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the blood, the drunk, and the smelly cat

11 February 2006 - 22:36

NOTE: This is one of the only entries that I type here that I name before typing. Let's see if I can stay on topic with the title.

'Ama and I have been out en la calle todo el pinche d�a. Yup. All fuckin' day. With nothing to eat. But we had shit to do.

The morning started off with 'Ama having to be at some meeting for the school district Union. It's the same one we have at UPS, just a different branch. Anyway, afterwards, we get home just to grab some arts and crafts stuff she needed to pick up and take to school. For Mr. Torres. Something about Valentine's Day decorations or some shit. I swear, 'Ama goes all out and beyond on her job. What's an evening custodian doing decorating a classroom anyway? But that's my mother. She loves kids, making them laugh, and she's really grown fond of this particular group. They call her "Ms. Rosy", which makes her kinda beam and shit. I'm so proud of my 'Ama. So after that, we go to Wal-Mart, to get some beta food and a new aquarium for Jihan, since Draco got to keep Cyanide's old tank. I end up aquiring Tundra, a snowy-white male beta with flashes of navy blue and ice-azure fins. His black eyes reminded me instantly of Cyanide, and his agressive, demanding disposition won me over instantly. I knew his name before I decided to buy him. We also ended up going to the Bargain Bazaar, a small place tucked away down 23rd Street, where vendors set up posts on the weekend. We had put a nativity set on layaway for Dud that is imported straight from Mexico and is made by hand by a blind cripple with no fingers and three legs... who works miracles when he touches babies and shit. At least, that's what you'd think from the price of the thing. But I won't go into that here, for Dud reads this diary and I don't want her to think I think it's not worth it, or that we got ripped off just for her. No, no. It really is beautiful, and not something you'll find at just any antique or artisian shop. This is a really rare treat. And did I mention it was beautiful? Just hope Dud's two cats don't shred it to bits. Well, after our busy day (oh, we also went over to 'Apa's place to get the cash he owes me for the cell phone bill), we stopped by Burger King to visit Mar�a. Poor girl was working drive-thru again. She looked so worn-out and beat it worried me. It worried Mom. Mar�a's having problems at home and at work, and she sees no escape. 'Ama's really, really worried about her.

BLOOD: Mar�a is blood to me; she's family. I've known her since I was ten years old. She and Dud have always been good friends, and I view her in much the same way I do my sister: older, but fragile somehow. I've gotta protect her, at least when I can. I've even posed as her boyfriend before so dicks will back the fuck off (you know, when she doesn't want the attention; Mar�a's very pretty, even if she is a bit overweight). When Dud got deployed to Kuwait a few years back, and 'Ama fell into a heavy depression, it was Mar�a who helped me pull my mother through. We'd take her out to eat, or out shopping, at least just to look around, anything, to get her mind off the danger my sister was in. During that year, Mar�a proved more loyal to us than our own relatives back in Mexico. She worried over my mother more than anyone else did, except for maybe Blanca and Sergio, who are also close friends of ours and family as far as I'm concerned. Now that's she's having problems, it hurts, it really hurts. Especially since it's her own parents and sisters that are making life hell for her. 'Ama is seriously considering asking her to move in with us. Now that Dud is gone, we have a spare room, and more than enough love to spare for her. She needs to get away from those people, 'cause those are some really sick, sick, twisted people who are just leeching off her like ticks. She already dropped school (she says for good) and they're killing all desire in her to work and be somebody for herself. These are people that raised her to believe she is worthless, fat, and ugly, and that no one else will love her other than them, so she's gotta support their asses, both financially and mentally. As the youngest of the four daughters in her family, Mar�a's the babysitter for her sister's daughters, Mar�a gives her parents a weekly allowance, Mar�a pays the bills, buys food and necessities for herself and her nieces... all on a measly BK wage. She wanted to cry tonight, telling us about it during what few minutes she could spare between orders; she's frusterated, but so unsure of herself that she refuses to try and change her situation. 'Ama cried on the way home, cursing her parents. I told her to pull together, or we wouldn't be able to think clearly and help her out. 'Ama brought up the suggestion of Mar�a moving in with us. I've been thinking of it for a while, but never mentioned it, for fear of history repeating itself. I don't need another situation like the one we had with Rocksee two years ago. Mar�a asked for the day off tomorrow so she can come over and we can all sit around and talk. We'll see where shit goes from there.

THE DRUNK: While driving to BK to see my adoptive sister (what I like to call Mar�a), we passed two little skater kids heading for the place, followed by an old drunk Anglo guy, stumbling along muttering to himself. When we walked in to the place, I almost smacked the old drunkard with the glass door. After we order and we sit down, I notice him go up to one of the skater kids, who can't be older than fifteen, and from what incomprehensible babble I could discern, asked the guy for money. My jaw almost dropped on the spot. I whispered to my mother what was going on (in Spanish, of course) and braced myself as I watched him stumble over to our table.

"Se�or, se�or," he tells me, leaning over our table and saturating my air with his rancid breath of cheap liquor. "Hey, I need you to help me out here..." I raised an eyebrow and glanced warningly to my mother. "�Perd�n? No le entiendo," I replied with a shake of my head. Bullshit that I didn't understand, but I wasn't about to let him on that I spoke perfect English; I had seen him sit next to that boy and bully him, I didn't need this shitpile at my table, eyeing my mother any more than he was doing already with his clouded blue eyes.

"Oh! Oh..." he looked at me with a snarl in his eye as he pulled out a folded paper from his wallet and thrust it in my hand. It had been folded over so many times that it was tearing. Scrawled in very bad spanish, it read: Soy un veterano de Vietnam desamparado. Dame dinero, ayudame. Dios le vendiga.

Translation: "I am a homeless Vietnam veteran. Give me money, help me. God bless."

I shook my head and handed him the paper. "No entiendo lo que quiere," I said flatly. Inside, I was starting to get angry. Nothing guaranteed me this old fart was a veteran from 'Nam; and if he was, I've known quite a few of them who, drunks as they may have been as well, had a bit more dignity. And above all, they did not eyeball my mother like that.

"You're broke!" he said through a snarl and harsh laugh. "Say it, you're broke! Here, say 'I'm broke'..." He leaned over some more and enunciated each word slowly with repressed anger, spraying my glasses with spittle. He grew cockier as he said it, tilting his head and saying loudly, "Can you say that? 'I'm b-r-o-k-e'...!"

I wanted to stand up and soc him in the mouth and knock whatever teeth the old fag had left. So now we're getting racial, you fuckin' gringo?! But I kept my face a politely puzzled mask; I could feel the eyes of the people around us on me, and Mar�a quickly made her way over. "Shit," the drunk muttered, tucking the paper away and turning away from me.

"Oiga, �ma'am?" I called to Mar�a. "No se que es lo que me dice el se�or, no se que quiere..." Mar�a gave me a wry smile and said, "Ah, chinga'o, me ten�as que poner el paquete a mi, �verdad?" I grinned. "Pues, mi'jita, t� eres la que trabaja aqui, no yo."

Mar�a delt with the drunk, and seeing that he wasn't gonna get any cash from anyone present, he walked back to the two kids and began asking them for ciagarettes! How drunk was he that he didn't realize that these kids were way underage? But they instantly took my hint and began to speak in spanish only. "Por favor," the drunk asked one last time, "un cigarillo..." But it didn't work, and in a huff, he turned and headed for the door. By the exit, he turned back around and flipped everyone the bird with an exasperated, "Well, fuck y'all, wetbacks!"

And he was gone.

And I was fuming.

Wetback?! Only once before in my life have I had anyone call me a wetback, and that was indirectly, and when I was five and didn't know any better. My family moved to Houston for a year right before my parents split up for good, and a kid in my kinder class had told me to "swim back to Mexico." I hadn't known what to make of it, so I cried. I had been crushed, for I knew it was something really, really bad, but wasn't sure what it meant. All I knew was that I couldn't swim too well, and the water of the Rio Grande was dirty and not nice-looking at all when we drove by it on weekends. I didn't want to swim to Mexico, so I felt bad. Bless those days of innocence.

But sitting there, in that Burger King, in my hometown, I felt revolted. Wetback? Wetback?! I was born here, motherfucker, my sister's in the fuckin' military! I wanted to be in the goddamn Army but Dud beat me to it. (I don't think I can say this enough: I will not join anymore. I can't leave my aging parents. I'm all they have left.) And come back here and call me that to my face, cocksucker, and ask me for money again, see what I'll give you! We live on the fuckin' border, there shouldn't be room for racism here. But then I remembered that at just ten minutes from the border, my hometown was still ruled by the white supremacy back in the forties and fifties. I've met several Vietnam veterans, yes, who've told me how they had to wait until Thursdays to go into the municipal pool, for only the Anglo kids were allowed from Mondays to Wednesdays (the pool water was cleaned every Sunday). I was shaking, I was so mad, and I hastily wiped that ass's spit off my glasses.

But I calmed my ass down about it. I don't want to get angry, for if I reciprocate the anger, I'll be just as shallow-minded, just like him. Just like that little kid who told me to start swimming. He probably didn't know any better either. And that is so sad. But moving on.

THE SMELLY CAT: I walked outside, around ten o'clock at night, to feed Midnight and Knightmare. I hear the usual call: soft and low and raspy-like. "Patrick?" I call out, and from amidst the shadows, he comes, singing his usual night serenade. I pick him up and carry him inside, the last of my kitty-cats. I adopted Patrick almost three years ago, along with Hemingway and Carrie, so they could keep Jiquiro company. They've all gone now. I lost my Huevo to a car, and Carrie and Hemingway were killed by my neighbor's mutts. Patrick's gone through his share of troubles though, so he's wary. He's gotten hit by a car before (a venture that cost me quite a bit in X-rays and treatment) and fractured his pelvic bone and disaligned his spinal cord. That's why his tail is paralyzed halfway down, and why he avoids vehicles. He's never really liked dogs, not even the chihuahua. Now that Caperusita passed away, he's my only cat. I hope he lasts me more than the others, but part of me doesn't want to get my hopes up. I mean, I thought Jiquirito would last with me into old age, and look what happened to him. Still, it does me good to see my singing Bunny every night, good to have him nibble my fingers and curl up on my lap, like he is now, fast asleep. He loves the attention, the little whore. I can always tell he's content when he gets so purr-happy that he farts. He's a gassy cat, I guess, but he only farts when he's in bliss. Weirdo. He fart into my leg just now. I hold my breath, and smile. He purrs himself to slumber as I rub his tummy.

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