The tattooed man’s people left with him around their shoulders and the girlfriend screaming. Camilo picked up tables and waited for Andres to calm down. It would take a while. “I hate this shit. This machismo bullshit. These punk motherfuckers thinking they got to get the best of me to pump their shit up. You saw me, man, I gave him a chance to back down. I didn’t start that shit. Fuck!” And he slammed his hand down on the table.
“I know, man. I know.” I went to the bar and got two more beers.
Camilo came over. “Listen,” he said, “we got people leaving this bar bleeding and screaming. You got to get out of here guys. It’s the smart thing to do.”
“We’re not going anywhere, but to that back table.” Andres gestured over his shoulder with the bloody gun still in his hand.
“OK,” said Camilo, “fuck it, you guys are friends, what am I going to do? Go back there, but Andres, at least get rid of the gun.”
“OK, OK. I’m sorry about the mess. That guy’s an asshole.” Andres tipped the gun over, his finger still in the trigger guard, and I grabbed it. I wiped it down, and put it in the back of my pants. “It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be like this,” he said.
It wasn’t always like that. I met Latorre in school when we were fourteen. It was the year that Rodrigo Lara Bonilla was assassinated for forcing Pablo Escobar out of Congress. Into the third week of school, I watched two boys reduce Maria Lucia Contreras to tears. She didn’t have as much money as everyone else in the school. Although we all wore uniforms, you could still tell who was what. Her hair was messy, her uniform was dirty, and she rarely made eye contact. She was a perfect adolescent target. In the hallway between classes, Maria Lucia managed to trip and scatter her books all over the corridor. This earned her the expected laughs from those around her, but then things got nasty. As Maria Lucia bent over to pick up her things, one of the morons from the football team kicked one of her books away from her. She followed the book across the hall hunched over, and as we all should have expected, another one of the football idiots kicked it back to his friend. Maria Lucia stood up and looked at the floor.
“What’s wrong, you don’t want to play?” said the idiot.
“Come on, Maria Lu, don’t you want to play with us?” and the moron passed the book back to the idiot.
There must have been about ten or fifteen kids watching this. Some of the girls were laughing, and a number of the boys were laughing. I just stood there with the others who didn’t laugh. I stood there knowing I should say something, help her pick up her book, or tell the bastards to stop. Strangle them. But I just stood there, too afraid.
The football knobs continued to pass the books between each other, “Come on, Maria Lu, you’ve got to at least try to get it back.” And then pow. There was Latorre. He simply walked up to the situation, put his hand over the moron’s face, pushed his head hard against the wall, and holding it there, said to the other kid, “Give me her book.” And he did. Latorre took the book and gave it to Maria Lu. “Fuck those guys, they’re assholes.” She quietly took her book, and without looking up, walked away. Andres looked at these guys, shook his head, and simply said, “Assholes.”
Latorre didn’t play football and he wasn’t a lot bigger than these guys. He just knew what was right and did it. We all knew what was right, but we just stood there. He was confident even back then. It just seemed like he didn’t care what other people thought, when that’s all we were concerned with. He had no fear.
“You remember at San Miguel when you stopped those football jack asses from bugging that Maria Lucia girl?”
“Hah! Yeah, actually I do. That was our first year of high school.”
“That was the first time I met you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you were my fucking hero back then.”
“Santiago?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to kiss me are you?” And he laughed. It was the first time I had seen him happy all night. “Yeah, I was a real do-gooder, huh? Shit, things were so easy back then. You didn’t need money. You didn’t have people messing with you. All we did was party and try to pick up girls.”
“Give me a break. What’s so different about your life now?” I said. Andres looked over my shoulder and shook his head. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just not fun anymore. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah man, I know exactly what you mean.”
“Well what the hell? When did this start going to shit? Why can’t it just be the same as it was?”
“What? Like high school? Don’t be a retard man. We’re thirty-three.”
“No asshole. Not like high school. Like even ten years ago was great. Shit, just think of all the good times we’ve had here.”
In La Candelaria, the main streets were covered in candles for San Sebastien, the festival of lights celebrating the first vision of the three kings. To prevent the flame from blowing out, you fill a paper bag with sand and rest the candle in it. To add color, you paint the paper bags red, or blue, or yellow, leaving them streaky so the light can shine through. One particular San Sebastien, the year they killed Pablo Escobar, the economy was already starting to suffer, but we were still feasting off the drippings of the high times. My family got together to eat Ajiaco, have some drinks, and walk around the neighbourhood. Andres came over after dinner. We walked two blocks over from our place and looked up the Calle del Sol. The whole street burned warm with soft firelight and the families and friends walking there. On the wooden balconies of the colonial houses that lined the avenue, our neighbours had turned their speakers to the street and were taking requests from the happy masses. My nieces and nephews ran up the hill to meet their friends to play football or tag, and my brother and sisters talked to high school friends. I had lost Andres for a few minutes until I heard a hoot, and looked over my shoulder. There he was dancing with the baker’s mother. She was bent over with that old woman’s back-hump disease, covered in three crocheted shawls and her cane at her feet. Salsa was coming down from up high, and Andres was holding her as tight as he could without breaking her. With each spin or lunge the crowd would cheer, and the old crone would grin her scatter tooth smile. That was Andres to me. That was Colombia.
Later that night we all ended up at La Catedral. My whole family, from two-year-old Antonio to my sixty-five-year-old father, and most of the neighbourhood showed up. There was a Vaillanato band singing their stories first, and then a reggae band from Providencia played. There were as many people inside the bar as out. I danced in the street with my nieces to Vaillanato and on a table inside with my mother to reggae, and I tangoed once with Juliana before she closed the bar down.
Andres and I sat there for at least an hour remembering stories from when things weren’t so fucked up. He started to fade but dipped into his stash with the corner of a credit card and snorted himself awake for another story. But before he could finish, Juliana appeared at the door. She walked into her bar, saw us in the back through the smoke, and smiled. She put her hand on Camilo’s shoulder and talked to him. When she turned to walk back to us, she wasn’t smiling anymore.
We both stood up, and I kissed her cheek. She turned to Latorre, looked at his bloody shirt, and sat down.
“Look at you two. You Santiago—sitting there self-satisfied, pleased with yourself for leaving your home, with your bloody friend feeling like a tough guy. And you, Latorre—sitting there, grinding your teeth, covered in someone else’s blood, and getting mad.”
Andres raised his hand with three fingers in the air, making a reverse O.K. sign to the bartender. Within a minute, he was at the table with three beers. Juliana pushed her beer away from her, and asked the bartender for an aguardiente. He came back with three.
I raised my aguardiente, and Latorre and Juliana did the same. “Old times and old friends, I guess.”
“To old friends,” Juliana said.
Latorre stayed silent, shot the aguardiente, then got up to go to the bathroom.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” she asked.
“It wasn’t his fault. The other guy started it.”
“You’re not sixteen anymore. I don’t care who started it. This is my place. Have some respect.”
“O.K. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
I started to respond, but she interrupted, and asked when I was leaving.
“Not soon enough, apparently.”
She sipped her aguardiente, and I drank my beer. We just listened to the music without talking until Latorre came out again. He had soaked his shirt with water to try to rid himself of the blood stains, but it didn’t work. Now he had a wet, bloody shirt. He threw himself roughly back into his chair, and looked at Juliana. He continued to clench his jaw.
“First of all, I didn’t start it. Second, don’t treat me like you’re my mother, or older sister, or whatever the hell you are. And third…ahhh, fuck you. It wasn’t my fault.”
“This is my place. Respect it.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine,” she said. Latorre kept his head high, but looked over Juliana’s shoulder. “What is your problem?” she said. “Just stop this shit. Stop this behaviour. This is not you.”
“What? You want me to move to Miami?”
“Fuck you, Latorre,” I said.
“Yeah, fuck me, Santi, you pussy. Are you fucking kidding me? You’re moving to America? You’re leaving your family and friends, and going to that country? Unbelievable.”
“I’m leaving because of you, asshole.”
“What the fuck are you talking about—leaving because of me? What do I have to do with any of this? Be a man. Be honest. You’re leaving because you can’t take this place anymore. You’re leaving because you’re not a real Colombian. Colombians don’t leave Colombia.”
“Bullshit. You don’t leave Colombia because you can’t leave Colombia, because you’re a fucking dirt bag drug dealer. You’re thirty-three, man. Your life is bullshit.”
Juliana was holding her hands to her face. She uncovered it quickly holding her hands out in front of her. “You’re both pussy assholes. You’re both ruining this place. It doesn’t have to be like this. I know you two.”
I held up my hand for three more drinks, but before the bartender saw me the police came busting through the door. They talked to Camilo, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. They made their way back to us. There was an older cop and a younger cop who we didn’t know and who weren’t from the neighbourhood.
Juliana stood up before the cops got to the table. “Good evening, gentlemen. This is my place. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I want to talk to these two.” The officer lifted his chin at Latorre and said, “Some screaming woman just told me that a guy about your size busted up her boyfriend with a gun in here.” The older of the two cops was looking at Andres.
“You got the wrong man, officer. I’ve just been sitting here with my friend, enjoying a few beverages. This woman just joined us.”
The cop was staring at the blood spattered across Andres’ shirt and neck. “So I guess you got that blood all over you from enjoying a few beverages, huh?”
“No. That’s from work. I’m a butcher.”
“OK, butcher, then you won’t mind if we take you guys outside and search you?”
“Fuck that. We’re clean. Go find some criminals and pick on them you fucking fascists.”
“No. You’re coming with us right now.” The older cop went to grab Andres’ shirt and lift him out of his seat. Andres slapped the cop’s arms out and away from him, but didn’t move to hit him. Before Andres could hold his hands up in surrender, the younger cop had his gun at Andres’ temple and a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t touch cops, punk.” He drove the gun deeper into Andres’ temple, moving his head towards the wall. “Let’s go. Outside. And don’t pull any stupid shit, tough guy.” We got up and started walking toward the door.
“Eat shit, you fucking pussy.” Andres took a baton shot to the back of the head and kept walking.
“Alright, everyone take it easy. Let’s just go outside and figure this stuff out.”
Outside La Catedral, Andres and I had our arms spread against the wall. Two new cops had come for back up, and all I could do was feel the metal of Andres’ gun freeze into my back. The young cop had me and the old cop had Andres. The two new guys just looked on. When my guy pulled the gun out of my pants, he said, “Well look at what we have here, assholes,” and he held the gun in front of his eyes. “That’s mine,” Latorre yelled. I looked over at him and shook my head hard. I hadn’t been caught doing anything illegal for at least five years, so I was happy to take the rap for him. He looked at me and said, “No way,” and then he shouted, “That’s my gun,” a second time. And then the old cop pulled the coke out of Latorre’s jacket. “Well then this must be his, huh smart guy?”
“No, everything’s mine, it’s all my shit.” There was not enough sleep, and too much coke in Latorre, and he was starting to lose it. He was swivelling his head, first looking at me, then Juliana, then the cop, then me again. All the cops, except for mine, had their guns pulled. “Let Santiago go you assholes. This is none of his shit. Just let him go.”
“I know these men,” Juliana shouted. “They’re good boys. There was just a misunderstanding. It wasn’t their fault. No harm done. Just let them go, and I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.” One of the new cops pulled her out of the way, but Juliana pushed his hands away, and continued pleading with the old cop.
Latorre was leaning over towards me, holding out a hand. “I’m sorry man, I’m so sorry.” Foolishly, I went to grab his hand. Then everything went to hell. Before I could even come close to Andres’ hand, the young cop snapped my forearm in two with his billy-bat. The bone just hung there by the skin, and I screamed. Latorre lost it. He spun around and elbowed the old cop in the face, making him drop his gun. Then Latorre dropped to the ground and reached for the gun, just as the other two cops got to him. Juliana jumped on top of Latorre to protect him, and as she did this one of the other officers took his shot. As the young cop dragged me away in a fury, all I heard was Latorre screaming.
The Royal Flush
Lori Pollock
“Your chicken. It’s locally sourced?”
The server seemed to consider Lindsey’s question before leaning in. “It’s a Chantecler.”
“They did an article about heritage breeds in The Western Producer last winter,” Lindsey’s father said. “We help by eating them. Appetite creates demand, in this case.”
“Indeed, Chef is very supportive of the local farmers who raise them,” the server said.
“Tough to make an honest living at, though—”
“Chantecler sounds fine.” Lindsey interrupted her father before he started going on about the decline of the independent farm. “But just the breast, please, and sauce on the side.”
“Each dish is offered for its unique combination of flavours and texture. Chef does not deviate from what she’s constructed,” the server said before walking away with the small chalkboard revealing the day’s menu.
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Lindsey’s dad observed once they were alone. “You wouldn’t touch the turkey last Christmas. Eating meat was irresponsible and immoral, you said.”
“I am vegetarian, Dad. I just eat meat from time to time.”
“You’re a part-time vegetarian?”
“I’m flexitarian,” Lindsey said, as though explaining something to a child. “There’s nothing wrong with eating a little animal protein now and then, as long as the chicken was free to peck and play or the cow was properly pastured.”
“I guess it won’t be troublesome sticking to your new regimen, then.
”
“How’s your class going?” Lindsey had signed up her father for “More to Meals than Meat” after she’d seen it advertised in the post office the last time she’d been home. She was worried he’d get scurvy, though he’d managed to survive on his own for almost two years now, even feeding her on the rare occasions she made it back to the farm.
“Fine, just fine.” He picked up his wineglass.
“By the stem, Dad,” Lindsey said, demonstrating.
Her father adjusted his weathered hand before clearing his throat. “I’m proud of you. Your mother would have been proud, too.”
Lindsey looked down at the mention of her mother.
“We always wanted you to see the world, and now here you are, off to Tanzania—”
“Bangladesh, actually. I didn’t get my first choice of placement.”
“To your adventures in Bangladesh, then,” he said as their glasses clinked.
Two days of flying found Lindsey in Dhaka, a city roiling with children begging and men hawking everything from fake Nike t-shirts to fresh-cut mangos to pirated DVDs. She’d been assigned to a sustainability project on the subcontinent, fieldwork a requirement for her concentration in development and globalization. And once Dr. Hassan had underlined the connections between hygiene and justice, Lindsey overcame her disappointment at not being selected for the women’s project in Tanzania, happy, in any case, to be helping those less fortunate than herself. And now that she was actually in Bangladesh and had taken a few days to recover from jet lag, her excitement had only increased.
“Lindsey? Glad you made it in one piece. The rickshaw’s waiting.”
Lindsey looked up to see J.P., a grad student who’d been a teaching assistant in a couple of her courses. She didn’t really know him, preferring to discuss assignments with actual profs, but he seemed different now, more assured. More tanned, at any rate. “Rickshaw? I’m not comfortable with … with another human being pulling me like an animal—”
Everything Is So Political Page 16
