The Afterlife (2 page)

The cops returned, too. They went inside the club and half an hour later came out with the owner, an older man with watery eyes named Manuel Something-or-other. He appeared sad, and even sadder when he shook a cop's hand.

"I'm sorry," I heard the owner mumble.

The cops left, taking with them some testimony. But the testimony was with me, not the owner. I was the one killed. And I didn't feel even as bitter as aspirin. It was all weird.

My father and mother didn't show up, though I knew they were probably crying in the shadows of our house in southeast Fresno, homeland for Mexicans and Hmongs mostly. I pictured my parents. They were in the living room, the light of the television sparkling off their eyeglasses. I pictured my mother turning her head when the telephone rang and rising slowly from the couch with a groan, the crocheted afghan on her lap falling to the floor. She would mutter something about the stupid telephone ringing just as the program was getting good, and scold her
viejo
—her old man, my father—for not answering it. Her face would become a mess of lines, and her mouth would tighten into a bud, then loosen as the voice on the other end told her that I had been killed. I pictured her dropping the phone and bringing a knuckle to her mouth. Then my father, heavy as cement, having inhaled so much of it, would turn his camel-large head. He would rise from his recliner to pick up the telephone and scream over the noise of the television, "
Cómo?
"

Still, I was surprised they didn't come to at least circle the place where I had died. Everybody panicked when the cops first came. They had their nightsticks drawn and bullied their way into the dance hall. The police had shoved a couple of dudes against the wall, and arrested one wobbly-legged scarecrow when he couldn't manage to swallow a storm cloud of marijuana. The cloud floated from his mouth, and, high on
mota,
he had been pushed into a cruiser in the parking lot.

"This is a trip," I said to myself, and screamed it from the roof. People were passing below but they couldn't hear me. I screamed my name, and no one—not even a stray dog that was kicking down the street—could hear me. I was learning about my new self.

I could see the outline of myself, which was sort of like a figure penciled in and then erased on paper. I was vaguely visible to myself, but invisible to others—two workers on the roof on the next building were doing something to the gutters. I waved my arms, but they couldn't see me. They kept jamming a garden hose down one of the gutters as they started to blast away leaves and crap.

"It's a trip." I formed the words on my lips. "I'm a ghost."

My wounds were closed, my Juicy Fruit gum still in my shirt pocket. Then a horn blasted, and I jumped, scared, and drifted off the roof like a balloon, slowly descending to the street. I touched down on the sidewalk, amazed that there was nothing to it—just float off a building and land softly. Ever since I was a little dude out of my diapers, I had dreamed of flying, and I guess now that dream was coming true.

Plus, I was invisible. A man tripping down the street couldn't see me—he was shoving a twenty-dollar bill into his wallet. He walked past me and hissed playfully at a stray cat hugging the dried bushes of that closed-down insurance company. The cat was carrying something gray in its mouth. A mouse? A pigeon that wasn't quick enough?

Dead, with my eyes wide open, I began a new life without a body. I had nothing to fear.

DOWNTOWN FRESNO
. I floated into Longs Drugs right through the plate glass and positioned myself over the head of a cashier, her eyes narrow as hatchets as she announced over the intercom, "Rafael, code fourteen, aisle six." I knew the meaning of the code—a shoplifter was sliding something under his jacket. I glanced up at the sign posted above aisle six: shampoo and hair care products. My bad. A teenage girl out to improve her looks was snagging one thing or another, and I would have kicked down that aisle except I confronted my uncle Richard and my cousin Eddie—Richard was cradling flowers in his arms and Eddie had large bags of barbecue potato chips under his arms as if they were pillows. Their steps were slow, as if they were wading in water. Their eyes were puffy, their faces dark from not shaving.

"
Tío,
" I called. I pointed a finger at my chest. "
Primo,
it's me."

They couldn't hear me. They passed through my outstretched arms and headed to the cashier, whose hatchet eyes had become sharper.

I had never seen Uncle Richard with flowers before, but then again I had never seen him cry before, like he did early this morning in his Honda. They were going to visit my parents, I realized, and they believed it was smart of them to bring something sweet-smelling to my mom. And the potato chips? Snacks for the ride over.

At my parents' house, there would be others to lament my death at such a young age. Angel, mi
carnal,
would be there, with the cement bags of guilt on his shoulders.
I should have been with him,
he would argue with himself.
We could have took the dude!
"He would be alive," he would cry, and I would cry in return, "
Chale,
we would both be dead!" In the three fights that I seen Angel in, he had lost them all. The guy was just a chubby, peace-loving dude.

I stood between Richard and Eddie. Richard said, "I feel weird." He rubbed his arm with his free hand.

Right then, I understood my power. I was dead, but I could offer a chill as cold as ice.

Eddie looked toward the ceiling. "It's the air-conditioning. It's set too cold."

They bought their goodies and were out the door just as the cashier cried into the intercom, "Rafael, code fourteen, aisles seven, nine, and fourteen."

Incredible,
I thought.
People lifting the whole store.

I
PICKED UP
right away that the dead can move with speed. For me, each step was nearly twice as long as my usual stride. However, if you're in the air flying, you hardly moved at all. You sort of strolled with your legs churning like you were on a bicycle. I giggled because it was a trip, me striding down the street and away from Longs Drugs, where I imagined the shoplifters scattering like chickens, stolen goods falling from their jackets and blouses—hair dye, lipstick, and bags of candies for those who couldn't wait for trick or treat! I was going somewhere on my own sweet time, and I was bouncing, almost leaping. I thought:
Man, I could have used this on the basketball court.
Me slamming the rock into a bent hoop with a ragged net. Then I would have made the team!

I learned immediately that I couldn't pick things up. When I saw a quarter winking at me in the morning sunlight, I bent down to pocket that little piece of change. But my hand shoved right into the sidewalk.

"Damn," I crowed as I stood up with a jerk. I studied my hand and wiggled my fat thumb that was bishop to all the rest of my fingers. I laughed at myself because what was I going to do with a quarter anyway? Help some poor soul whose parking meter had expired?

I next put my hand right through a tree trunk and a car window. I used a karate chop on a bus bench and shoved a hand through a newspaper rack. For fun, I socked the stucco wall of a church on Mariposa Street. The church was for sale—Jesus, I suppose, had moved from that part of downtown Fresno, having had his fill of the poor, who were only half listening on how to get out of the gutter and get on with life.

This much I grasped: I could slip through walls or doors, but none of what I found on the other side could be mine. Figure this: I could step right through a steel-reinforced vault and sniff all the hundred-dollar bills I wanted, but I couldn't walk away with any of that
feria.

The second thing I learned was that it was hard to control where I was going. Wind could boss me around, or the breeze of a car or truck could slap me down. I was like a balloon. Sure, I could command myself, "Go there," and I would move in that direction. But I traveled where the slightest wind blew, kicking along with little control. I got pushed to Van Ness Avenue toward the west side—Chinatown, as we call it. But the Chinese had moved out, the Japanese, too, and the blacks with ambition. Now there were only boarded-up stores. Winos, crazies, and the truly poor lingered, their eyes bloodshot from drink and illness. Stray cats lived on Dumpster meals. Pigeons feasted on what people tossed from cars, and they must have tossed a lot, because litter scuttled in the wind. Now and then a family of mice would scale up drainpipes and tumble down with their bellies full from drinking rainwater that gathered on roofs.

Mi familia,
I thought. I should kick over to my house and kneel in front of my mother and father. I would tell them, "Mom, it's okay to cry, but it don't hurt no more. And, Mom, I'm sorry for sometimes being stupid and not listening to you about good grades." I would tell my dad, "I'm sorry about the fender on the car—yeah, it was my fault and not the other dude's. I shouldn't have messed up so much."

I loved my parents and wanted to see them. But the wind blew in the direction of the west side! I didn't want to go there!

The morning wind nudged me westward three blocks from Longs Drugs, five from where I was stabbed, and six from the abandoned church on Mariposa Street. Then the wind stopped. I anchored myself in front of Cuca's Restaurant, closed up with a sign that read
ON VACATION
. I peered in. The kitchen was all shadows, and the booths where
Mexicanos
usually hunkered were empty. A single light in a hallway was on, casting a yellowish glare. The clock on the wall read 9:17. Time was still speeding along in that restaurant, but no one was there to care.

I turned from the window and spied a husky cop across the street frisking a
cholo,
who had his arms raised as if he were praising the pagan god of Don't Move Or Else. I walked over in four long strides, looking neither left nor right for there was no traffic to speak of, except for a dog who was in the middle of the street sniffing a flattened milk carton. I approached the cop and stood so close to him that I could smell the breakfast burrito on his breath. And was that Old Spice cologne, the kind my dad uses? The cop wheeled around and looked directly at me. This spooked me a little, a guy so close I was seeing cross-eyed. He felt something; his sixth sense was in working order. Of course, he couldn't see me. If he whacked me with his nightstick, what harm would result? I had already seen worse.

"Hey," I mouthed.

The cop wrinkled his brow. He could feel my presence.

"Leave the
carnal
alone," I scolded. "Go jump on someone else. Begin with the mayor and work your way down!"

Although I could talk, I couldn't be heard.

The cop licked his lips for moisture. He looked at me, and, like a spear, I plunged a hand right into his chest and felt his heart. It was flabby and clotted with cholesterol. The cop was out of shape. His gut hung over his belt and his muscles were soft as water balloons. The guy must have liked his bacon and his ham thick as shoe leather.

"Ahh," the cop cried, stepping back, his hand over his heart. The badge on his chest sparkled from that electrical charge of my hand coming out, bloodless.

The wiry
cholo
staggered backward, nervous. "I didn't do anything."

He hadn't. He was a little gangster, but that morning, sporting a black hat, he had just been walking across Chinatown to god knows where, his death for all anyone knew. Maybe his luck, like mine, would run out later that day.
Quien sabe?

The cop examined the front of his shirt, surprised perhaps that his ticker was still thumping. He then winced at the
cholo.

"Something wrong?" the
cholo
asked meekly, his arms still in the air. His tiny rat eyes were getting smaller. His goatee was twitching, and the tattoo of a snake on his arm was throbbing. The guy was terrified.

"Get out of here!" the cop snarled.

The
cholo,
hand on his hat, hurried away, scaring the dog that was now gripping in his chops the flattened milk carton.

The cop rubbed his chest and got into his cruiser. I followed by the force of my spirit. This was also what I was learning, that to penetrate something solid you had to issue up a little grunt, like opening a heavy door or lifting a sack of my dad's cement. I grunted as my ghostly body lowered itself into the backseat. I smiled.
I'm going somewhere in a police cruiser,
I thought,
and I ain't even in trouble!

The cruiser pulled away from the curb and the cop raised his attention to the rearview mirror. He was looking at me, but he couldn't see me. It was a trip, me in the backseat and laughing to myself. I have to admit that I had never been in the back of a cruiser before, and assessed the quality of the ride. Kind of nice, I judged. Then we hit a pothole and I sank into the seat and rose violently, my head for a moment jammed through the roof. It was like I was in a tank, my head out and searching the grubby west side passing before my eyes.

The radio squawked and the cop picked up.

"Car twelve," the cop mumbled, his trigger finger on the button.

"Domestic on Yosemite," the dispatcher cracked. "Backup in five."

The cruiser sped up but not by much. And by his groan, I was sure that he was thinking,
Yosemite, crackheads sitting on car fenders. Lazy-ass fathers already popping open their first beers of the day. Why hurry?

The street was mostly Section Eight apartments with radios and televisions blaring in English and Spanish. Babies in strollers rocked back and forth by slightly older babies. Laundry hanging like the faded flags of defeated nations. The yards were cropped to dirt from bored dogs wagging their sorry tails back and forth.
Why hurry,
the cop probably thought. Maybe he was right. Unless someone got killed. Then he would be wrong.

I hunkered in the back of the cruiser, hands on my lap, as I pretended that I was in a limo. The luxury of a free ride! If only my friends were with me, alive of course. I closed my eyes, then opened them quick, scared awake by the vision of the knife plunging just above my navel....