“Come on, Efren. Why can’t I move in with you?”
“Cause someone has to be here to help unload the eighteen wheeler of nut rolls being delivered tomorrow,” I say, rolling up the window and flipping him off.
“Come on man! You can’t be serious.”
“Deadass,” I reply from behind the glass, laughing.
Ricky’s eyes widen as Adrian takes off, leaving him in the dust.
“That dude was fucking weird,” I say, but Adrian doesn’t respond. “Why do you think they call him ‘El Carnicero’?” I ask a few minutes later. Still no response.
He’s typing away on his phone, barely watching the road as he swerves all over the place.
“Well fuck my safety.”
“Sorry, fool, Mireya isn’t answering my texts.” He finally puts the phone away.
Mireya is his soon-to-be wife and the mother of his three-month-old son. I’m not sure what her pussy is laced with, but whatever it is has my boy hooked.
“I never thought I’d see the day.” I laugh to myself, but Adrian just stares me down.
“One day, when you’re a big boy, you’ll get it.” He smirks.
“Nah. I’m good not having to wonder what someone’s doing every five minutes.”
It’s a lie though. Even now as we make our way to the compound where Adrian stays, I’m thinking about big brown eyes and stripper heels. Tonight, I’m gonna let her know she can never escape me.
_______
Turns out the one thing El Carnicero loves more than nut rolls are big ol’ titties in his face. He watches intently with the smile of a serial killer as a woman dances on top of the table we reserved atLa Cuevita.I convinced Ricky and him to come with me to pick up Vidal’s monthly pay cut. This is one of many establishments where he cleans money on the outside. The place I first saw her again while I was tucked into this corner booth.
It’s dim and disorienting. Red lights blink overhead like hazard signs, and the air smells like cheap cologne. Claudi, the owner, is more than eager to serve us, providing us with free drinks, cigars, and women. But my eyes are only searching for one woman.
“Have you always dressed like that?” Ricky asks, nodding at me.
He’s talking about my affinity for tailored trousers and a retro polo. I can admit my obsession with ironing makes me stick out in a generation that fails to care about their appearance. But my style is a political reflection of my support to the Chicano Movement, and a reminder of what many people, Bud included, lost during the Zoot Suit Riots.
“Always,” I reply, flicking the ash from my cigarette into a glass meant for whiskey.
So I stick out a bit looking like I’m headed to a 1970’s jazz club instead of a place where glitter sticks to the soles of your shoes. Tonight it’s rust colored slacks, high-waisted, tapering sharply at the ankle. Ironed with the crease down the middle, the way Bud had shown me. The patterned polo shirt is tucked in neat, not a wrinkle in sight, sleeves cuffed, just once. Gold rings on my fingers, a slim gold chain around my neck, hair slicked back, and my shoes freshly polished.
I spent most of my time in prison educating myself on Chicano history, reading books and connecting with the older generations locked up inside. Bud had been a trusted coyoteand old school Chicano. His first-hand accounts of Mexican-American culture and injustices became stories he repeated to us after a six-pack of beer. Stories his own father and grandfather had passed down to him.
I debate giving Ricky my TED Talk on the dying culture, but decide against it. Besides, people like me who are often anti-social in nature hyperfixate on certain topics, and this isn’t the time or place. I have something else I want to hyperfixate on.
The night drags on. Another girl. Another dance. Same shit. Ricky’s drunk off his ass by midnight. Probably something to do with the pain meds he’s mixing with his liquor. He’s already taken off his shirt to boast to the two strippers sitting at his side about the large scar on his stomach. His arm is draped over them, and one whispers in his ear while the others rub his belly where there’d once been a bullet hole.
Ricky had been shot trying to rescue Thalia Consuelo’s daughter. I was there because Silas and her were friends of mine. When I was released, I thought I’d walk away freely, but then I was dropped off in the middle of Juarez with no family or money. Bud and Angela had lied about my legal status, and Silas was there to help me.
When the lights cut and a new song starts, I sit up in my seat. Claudi walks up to the table, handing me the glass of Mezcal I’d requested.
“This is one of my best dancers coming up.La Hada Mala.”He nods to the stage.
I know it’s her the moment I see her silhouette. Alma steps out from behind the translucent screen, wearing a long black wig that covers her natural curls. The ones my fingers had run through. The ones I want to wrap in my fist.
The crowd whistles and cheers as my grip tightens around the glass. I take a drink and let the smooth velvet slide downmy throat. The song isLocoby Neton Vega, a slower melody she takes her time with, walking slowly to the stage. It’s like she has nowhere to be but in my fucking reocurring nightmares. She has on the same knee-high boots she wore the other night and a black leather body suit, her fat ass bare and on display.
I love her fuller body. The thick curves are meant to be adored. Even if I hate the way she’s being ogled, there’s something that makes my cock twitch to know all these men want what belongs to me.
