The Best American Short Stories 2013 (6 page)

NELSON
: They do. And we don’t choose sides.

COCHOCHO
: Of course not. You’re there to make money. Why would you choose sides?

JAIME
: But you live there too? With the blacks? With the Mexicans?

They look him over, a little disappointed. They’d thought he was more successful. Behind the scene, Elena prepares to bring more beer to the table, but her daughter stops her, takes the bottles, and goes herself
.

NELSON
: Yes. There are white people too.

CELIA
: Excuse me, pardon me.

Celia has inky black eyes and wears a version of her mother’s outfit—an old T-shirt, sweatpants, sandals. On her mother, this clothing represents a renunciation of sexual possibility. On Celia, they represent quite the opposite
.

NELSON
(eagerly, wanting to prove himself—to the men? to Celia?):
I’d like to buy a round. If I may.

COCHOCHO
: I’m afraid that’s not possible.
(slips Celia a few bills)
Go on, dear.

Celia lingers for a moment, watching Nelson, until her mother shoos her away. She disappears offstage. Meanwhile the conversation continues
.

ERICK
: You’re the guest. Hospitality is important.

SANTOS
: These things matter to us. You think it folkloric, or charming. We’re not offended by the way you look at us. We are accustomed to the
anthropological gaze
.
(this last phrase accompanied by air quotes)
We feel sorry for you because you don’t understand. We do things a certain way here. We have traditions.
(to Manuel)
How much does your boy know about us? About our town? Have you taught him our customs?

NELSON
: I learned the songs when I was a boy.

MANUEL
: But he was raised in the city, of course.

COCHOCHO
: What a shame. Last time I went was six years ago, when I ran for Congress. A detestable place. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.

MANUEL
: Certainly you aren’t the only one who holds that opinion.

SANTOS
: He wanted very badly to win. He would’ve happily moved his family there.

JAIME
: And your wife, she’s from the city?

MANUEL
: She is.

COCHOCHO
(to Nelson):
You’re lucky to have left. How long have you been in California?

NELSON
: Since I was eighteen.

JAIME
: It’s a terrible place, but still, you must miss home quite a bit.

NELSON
(laughing):
No, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.

ERICK
: The food?

NELSON
: Sure.

JAIME
: The family?

NELSON
: Yes, of course.

MANUEL
: I’m flattered.

JAIME
: Your friends?

NELSON
(pausing to think):
Some of them.

ERICK
: Times have changed.

SANTOS
: No, Erick, times have not changed. The youth are not all that different than before. Take Manuel. Let’s ask him. Dear Manuel, pride of this poor, miserable village, tell us: how often do you wake up missing this place where you were born? How often do you think back, and wish you could do it over again, never have left, and stayed here to raise a family?

Manuel is caught off guard, not understanding if the question is serious or not. On the television: a shot of the plaza by night. Quickly recovering, he decides to take the question as a joke
.

MANUEL
: Every day, Profe.

Everyone but Santos laughs
.

SANTOS
: I thought as much. Some people like change, they like movement, transition. A man’s life is very short and of no consequence. We have a different view of time here. A different way of placing value on things. We find everything you Americans—

NELSON
:
We
Americans? But I lived in this country until I was eighteen!

SANTOS
(talking over him):
Everything you Americans say is very funny. Nothing impresses us unless it lasts five hundred years. We can’t even begin to discuss the greatness of a thing until it has survived that long.
(It’s not clear whom Santos is addressing. Still, there’s a murmur of approval. His eyes close. He’s a teacher again, in the classroom.)
This town is great. The ocean is great. The desert and the mountains beyond. There are some ruins in the foothills, which you surely know nothing about. They are undoubtedly, indisputably great; as are the men who built them, and their culture. Their blood, which is our blood, and even yours, though unfortunately . . . how shall I put it?
Diluted
. Not great: the highway, the border. The United States. Where do you live? What’s that place called?

NELSON
: Oakland, California.

SANTOS
: How old?

NELSON
: A hundred years?

SANTOS
: Not great. Do you understand?

NELSON
: I’m sure I don’t. If I may: those five-hundred-year-old ruins, for example. You’ll notice I’m using your word, Profe.
Ruins
. Am I wrong to question whether they’ve lasted?

Television: the ruins
.

SANTOS
(taking his seat again):
You would have failed my class.

NELSON
: What a shame. Like these gentlemen?

SANTOS
: Nothing to be proud of. Nothing at all.

NELSON
(transparently trying to win them over):
I’d be in good company.

ERICK
: Cheers.

JAIME
: Cheers.

MANUEL
(reluctantly):
Cheers.

COCHOCHO
(stern, clearing his throat):
I did not fail that class or any class. It’s important you know this. I didn’t want to mention it, but I am deputy mayor of this town. I once ran for Congress. I could have this bar shut down tomorrow.

ERICK/JAIME
(together, alarmed):
You wouldn’t!

COCHOCHO
: Of course not! Don’t be absurd!
(pause)
But I
could
. I am a prominent member of this community.

ERICK
: Don’t be fooled by his name.

COCHOCHO
: It’s a nickname! A term of endearment! These two? Their nicknames are vulgar. Unrepeatable. And your father? What was your nickname, Manuel?

MANUEL
: I didn’t have one.

COCHOCHO
: Because no one bothered to give him a name. He was cold. Distant. Arrogant. He looked down on us even then. We knew he’d leave and never come back.

Manuel shrugs. Cochocho, victorious, smiles arrogantly
.

NELSON
: Here he is! He’s returned!

SANTOS
: How lucky we are. Blessed.

COCHOCHO
: Your great-uncle’s old filling station? It’s mine now. Almost. I have a minority stake in it. My boy works there. It’ll be his someday.

As if reminded of his relative wealth, Cochocho orders another round. No words, only gestures. Again Celia arrives at the table, bottles in hand, as Elena looks on, resigned. This time all the men, including Nelson’s father, ogle the girl. She might be pretty after all. She hovers over the table, leaning in so that Nelson can admire her. He does, without shame. Television: a wood-paneled motel room, a naked couple on the bed. The window is open. They’re fucking
.

SANTOS
(to Manuel):
Don’t take this the wrong way. The primary issue . . . What Cochocho is trying to say, I think, is that some of us . . . We feel abandoned. Disrespected. You left us. Now your son is talking down to us.

NELSON
(amused):
Am I?

MANUEL
: Is he?

SANTOS
: We don’t deserve this, Manuel. You don’t remember!
(to the group)
He doesn’t remember!
(to Nelson)
Your father was our best student in a generation. The brightest, the most promising. His father—your grandfather, God rest his soul—had very little money, but he was well liked, whereas your great-uncle . . . We tolerated Raúl. For a while he was rich and powerful, but he never gave away a cent. He saw your father had potential, but he wanted him to help run the filling station, to organize his properties, to invest. These were his ambitions. Meanwhile, your father, I believe, wanted to be—

NELSON
: A professor of literature. At an American university. We’ve discussed this.

COCHOCHO
: Why not a local one?

Manuel has no response, is slightly ashamed
.

SANTOS
: Pardon me. It’s a very conventional ambition for a bookish young man. Decent. Middle of the road. You had politics?

MANUEL
: I did.
(pause)
I still do.

SANTOS
: A rabble-rouser. An agitator. He made some people here very angry, and the teachers—and I was leader of this concerned group, if I remember correctly—we collected money among us, to send him away. We didn’t want to see his talent wasted. Nothing destroys our promising youth more than politics. Did he tell you he won a scholarship? Of course. That’s a simpler story. He made his powerful uncle angry, and Raúl refused to pay for his studies. Your grandfather didn’t have the money either. We sent him away for his own good. We thought he’d come back and govern us well. We hoped he might learn something useful. Become an engineer. An architect. A captain of industry.
(sadly)
We expected more. We needed more. There’s no work here. Jaime, for example. What do you do?

JAIME
: Sir?

SANTOS
(impatiently):
I said, what do you do?

JAIME
: I’m unemployed. I was a bricklayer.

SANTOS
: Erick?

ERICK
: I’m a tailor.
(to Nelson, brightly, with an optimism that does not match the mood of the table)
At your service, young man!

SANTOS
: See? He made me this suit. Local cotton. Adequate work. I’m on a fixed income. Cochocho. He is deputy mayor. You know that now. But did you know this? The money he just spent on our drinks? That is our money. He stole it like he stole the election. He brings his suits from the capital. We don’t say anything about it because that would be rude. And he is, in spite of his questionable ethics, our friend.

COCHOCHO
(appalled):
Profe!

SANTOS
: What? What did I say? You’re not our friend? Is that what you’re alleging?

Cochocho, dejected, unable or unwilling to defend himself. Erick and Jaime comfort him. Just then, Elena’s daughter reappears, eyes on Nelson. Television: motel room, naked couple in an acrobatic sexual position, a yogic balancing act for two, a scramble of flesh, such that one can’t discern whose legs belong to whom, whose arms, how his and her sexual organs are connecting or even if they are
.

CELIA
: Another round, gentlemen?

MANUEL
: I insist—

NELSON
: If you’ll allow me—

SANTOS
(stopping them both with a wave, glaring at Cochocho):
So, are you our friend or not? Will you spend our money or keep it for yourself?
(to Nelson)
Unfortunately, this too is tradition.

NELSON
: Five hundred years?