Seeing Off the Johns

by Rene S Perez II

  That day Chon walked Araceli to her last class, the last class of high school. They parted with kisses, incredulous on-lookers be damned. He showed up to work three minutes late, almost hoping there would be a line of customers or that he would walk in on a shoplifter. Instead, he was greeted by a booze- and vomit-scratched baritone voice.

  “You’re late, pendejo.” Rocha walked from behind the register, almost racing Chon to the time clock.

  “Did Ana open today?” Chon asked. He was happy that high school was over, despite the fact that it meant Araceli was leaving him. He could manage a little bit of small talk with the old bastard.

  “No,” Rocha grunted. “Pinche puta quit. I’ve been here for ten fucking hours.”

  Chon was frozen there in the middle of the store by Rocha’s words. He did not have time for guilt or sadness, the wind was taken out of him so wholly. Rocha walked out of the back room with his jacket draped over the forearm with the little hand on it. He looked like a waiter who was planning on spitting in your food.

  “Quit?”

  “She won the fucking lottery. You believe that? Hit big on one of the $20 scratch-offs. I play that shit every day, the lucky bitch.” Rocha walked away shaking his head. “You need to come in to relieve me tomorrow. It’s just me and you now.”

  “Rocha, I have graduation tomorrow. I requested the day off months ago. I’m not coming in.”

  “N’hombre, guey. I’m not going to work here all fucking day tomorrow. You have to come in,” Rocha said, sounding satisfied at the knowledge that Chon would buckle under the weight of the situation. He opened the door to leave.

  “Fuck that. I’m not coming in. If you have to work all day, if you have to close up at one, I don’t care. I’m not coming in,” Chon said. By the time he was done, he had raised an angry finger and was pointing it at Rocha.

  “We’ll see about that you little motherfucker. I’ll—”

  “Call Sammy if you want to. Shit, call Artie in San Antonio if you have to. I’m not coming in. Use the phone here if you don’t want to pay the long distance. I’m not coming in.” Chon dropped his hand and turned to walk to the back and clock in.

  “You know what, you little—” Rocha started.

  “Fuck you,” Chon said, cutting him off again. “Go home and drink yourself blind so you can get through tomorrow, because you might have to work open to close.”

  Rocha tried to slam the door behind him, but the hydraulic door closer didn’t let him. It shut slowly and unsatisfyingly. Chon had to laugh. He was still laughing when he got to the time card tower. It was just Rocha in the penthouse and him a few stories down. But it wasn’t the sad presence of only two time cards that brought Chon down from his little high. It was the sight of an envelope behind his card. A note from Ana, he was certain.

  He grabbed it with his right hand and his time card with his left. He clocked in and took the envelope behind the counter so he could open his register and get ready for what would likely be a crazy busy night.

  Once he put his opening totals into the computer, Chon took the envelope out and opened it. It read:

  Chones,

  No hard feelings, huh? I’m glad I knew you. You really are great, remember that. I would repeat what I had said before. But I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.

  Let’s keep the ticket thing between you and me. Don’t make me pay you off.

  You will never win if you don’t play the game.

  Ana

  Chon got out to the Lazo ranch at 12:15. He was tired. He drove around outside the circle of cars, looking for Araceli’s Suburban. He couldn’t find it, so he parked outside the circle, near the front fence of the ranch. He could hear the voices of the kids sitting on their tailgates or dancing around the fire. He could see the flame lighting up the dark sky and painting it shades of crimson and purple.

  Walking between cars, entering a world of inebriation that was kicked off hours before he got there, Chon noticed the looks from the crowd. He hadn’t bothered going home to change clothes. It was too late. He was too tired. He knew that wasn’t the reason for the stares, but he didn’t care either way. At the New Years’ Eve party, he let it all get to him. But he was happy now. He had what he wanted. If he owed an apology to anyone for getting it, it wasn’t anyone there at the Lazo ranch that night. He heard Henry before he saw him.

  “What a crock of bullshit!” His best friend’s words were shouted, but not angrily.

  Chon walked over in the direction of Henry’s voice. Araceli saw him and ran to meet him with a kiss. She almost jumped on him, nearly toppling them over. She was drunk. They went over to where Henry was standing.

  “And this motherfucker over here”—he gave Chon a hard slap on the shoulder, the kind he’d been giving him since they were young—“is my friend for I don’t know how many years, and then he goes and fucks my cousin.”

  “Henry,” Araceli said firmly.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…okay. Fine. He starts dating my cousin. I mean, what the fuck?”

  The people around the Suburban are laughing. It’s a small, strange assembly of kids, one that showed how fickle the high school caste system had been—it had toppled just hours after the final bell. There were football players and cheerleaders and your run-of-the-mill drinkers, stoners, and nobodies, all there basking in being able to drink and laugh with the prom queen. Henry was holding court over the lot of them. It made Chon think it was a shame the two of them hadn’t been more popular. It also made him realize it wouldn’t have mattered. From that day on, they would know their contemporaries not by the labels they wore in high school, but as people who had been there with them, survived with them.

  Araceli shook her head at Henry. She grabbed hold of Chon and put her head on his chest. She nuzzled her mouth and nose in the crook of his neck. She breathed out a long, slow breath, and Chon felt peace like he hadn’t known in town, maybe never would. They were technically nowhere—half Greenton, half Falfurrias.

  She looked up at him. “How was work?”

  “Started off shitty, but ended great.” Chon had never answered this question from Araceli with anything but it sucked. She leaned back, interested.

  “Why?”

  “I quit.”

  “What?” she said.

  “You quit?” Henry shouted. “Bullshit. You are a liar and a scoundrel and a piece of shit who is trying to make some kind of stupid joke.”

  Henry’s audience hooted and hollered.

  “Ana quit this morning. So it was just me and Rocha. He called the owner, complaining that he wouldn’t have anyone to relieve him tomorrow. So I get a call from San Antonio near the end of my shift. He says there’s nothing we can do. I have to work, have to miss graduation. So I told him I’d stock the cooler, clean the store, and put my key in the mail slot after I locked up.”

  Chon was only talking to Araceli. He looked over at Henry who was hanging on his every word too. The entire crowd around the Suburban had hushed and were straining to hear Chon’s story over the sounds of the partiers around the circle who didn’t know Chon had a story worth shutting up to hear. When he finished talking, he scanned Araceli’s eyes, looking for her thoughts on his decision. It was probably the booze, but Araceli didn’t seem to have caught up to what Chon said.

  “Well, you know what? Fuck Artie Alba,” she finally said.

  “Yeah,” Henry said quietly and without the slightest slur. Then he shouted again. “Fuck him!”

  Everyone laughed. Henry was fired up by his audience. He looked at Chon and smiled. “You know what? Come here.”

  But Henry didn’t wait. He charged at Chon like a bull. Chon turned heel to run. It was too late. Henry grabbed him from behind. Chon’s first instinct was to fight. To throw an elbow behind himself or to turn around and swing a fist, but this was Henry, so he didn’t.

  Henry grabbed frantically at Chon’s shirt, that stupid shirt he wore to work. Araceli pleaded with her cousin to let go of Chon. The crowd around them
began cheering and laughing. Henry got a hand under the buttons of Chon’s shirt. He tugged it back, breaking them all off.

  Chon was starting to get angry. He turned around, chest exposed, ready to hit Henry, but a former football player joined the scuffle. He grabbed Chon’s arms so Henry could strip Chon of his shirt. Once he got it, he raised it above his head triumphantly. Chon fought and squirmed to get at Henry.

  “Ya, calmate, bro. He’s just having a good time,” the drunken linebacker said. He loosened his grip and Chon calmed down. The linebacker kept his arms loosely around Chon, like they were spooning standing up. They watched Henry.

  “Fuck Artie Alba. Fuck the Pachanga, and fuck Greenton,” Henry said.

  The audience cheered and laughed, but Henry wasn’t laughing anymore. He looked, clear-eyed and calm, at Chon.

  “You’re not his fucking slave anymore. You’re your own man. The world is yours, brother. Fuck this.”

  He walked over to the fire and threw the shirt on it. At this point, everyone out at the ranch that night who hadn’t stolen away with a lover or passed out drunk on the bed of a truck was watching Henry. They hollered chaotically at the sight of destruction and what they thought was sure to turn to a fight. Henry walked back from the fire smiling at Chon expectantly, like he was waiting for his best friend to get in on the joke. He didn’t know if it was because of Henry’s smile or because of his having set the shirt on fire, but Chon started laughing. The linebacker who was holding him laughed too, gave Chon a slap on the chest and let him go.

  Henry held his hands palm-up at his side. He was breathing heavily from the excitement. He had gotten so close to the fire that there were black stains under his nose where he’d been breathing in smoke. “Fuck it, right?” he said to Chon. Not even Araceli heard him.

  “Yeah, fuck it. You idiot, I have nine more shirts like that at home.”

  Araceli did hear this, and she laughed. Chon laughed too. Henry joined them. They were there at the center of most of Greenton High’s student body, laughing together, Chon and Araceli falling into each other’s arms, Henry coming up and giving them a big bear hug.

  The party wore on. Chon had a few drinks, but saw there was no point in trying to catch up with Henry and Araceli or with anyone for that matter. He decided to just relax and watch the party fall apart around him. People were swaying and tripping and throwing up drunk. Boyfriends and girlfriends were fighting over what Chon could only hear to be nonsense. At close to three in the morning, Chon told Araceli and Henry it was time to go. The fire had died out. The place had degenerated to a bunch of walking, talking unmet hormonal needs and desires. Between Henry and Araceli, Henry was the better of the two to drive the Suburban the four miles to Araceli’s house.

  “I want to ride with Chon,” Araceli said.

  “Alright,” he told her, putting his arm down around her back to even out her crooked walk and help her navigate the loose, craggy soil they had to cross over to get to the Dodge-nasty. “But you have to ride in the back seat.”

  “Oh, Chon, you’re so dirty.” She laughed and threw her head back, making her that much harder to handle.

  “I’m serious. The seatbelt doesn’t work on the passenger seat and if I get seen with you sitting there we might get pulled over…or I might die.” Chon said the last part under his breath.

  “Okay,” she said. “But you have to warm me up first. It’s cold.”

  “You’re cold? I’m the one without a shirt.”

  When they got to the car, Araceli propped herself up and sat on the hood while Chon cleared a spot on his cluttered back seat for her. When there was enough room, he met her up at the hood. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him to her. She rubbed his cold arms.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked. “You quit your job. That’s huge. What’s next?”

  And then, looking at Araceli in the moonlight, Chon declared to be his plan what had only fleetingly entered his mind on the way over to the ranch.

  “I think I’m moving up to Austin. If you think that’s a good idea.”

  “That sounds perfect.” Araceli dug her face into Chon’s chest. “That’s what I’ve been hoping for. I was just afraid to ask you to quit your job and leave your family, leave town. It seemed too huge for me to ask you to do after only a few months. But I just…I love you so much.”

  “I love you too. Besides, with you gone, what would I do in this town but work and get stupid?”

  Chon pushed Araceli’s shoulders back gently so he could look her in the face to see if it registered anything more than her words were telling him. She seemed happy, genuinely happy, like she might need Chon as much as he needed her. She tightened her legs’ squeeze on Chon’s waist. They kissed.

  “What is this shit? Are you fucking her right here for everyone to see,” someone shouted.

  Chon turned around smiling, expecting to see Henry coming toward them, but it wasn’t Henry. It was someone taller and skinnier than Henry—not as tall as Chon, but harder looking. He was approaching quickly. Two other boys were at his heels. Chon strained his eyes to make out who it was but he couldn’t see for the shine of headlights behind him. When his eyes adjusted as much as they were going to, he still couldn’t tell who was heading toward them, but he could definitely see that the guy was carrying a stick of some sort.

  Chon picked Araceli up from the car, carried her almost like a toddler, her legs still straddling him. He ran her around to the other side of the Dodge-nasty, putting her down quickly but gently. He looked over in the direction of the cars to see if he could make out Henry, hoping there was help on the way, but there wasn’t. There were only three guys, and one of them was carrying what Chon could now see was a baseball bat.

  That guy got to the back of the Dodge-nasty. He tapped the trunk three times, as if it were home plate. One of the boys with him said, “Batter up.”

  He pulled the bat back and gracefully—with so much force being culled from so little effort, like a swing that looks like a slap bunt but carries to the left field wall—smashed in the car’s rear window. Araceli screamed. Chon pushed her back a step.

  The guy with the bat swung down on the trunk a few times. He walked around behind the car and gave the right back panel a swift chop, like he was trying to hit a ball that had broken just below the strike zone. He turned to face Chon. He pointed the bat at Chon, calling his shot. Araceli screamed again.

  People rushed over from the party to see what was happening. The guy with the bat, someone who Chon now saw to be baby-faced—not old enough to be a senior—opened his batting stance and rolled his wrists, cutting a circle in the air in front of him.

  “Domingo?” Araceli said. “What’s wrong with you? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What’s wrong with you, goddamnit? You’re the one who’s here with him. Making out and hanging all over him in front of everyone like John never existed.”

  A crowd surrounded Chon, Araceli and Domingo. Chon relaxed at little. Because no matter how much they wanted a show, people wouldn’t stand around and watch someone get beaten to death by a freshman-turned-sophomore wielding a bat—even if he batted .400 and led the district in RBI.

  “Are you fucking serious? I’m supposed to die because John did? I’m not supposed to graduate or move on or fall in love with someone else?” Araceli was shouting, angry tears running down the sides of her face. Domingo shook his head.

  “But him? This guy?” Domingo said, still in his batting stance, wagging the bat back and forth in front of him.

  “What? I should be with you? Because you’re the best player on the team you get to inherit me? Just because you can swing a bat doesn’t mean you’re not an asshole.”

  “Listen, bitch—” Domingo said, shaking his head like he was trying to not lose his temper with a lady.

  “Hey!” Chon shouted. “You don’t talk to her like that.”

  Domingo looked at Chon there in front of him, shirtless and ready to
fight. The sight seemed to remind him of why he had grabbed the bat to begin with.

  “So what? You waited for him to die so you could be with her? I bet you wished for him to die. You fucking prayed for him to die so you could get into her pants.” Domingo rolled his wrists faster, making a whooshing sound that Chon could hear from where he stood.

  “What I pray about is between me and God. But I will say that if John had never died, I would never have gotten with her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So you do the math on that. But if I had the power to change the past, I’d make him live.”

  “But you can’t, can you? You can’t change the past. You just benefit from it,” Domingo said.

  “If you’re going to beat my head in with a baseball bat because of that, you have a lot of people here who you have to beat up. So why don’t you do us a favor and start with yourself.”

  The look in Domingo’s eyes got crazy. He stepped forward. Chon stepped up too. Araceli pulled his shoulder, but Chon shrugged her off. If he was going to be beaten with a baseball bat, he was going to make himself a moving, swinging target.

  Chon’s words and the psychotic, murderous look on Domingo’s face sobered up enough people in the crowd for them to step between the boys and stop what would have been an ugly fight. Domingo’s own partners in crime, the ones who had walked over with him and goaded him on, restrained him and took away his baseball bat. They pulled him screaming and crying to their car and drove off. Everyone else stared at Chon. He didn’t give the slightest of damns what they thought about him.