Everything Begins and Ends at the Kentucky Club

EVERYTHING
BEGINS & ENDS
AT THE KENTUCKY CLUB

EVERYTHING
BEGINS & ENDS
AT THE KENTUCKY CLUB

S
TORIES BY
B
ENJAMIN
A
LIRE
S
ÁENZ

Everything Begins & Ends at the Kentucky Club.
Copyright © 2012 by Benjamin Alire Saenz. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.

He Went To Be With the Women
first appeared in
Narrative.com
. Sometimes the Rain
first appeared in
11/11.

FIRST EDITION 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sáenz, Benjamin Alire.

Everything begins & ends at the Kentucky Club / by Benjamin Alire Sáenz.
-- 1st ed.
p. cm.

E-book ISBN 978-1-935955-33-7

I. Title.

PS3569.A27E94 2012

813’.54--dc23

2012004532

C
OVER PHOTO AND BOOK DESIGN BY
A
NTONIO
C
ASTRO
H.
Thanks to
Lostandtaken.com
for the back cover, flap, and spine texture.

Obb
, this cover took a lot of doing. First it was going to be Fred and Patty Dalbin on the cover with Rich Wright in a spectacular old photo supplied by Vanessa Johnson. Much discussion ensued on that one. Flow we would have loved to see our friends hit the big-time. But it was not to be. Bruce Berman took some great shots and one made an almost perfect cover. But ultimately it was this image made by Antonio Castro that evoked the essence of Ben’s stories. Antonio went to the Kentucky Club in Juarez with Ben and Bobby on one of those dreamy afternoon visits you can only have when you cross over to the other side.

I want to listen to my heart as it beats like a
piece of music in a silence that waits to be broken.

IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

E
LOISA
A
LIRE
S
ÁENZ

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.

Matthew 5.8

TABLE OF CONTENTS

HE HAS GONE TO BE WITH THE WOMEN

THE ART OF TRANSLATION

THE RULE MAKER

BROTHER IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE

SOMETIMES THE RAIN

CHASING THE DRAGON

THE HURTING GAME

1.

The slant of morning light made him look like he was about to catch on fire.

Every Sunday he was there, a singular, solitary figure—but not sad and not lonely. And not tragic. He became the main character of a story I was writing in my head.
Some people are so beautiful that they belong everywhere they go.
That was the first sentence of the story.

I always noticed what he was reading: Dostoyevsky, Kazantzakis, Faulkner. He was in love with serious literature. And tragedy. Well, he lived on the border. And on the border you could be in love with tragedy without being tragic.

He drank his coffee black. Not that I knew that with any certainty.

Sometimes, I could see that he’d just come in from a run, his dark wavy hair wild, half-wet with sweat.

He was thin and had to shave twice a day. But he only shaved once. There was always that shadow on his face. Even in the morning light he appeared to be half-hidden.

I don’t know how long I’d been noticing him. A year. Longer.

He was a creature of habit. Not so different from a monk. Not so different from me.

Our eyes never met though I had memorized the color of his eyes.

I never lingered at the coffee shop—but there was always a line on Sunday mornings. I was grateful for the wait. It gave me the opportunity to glance at him as he read his book. I wanted to walk up to him and ask him what he thought of Kazantzakis. I imagined me blurting out that no one read him anymore. I imagined him smiling at me.

I never ordered coffee.

I would drop in to pick up the Sunday
New York Times
and drive back home to drink my own free-trade, fresh-ground coffee. I always ran into someone I knew. People were so nice to me. Always.
Hello Mr. De la Tierra you’re looking good Mr. De la Tierra what are you working on now Mr. De la Tierra so nice to see you Mr. De la Tierra.
The fact that so many people knew who I was had never given me much comfort. If anything, it made me feel more alone. And anyway, nobody knew who I was. Not even me.

2.

Sundays were mine. The rest of the week belonged to my responsibilities, my writing, my family, my friends, my commitments. I could give all my days up for everything else. But not Sundays. I loved the quiet softness of that day. I’d read the paper and inhale the stillness of the neighborhood that was resting from the punishing week. It was that kind of neighborhood.

And then one Sunday we spoke.

I was standing at the counter of the coffee shop,
New York Times
in hand, deciding. Croissant? Maybe a scone? I was hungry.

“You never buy a cup of coffee.”

Even before I turned around, I knew it was him.

“No,” I said.

“You don’t like coffee?”

“My coffee is waiting for me at home.”

“So your coffee is like a wife?”

“Yes,” I said, “exactly like a wife.”

“And do you?”

“Do I?”

“Have a wife?”

I stuck out my left hand. No ring.

He didn’t smile but I thought he wanted to. I paid for my paper.

He ordered a tall coffee of the day. I was right about him drinking his coffee black. His voice was deep and friendly. It was nice—his accent. I wanted to keep talking. But there was never anything to say when it mattered so much to say something. “You like newspapers,” he said.

“Yes.”

“They’re the past. And they’re all lies.”

I held up my newspaper. “It’s not
El Diario.
”

“Are you one of those?”

I looked into his smiling face. “One of those?”

He laughed. “One of those Mexicans who hates other Mexicans?”

“No. I don’t suffer from that disease.”

“What do you suffer from?”

I didn’t say anything. I looked into his chocolate eyes. I think I was looking for
suffering
.

“You’re not really Mexican,” he said.

“Not Mexican. Not American. Fucked. That’s the disease I suffer from.”

We found ourselves sitting outside. The morning was cool. The wind was back, the wind that was in love with El Paso, the wind that refused to leave us to enjoy the sun.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“I forgot my jacket.”

“We can go inside.”

“No,” I said. We studied each other. My eyes weren’t as dark as his. Pedestrian brown. “I don’t live far from here.”

He was thinking.

“I’m not looking for a hook-up.” Just as the words came out of my mouth, I realized they sounded like an accusation. I was sorry for having said anything.

“No,” he said, “not a man like you.” He smiled. “My name is Javier.”

“Javier,” I said, “I’m—”

“Everybody knows who you are.”

“Nobody knows who I am.”

He laughed, Javier who drank his coffee black. “Tell me. I want to hear you say your name.”

“Juan Carlos.”

“Juan Carlos,” he repeated. “Where do you live?”

“Sunset Heights.”

He tapped his paper cup. “Interesting neighborhood.”

3.

“It’s a beautiful place,” he said. He was studying one of my paintings.

“It was built in 1900.”

“Ten years before the Revolution.”

“More than a hundred years ago.”