Mexican Dream

There wasn't a soul to see this shiny mirage of a boy, it being One Eighteen on a high desert outside Chiroxo during the hottest month of summer. but here he stood, shielding the heat from his arm with a faded manilla envelope. The word "Anjeho" was stamped on the cover between plaited finials of red and blue. Through slits in the faded town gate the day's activities could be seen, flickering like scenes in a peephole movie.


The store was a mess of junk food, tobacco, remedies and bric-a-brac. His distorted reflection in the greasy window shone haloed and thick, like too much flash from a Chinese sparkler. Nevertheless he pushed back his greasy hair and stuck his chin out. Tonight he would not just see her, he would sleep with her. And he would do it by simply asking her mother for permission.

He moved slowly between stacked cans and alabaster saints, his mind possessed by dreams of avarice and cunning. But once he arrived at the counter he faltered, and fell back on the truth: he had nowhere to stay, nothing left since the loss of his family and a run of bad decisions. The boy struck a pathetic figure, like the downtrodden souls in a Diego Rivera mural. Sweat welded his hair onto his forehead as he told of his trip: the truck drivers with their tall caps and Marlboros; the games where he lost his money and clothes; his battle with a dog for table scraps. The mother waved him upstairs, more from disgust than pity. She gave him a rag, a small crucifix and a bar of Ivory soap.

At the top of the stairs he turned to catch a glimpse of the old woman, but instead ran headfirst into a swarm of hanging pots. A cracked fan seemed to increase the heat; his eyelids danced in the swirling, muggy firmament. Before him, an old blanket served as a room divider between kitchen and bath. As he reeled he caught a glimpse of a shoe, and in the shoe, a woman. Ay, the heat! She had come out then, not a mirage, neither early nor late. Her eyes narrowed and blazed, but her anger gave way to surprise as she saw the blood. Snatching the towel from his hand she wet it from the tap, which seemed to be running already. Her mouth formed a question that her words did not convey - no estás aquí - It seemed more to herself so he didn't try to answer. The water was cool and he leaned back on the counter, his gaze fixed rapaciously on the kitchen light reflected in emerald eyes. Scents of chocolate and rosewater mixed with the grease and dust like a welcome rain shower.

When he opened his eyes it was evening, not yet dark but slowly fading. He went through the pink curtain wishing to see the girl again, but all he saw was a bare light bulb and an ice box. The bathroom must be through the next door, he thought, and began undressing. His numb fingers fumbled the buttonholes on his shirt. Spots of blood provided contrast to the dark and otherwise colorless stains on the blue fabric. He heard footsteps come to the curtain. Wanting to hold the moment of surprise he backed up to the curtain, his shirt open before him. A hand rested briefly on his shoulder, the hand of the girl's mother. Startled he moved aside as she entered the small alcove, followed by a large man.

I want us to be friends, the man said. Tattoos on his arms and chest told a story of adventure: a mermaid by an island with a palm tree and three waves; A ship with masts but no sails, red spots for canon ports; and a serpent, winding around a rock with the word Charibdis. As he followed the story of pictograms the mother began to tie a large rubber band around the boy's upper arm. This is Necessary to gain their trust, he thought.