going wrong, you’d think of Xochil and Charlie. Having them in your head made you feel like nothing bad could ever happen. You were immune from the harsh judgments of the world because

  they lived in you—in a part of you no one could ever touch. Your body was a map and their names were cities—and you took ref-uge there.

  Xochil and Charlie, they were your religion, your gods, your

  heaven, your only road to paradise. And because of them you

  would whisper to yourself, Gustavo Espejo, you’re going to have a beautiful American life. You would smile and look at yourself in the mirror. A beautiful American life. You have practiced keeping that smile far away from the people you meet on the street.

  Practice makes perfect.

  Your face became a book no one could read.

  You finish shaving. You know nothing! Nothing! You are just a boy!

  It is no good to think of your face.

  It is no good to think of anything.

  And suddenly these words appear in your head as if your head

  were a page waiting to be written on: It is not the earth that is thankless—it is you.

  You wave your hand in front of your face.

  You are erasing the words.

  You will go to work. And work will be everything. That is

  what you tell yourself.

  You do not believe your own lie.

  xo ch i l . g us t avo.

  Xochil parked the car in front of Benny’s Body Shop on Texas.

  “Got you here with ten minutes to spare.”

  “You’re a terrible driver.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay, let me put it another way— manejas pa la chingada.”

  “You like to cuss in Spanish, don’t you?”

  “I like to cuss in English too.”

  “Well, English or Spanish, I’m a good driver.”

  “You’re not. You’re too careful.”

  “Too careful?”

  “You drive like Mom.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Mom would say you shouldn’t be careless with other people’s

  lives.”

  52 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e

  “Yes. That’s what she’d say. But there is such a thing as being too careful.”

  “Not that you’d know.” She always got the upper hand. With

  words, anyway. “And what would Mom say if you told her that

  she drove pa la chingada?”

  “She’d slap the holy crap out me—maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “She’s not into violence.”

  “That’s true. But she really hates verbal violence too.”

  “Verbal violence?”

  “Cussing.”

  “But she can be cool.”

  “And you’re just the kind of guy who’d take advantage of her

  coolness.”

  “I have scruples.”

  “No, you don’t.” She hit his arm with her elbow. “Want me to

  pick you up?”

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It’s far.”

  “Not so far.”

  “Gustavo time, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re doing a lot of that Gustavo time lately. Is it a girl?”

  “You need Xochil time. I need Gustavo time. It doesn’t have

  anything to do with a girl.”

  “It’s a girl.”

  “I’ve sworn off girls.”

  “That’s hilarious.”

  “It’s true.” He took out a cigarette.

  “Don’t light that thing. Mom hates when you smoke in

  the car.”

  xo ch i l . g us t avo. l 53

  He rolled the cigarette around in his fingers. “So, what are you going to do today?”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “What subject?”

  “Girls.”

  “Yes, I’m changing the subject.”

  She shook her head, bit her lip. “I’m going to apply for a

  job.”

  “A job? Aren’t you going to school?”

  “I just want something part-time. You know, bread, baby.

  Bucks. Dinero.”

  “Yeah, sure, bread. What do you need it for? You’re living at

  home. You have a scholarship. Dad’s paying for your books and

  your fees. And what about hitting the books?”

  “I am hitting the books. You think I can’t handle school and a job? No problem. And I want money.”

  “I’ll give you an allowance.”

  “Money I earn myself.”

  “Oh, so this is a Xochil thing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Dad’s not gonna like it.”

  “Dad doesn’t like anything.”

  “He likes Jack Evans.”

  “Do we have to talk about Jack Evans?”

  “I hate his fucking guts.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  “I don’t like sarcasm.”
>
  “Okay. You know, maybe you should make a list of things you

  don’t like and hand it in to me.”

  “Is this an assignment?”

  “We’re fighting.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  54 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bet you’re gonna see him today.”

  “There’s a job opening in the jewelry department at the

  JCPenney downtown.”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “Yes. I’m changing the subject.”

  “Fine. But what the hell do you know about jewelry?”

  “What the hell do you know about car bodies?”

  “Car bodies?” He laughed. “I learned.”

  “I’ll learn too.”

  He looked at his watch. “Time to go.” He opened the car door

  and blew her a kiss.

  “I hate it when you laugh at me like that.”

  “I was just blowing you a kiss.”

  “You only do that when you’re angry with me.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes. I don’t like sarcasm either.”

  “Well, Sis, sometimes we hate the same things.” He shut the

  door, lit a cigarette, and walked toward the entrance of the garage.

  Sis, Xochil grumbled. She turned on the ignition, then honked the horn. Gustavo looked back toward her, shrugging, What? She shot him a look, then drove away. Sis my ass. He calls me that only when he’s really pissed.

  g us t avo

  He looked back at his sister as she drove away. He stood mo-

  tionless for an instant. He imagined the look on her face, the way she squinted her eyes when she was angry, the way she tapped

  her teeth together and made a faint clattering sound, the way her fingers tightened.

  I should be more patient. It was a recurring sentence in the confessions he’d scattered throughout his notebooks, a fist beating his chest, a reminder that he was not in control of himself despite all his efforts. He hated making her mad, hated that wiseass tone in his voice when he wanted to get that desired response

  from her. Rewind the tape. Go back. Do it over. That’s the game she always played with him. She’d give him the scenario, play it all out, then say, This is what I’d do different. Then she’d tap her finger as if she were playing with a tape recorder, rewinding it.