Burro Genius

by Victor Villaseñor

  “You mean, there were two Bibles back in Eden?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. That only makes sense. No man and woman could ever agree on just one story.”

  “Well, then, why do we now only have one Bible?” I asked.

  My father grinned. “You guess.”

  “Because,” I said, “of men?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And how did you figure that out?”

  “Because Eva doesn’t blame Adam. It’s Adam who blames Eva,” I said.

  “Very good thinking,” said my father, grinning. “You got it. That’s why it’s so important to raise boys as girls for the first few years of their lives—so that, then, they’ll at least have a little understanding of the—”

  “Then was Jesus also raised like a woman for the first seven years of His life?” I asked.

  “Of course. That’s why He was so strong and yet tender. All men back when the Earth was young and the Stars spoke and people knew how to listen, were raised like women for the first seven years of their life. In fact, back then, there were even two tongues. One for women and one for men, and the men who weren’t raised like women for the first years of their life didn’t even know how to speak to a woman when they grew up.”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” I said. “Because I’ve heard some of our ranch hands say that there’s no talking to a woman.”

  My father laughed. “And they’re right,” he said. “There is no talking to a woman in a man’s language.”

  My brother Joseph came up with the .22 rifle that my father used for killing the pigs, goats, and steer for the housewarming celebration and a couple of boxes of ammunition.

  “Papa,” I now asked, “then, like Jesus, do you forgive those guys who came up in the car, because they didn’t really know what they were doing?”

  “Forgiving, that’s a tough one,” said my dad, taking the rifle and beginning to load it. “Sober, they’re actually good men, especially the driver. So, sober—then, yes, I guess, I do forgive them.”

  “But drunk you don’t?”

  “No, drunk I don’t. I’m still not as big of corazón as Jesus,” he added.

  I nodded. Things were now beginning to make a whole lot of sense to me once again. Then maybe my dad wasn’t such a monster after all. Emilio and two of our ranch hands came up.

  “Here,” said my dad, handing me the pistol. “Take a good feel of this .38 Special. It’s loaded,” he said. “Always remember this, guns are always loaded, whether they’re loaded or not, so always keep your finger off the trigger and keep the barrel pointed that way, towards our target area on the hillside, where it’s safe in case the gun goes off. I’ve seen many a man shot and some killed with what people thought were unloaded guns. Get it?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I get it.”

  “Good,” he answered me.

  We walked all the way around behind our new home and halfway down the hillside. We were just up the hill from the tullies where the deer and fox lived and the red-shoulder blackbirds came into roost each night by the tens of thousands. My dad took his time telling me all about weapons, and especially about this snub-nosed .38 Smith and Wesson, and how it compared to other handguns, like the .44 and .45.

  “And some men spend their whole lives looking for the best gun, just like other men spend their lives looking for the best wife,” he said, “but these men are really just fools in the end, and cowards, too. Because, mijito, when it’s all said and done, it’s never the gun or horse or wife or car or truck that does a good man in or saves his life. No, it’s all here between the hombre’s own two legs and how well he knows how to handle that gun, horse, wife, car, or truck. Give me any gun, and I’ll do good no matter how the Devil paints it for me. Why? Because I know what I’m doing, and…I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “Is that the same for women?”

  “What?”

  “That they need a lot of practice, too?” I said.

  Emilio and the men smiled.

  “Well, no,” said my dad. “We men like to think that it’s only us, the men, who need to practice.”

  “This makes no sense,” I said. “Why shouldn’t women practice, too, so they’ll know how to handle a gun, horse, husband, car, or truck, too?”

  Hearing this, Emilio and the other workmen burst out laughing, as if I’d asked the most ridiculous question in all of the world. I got mad and swung around at them with the .38 in hand before I realized what I’d done. They all jumped back.

  “NO!” screamed my dad, grabbing me and turning me back around. “Watch what you’re doing! I told you never to point a gun at anyone! And you,” he said to Emilio and our two vaqueros, “if you can’t keep quiet, then get back to the barn!”

  They immediately calmed down, putting on serious faces. My brother never laughed.

  “That’s a good question,” my father said to me. “That’s why they got nervous and laughed. They weren’t poking fun at you. You see, mijito, the truth is that for our women, we men like them not to be experienced when we marry them. But in time, yes, we do want them to learn how to do things well,” said my dad.

  “But why don’t men want women experienced when we first marry them?” I asked.

  “Because, well,” said my dad, glancing around and seeing that Emilio and the other men were trying their best to hold back their laughter. “Because, mijito, most men, when they’re thinking of marriage, prefer to do their own training of a woman, just as they do with their own horses. And also, men don’t end up with babies and women do, and so each man is afraid to think that it’s another man’s child that he’s raising.”

  “But why,” I said. “You just told me that when it’s all said and done, that it doesn’t matter which gun or horse or truck or wife, so why should it matter whose child?”

  Now Emilio and the two men couldn’t hold back their laughter, no matter how much they tried. Even my own brother was smiling.

  “Because, well, es mucho más fácil criar que quitar mañas,” said my father.

  “Exactly,” said Emilio, “es mucho más fácil poner rienda que enderezar una mujer mula.”

  “Thank you,” said my father to Emilio. “Are you beginning to understand, mijo? It’s easier to raise than remove bad habits. It’s easier to put on rein than to try to straighten out a stubborn, mule-headed woman.”

  I shook my head. “But all this still makes no sense,” I said. “You’ve always told me that women are ten times smarter and tougher than men. So then, why don’t women get the experience, and then train us, the men?”

  Well, I must’ve said the most crazy-loco thing in all the world, because now one of our vaqueros was laughing so hard that he fell down on the ground, holding his stomach. They were all in wild hysterics.

  “What’s so funny,” I yelled. “I like riding on a horse that’s experienced and already well trained, so why not with a woman?”

  The howling laughter of the men continued, no matter how hard my dad tried to stare them down. Now, even my own brother was laughing.

  “You know,” said my father, “I think that we’ve talked enough for one day. Remember, you’re only eight years old. In time, you’ll understand. Now let’s get back to the easy part of being a man, and teach you how we shoot a gun.”

  “You mean shooting guns is easier than knowing how to be with women? That makes no sense, either. I get along real easy with my mama and my sisters, and they’re women.”

  “Fine. I’m glad to hear this,” said mi papa. “And that’s the way it should be. Now, pay close attention,” he said, taking the .38 snub-nose away from me and unloading the weapon. He handed it back to me, and turned me about facing the hillside and had me dry-fire the revolver without bullets at the hillside. The .38 felt big and heavy and when the hammer was back, the trigger was real light.

  “Now watch,” he said, reloading the gun. “You go first Chavaboy.”

  Taking the snub-nosed revolver, my brother shot at the hillside, not quite
hitting the little rock that he was shooting at. Man, the gun was loud! Even the horses way out in the valley lifted up their heads to look towards us. Myself, I’d had to cover up my ears real tight with my hands. My brother shot five times.

  “I’ve never been very good with handguns,” said Joseph. “I’m much better with a rifle. Papa, he’s good with either one.”

  “Not that good,” said our dad, taking the .38 Special and reloading it. “I just get lucky sometimes.” He quickly took aim and started firing, blowing that little rock to SMITHEREENS!

  Boy, was I ever impressed, and so were my brother and Emilio and the other workmen. Then it was my turn. I was nervous as hell. I’d never fired a real gun before.

  “Use both of your hands and square yourself, facing forward,” said my father. “You’ll have to get a lot bigger to handle a .38 or .45 with one hand. But always remember, if you ever have to face another man, you use one hand and turn sideways, so this way, you’re a smaller target and you can move and slide.”

  I did as told, squaring myself to the target. And I’d shot a lot with my BB gun. But my God, when I took aim with this big black, heavy snub-nose and squeezed back on this trigger, the weapon suddenly leaped up in my hand like a snake, almost breaking my wrists, and sent EXPLODING FIRE out the barrel!

  And the sound! My ears were ringing like nobody’s business! Everyone was laughing. I guess I was staring cross-eyed at what I’d just shot. I’d missed the little rock that I’d aimed at by five feet. Handguns were really very different from rifles. All afternoon we spent shooting. The workers got to shoot, too. With the .22 rifle my brother was really good. But our dad, my God, he could hit the center of a nickel every time.

  “In the barrio, papa would throw quarters into the air and hit them,” said my brother with a big smile. “That’s how he stopped the fights between the Marines and the vatos.”

  “You’d stop fights, papa?” I asked.

  “Sure. Of course. I was the peacemaker of the barrio,” said my dad. “Just as Archie was the law and peacemaker before me. So when the Marines came to the barrio asking for trouble, I didn’t insult them. They were just kids, so I’d take them behind the poolhall and teach them how to shoot. After the war, two of them came back saying that I’d saved their lives with what I teach them.”

  “Yes!” I said excitedly. “Now I remember! You’d shoot at quarters on the tree by mamagrande’s house, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said my dad.

  “Then you did good things in the barrio, too?” I asked.

  “Sure. Yeah, of course,” said my dad.

  “But I was told that you killed a man with your bare hands in the alley behind our poolhall,” I said.

  “Who told you that one? Eh, the same guy who said I castrated a man and forced him to eat his own tanates?” I nodded. “Listen to me closely,” said my father, “very closely. Yes, I did castrate a pig and forced a man to eat the pig’s balls. Then I pulled down that man’s pants, asking him if he preferred to eat his own balls cooked in salsa verde or salsa colorada. But he never stopped screaming, he was so terrified, so I never had to castrate him. And when I let him go, he went back to Los Angeles, telling his people to never come back to Carlos Malo. Get it, mijito? I got done what I needed to get done to protect my territory. All bears do this. All lions do this. And that man in the alley, yes, I beat him, and then I put him in the trunk of my car and drove him out to that big eucalyptus forest behind Carlsbad so he could walk it off before he caused any more trouble. The next day, he left town back to Mexico. The people of the barrio never saw him again, so some started saying that I’d beat him to death and took his body out towards Vista to bury it.”

  “So then, why haven’t you told people that you didn’t kill that man and that you really didn’t castrate that other one?”

  “What? And RUIN my reputation!” said my father, laughing. “Hell, no! I worked too hard to get my reputation! And fear is a damn good thing, mijito, when the other guy has it and you don’t!”

  I shook my head. All this really didn’t make any sense to me. But I could see that the workers loved my dad’s explanation. I guessed that maybe there was still a lot for me to learn, even though I was already eight years old.

  The Father Sun was setting when we started up the hill. The shooting was done. Emilio and the vaqueros had left to go and take care of the stock. It was just my brother and father and me, walking back towards the house.

  “Papa, those men in the car,” I asked, “if you knew that it was going to end up in a fight anyway, because you could smell it, then why did you tell me to go get some whiskey?”

  “Because, mijito, maybe it could’ve helped,” said my father. “And also, because it gave me a little more time to think, caused the driver to remember that we’re friends and to call me a ‘compa,’ and gave Emilio time to come with help.”

  “Just wait,” I said, “then you mean that those guys are friends of ours?”

  “Well, of course,” said my dad, laughing. “No enemy would ever come up to a home angry because they didn’t get invited to a celebration. You just remember, mijito, whenever your wife comes screaming at you that she’s going to kill you because you forgot her birthday, that what she’s really saying is ‘I love you, I depend on you for my life and love, and so this is why I hate you and want to kill you!’ It’s always with our wife, our best friends, and our relatives that we end up having most of our troubles in life, mijito.

  “A man’s enemies are never his biggest problema, that’s all just a bunch of bullshit lies in the stupid, no-good fake movies, like Tom Mix always used to make, making us los Mexicanos into bad people. Mi mama always used to say there are no bad people on Earth, once we’ve learned how to open your eyes and really see.”

  “But, papa,” I said, “Superman, he’s a superhero just like Batman, and they’re always out chasing bad people.”

  “Those two guys aren’t married, are they?” asked mi papa.

  “No, they aren’t,” I said.

  “Tell me, where would Superman be if he was married and his wife was mad at him for being late for dinner or he forgot her birthday or anniversary because he was out chasing bad guys?”

  My eyes went huge. “My God, he’d be in deep sssh—I mean, trouble, papa.”

  My brother started laughing, but this wasn’t a laughing matter for me. This was really important. Yeah, sure, I’d always known that Superman and Batman weren’t really real, that they were cartoons, but the stories of what they did, I’d always thought were good and true and was what we, the men, were supposed to do if we wanted to be heroes in our own lives.

  “Then, papa,” I said, “are you saying that Superman and Batman are fake and cowards because they aren’t married.”

  “You tell me,” said my dad.

  The sudden fear that went shooting all through me made me want to stop thinking about all this. I’d never questioned the Bible or Superman or Batman before. It was bad enough when I’d questioned Santa Claus, because I’d begun to think that there was no way that he could get around the whole world delivering presents in one night. I’d told my school friend What-A-King that reindeer weren’t that fast, even if they could fly. I figured that it had to be our parents who gave us our Christmas presents. What-A-King went bananas and started crying, then hit me with his rollerskates across the head, almost killing me. I was beginning to find out that what we’d been raised to think was no small laughing matter.

  As I went up the hill that night to our home with my brother and father, my whole head was swimming. All this stuff about going into manhood seemed a hell of a lot harder than having been raised like a woman, where everything had just made such damn—I mean, blessed—good horse sense.

  CHAPTER twelve

  A screeching ambulance rushed my brother Joseph to Scripps Hospital in La Jolla! My parents had finally taken our brother to another doctor—a young man recently out of the Navy. Dr. Pace just took one look at
Joseph, saw how yellow the whites of his eyes were, and immediately had him rushed to Scripps Hospital.

  After several days of tests, Dr. Pace explained to my parents that my brother’s liver was ruined. My dad wanted to know how this terrible thing could have happened. Dr. Pace said he didn’t know. My dad told him that was bullshit! That he could see it in his eyes that he wasn’t telling them everything. Dr. Pace added that if Joseph had just been hospitalized a couple of months earlier, they could have put him on juices, particularly cranberry juice, and his situation would’ve never gotten this far. Coming home that night, my father was so mad that he wanted to drive up California Street to kill Dr. Hoskins with his bare hands. It was only my mother’s screaming and pleading that finally stopped our dad from killing the doctor who’d been attending to Joseph all this time.

  Specialists were brought in from across the country. Every week, my brother was taken back and forth from our home to Scripps in La Jolla. And for me, school continued, and now all of my friends, including What-A-King, were in the fourth grade, but I was still in the third. My brother was hurting and the magic went out of my marble playing. A lot of the kids started beating me, even the smaller kids who were in the third grade with me. Once more I began to draw stars every chance I got. Five-pointed ones and six-pointed ones, then I’d color in the stars with green and blue and little touches of red and yellow.

  One day my parents’ arguing got so bad—while my brother was down at Scripps—that I went upstairs to draw my stars so I could disappear. My little sister Linda followed me and found me drawing stars on a big piece of cardboard on the floor outside on our balcony, which overlooked all of our property. She told me that she wanted to draw, too. So I showed her how I’d recently learned to draw stars with a ruler so I could get the lines real straight, then I’d color them in, and it would make me feel really good.