The dinners that followed were lavish and extravagant.
Saturday they ate Reading Rainbow: a plate full of tomatoes, cheesy macaroni, green beans, pork and sliced eggplant arranged in arcs above one another. Sunday they had Ghostbusters: a green soup made of pork stock, peas, cabbage, cucumber, green onions and spinach. Dessert was an obligatory Marshmallow Man: a plate of marshmallows arranged in the pattern of a face, rimmed with chocolate syrup and blue sprinkles. Mom was doing her best to drive her point home.
Monday they had Ren and Stimpy: a piece of sliced ham with pineapple eyes, thin carrot eyebrows and a cherry tomato nose. It was served alongside a plate of pork and beans topped with black olive eyes. Tuesday was Angelica, a variation on the Madonna with eggplant bows in her hair.
‘See,’ she kept telling Boy, ‘we’re doing just fine.’
Wednesday night she made each of her children a Ronald Reagan: a scoop of refried beans for hair, Mom’s trademark black olive eyes, slices of grilled pork arranged to form the rest of his face. A bowl of Jelly Belly’s was served for dessert.
Thursday was Tom and Jerry night. Jerry was crafted from a slab of pork loin covered in brown gravy with tortilla eyes and an asparagus tail. Tom was a small chocolate cake for dessert decorated with dark purple icing.
On Friday afternoon, Mom got called into the manager’s office at Jimmy’s. The office was frigid, and the air condition rattled like loose pocket change above the windowsill. The manager sat next to a shriveled man with a shaved head and a tattooed scowl. The little bald man began speaking and the manager crossed his arms in front of his chest, shaking his head with disappointment.
She tuned both men out, hoping it would be over soon. The bald man turned a little gray television towards her and made Mom watch herself transfer money from the register into her apron. ‘If you didn’t know,’ he said with a southern drawl, that’s called stealing.’
She wanted to cry, to scream, but all she could manage to say was, ‘I was planning on paying you back after payday.’
Mom was escorted outside by the bald man. As soon as she shut the door of her car, she lost her composure. Her fists came down against her steering wheel as she cried savagely, cursing herself. On the way home, she spent the rest of the money she had in her purse on groceries. That night, she made Jesus Food: fried trout, bread glazed with honey and grape juice for wine.
‘I want Char-load,’ Girl whined.
‘This tastes strange,’ Boy said, poking at the trout.
Mom started crying and left the table without eating. She went to her room and lay down on the bed. Soon, Boy and Girl joined her. They crawled under the covers and pressed themselves into her frame. She fell asleep with her nose buried into Boy’s sandy blonde hair. On Saturday, they were back to eating Charlotte’s Web, which they also ate for dinner on Sunday night after church.
Mom left for work the following Monday, which was the last lie she’d tell, or so she promised herself. Girl had a cough, and Boy was instructed to stay home and look after her.
While his sister slept on the couch, Boy began tidying up their shared room. He decided to take another look at the free food application that he’d hidden under his mattress. He taped the pages back together, and after double-checking to make sure Girl was still asleep, Boy began filling out the application with a red pen.
Social security number? Boy wrote in their home telephone number. Gross monthly income? How could income be gross? He scribbled a question mark in that box.
Was anyone a migrant or seasonal worker? Boy wrote ‘yes.’ Mom worked in every season and she had terrible migraines. Yearly shelter costs? Again, Boy wrote in a question mark. Total household cash/savings? This he could answer!
Boy climbed onto the counter and opened the old Danish cookie tin on top of the refrigerator. Mom’s savings. The smell of coin and paper met his nostrils. Standing on the counter, he counted out the money, separating the coins into matching amounts. Forty-two dollars and twenty-three cents.
Does everyone in the home buy and cook meals together? Why wasn’t there a box for sometimes? He wrote ‘no.’ Does anyone have an EBT card? Mom had a bank card, so ‘yes.’ Is anyone a migrant or seasonal worker? Why did they keep asking this question?
Boy fell asleep at the kitchen table once he came to the medical bills for persons over 60 section. He awoke thirty minutes later to find Girl tugging at him and coughing. He picked her up and carried her into the living room, turning on the TV. The free food application went back underneath their bed and he returned to the living room to watch Sesame Street with his sister.
That night, Mom hardly said a word as she made a variation of Charlotte’s Web using ketchup instead of mustard and the rest of the trout instead of pork. They ate silently together, both Boy and Girl keeping quiet about the slightly soured trout. For dessert they shared Cookie Monster’s Snack: a stack of off-brand chocolate chip cookies warmed in the microwave, drizzled with sweeten condensed milk.
After dinner, as they watched Nick at Nite together, Boy noticed a few silver tears sliding down Mom’s face in the lightwash cast by the television. He reached for her hand.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’
‘You’re crying,’ he said, growing confused.
Girl looked up at Mom and started crying too.
‘Mommy’s crying,’ she sobbed. Seeing his mom and his sister cry, Boy started wondering if he too should be crying. Another look at Mom and he decided there must be a good reason. Boy started to cry, and all three of them cried together while the theme music for Dragnet played on the television.
The next day, Boy and Girl stayed home again while Mom left silently to continue her search for a new job. For lunch Boy made WalMart Face: mac and cheese arranged in a circle around black olive eyes and a smile made out of purple grapes. Girl grew tired at her usual time and Boy tucked her in on the couch, after giving her a spoonful of cherry flavored medicine.
Once she fell asleep, he searched Mom’s room until he found her pocket dictionary. He retrieved the free food application from under his mattress and returned to the kitchen table.
Does anyone in your household participate in a Food Distribution Program on an Indian reservation? Boy looked up the word reservation: the act of reserving something. Boy then looked up the word reserve: refrain from using or disposing (of something). After thinking for a minute about what any of this could possibly have to do with Indians, Boy wrote ‘no’ in the box.
What assets do people in your household have? Boy looked up the definition of asset: a useful or valuable thing, or property owned by a person or a company. He wrote ‘TV and car’ in the appropriate box. He wondered if he should count their beds, but decided against it.
Mutual fund? He looked up both words and guessed that Mom didn’t have a mutual fund. He sure didn’t. Prepaid burial contract? Ditto. Stocks or Bonds? Mom did say once she had a savings bond, but Boy didn’t know how much it was worth. He wrote ‘yes’ in the box followed by a question mark for good measure.
Rent or mortgage? He looked up the word for mortgage: the charging of real (or personal) property by a debtor to a creditor as security for a debt. Boy thought for a minute and wrote ‘no’ in the provided box. He then remembered Mom saying something about paying rent and scratched the ‘no’ out and wrote ‘rent’ instead. Has anyone received a Low Income Energy Assistance Program (LIEAP) check? Mom never said anything about it, so he guessed ‘no.’
By signing this application, I am saying that I have told the truth on this form.
Boy signed his name on the top signature line. On the witness line, he signed his little sister’s name. He read the application over once more, making sure he had filled in all the blanks. Now he just needed to figure out whom to give it to.
Girl stirred in the other room. She’d had a nightmare, and cried and coughed until Boy came running. The free food application remained on the dining room table.
‘A
re you hungry?’ he asked. ‘We have some Bugs Bunny Food.’
‘No, I want Mommy!’
‘She’ll come back soon, I promise.’
Girl sat up and hugged her older brother. He wiped her tears away with his t-shirt and kissed her forehead.
‘You want a Lifesaver?’ he asked. ‘I saved some…’
‘I want Mommy! Mommy!’
‘Relax… she’ll come home soon, after her work finishes.’
‘I want her now!’
‘Hey, Sesame Street is on…’
He turned the TV on. Girl settled in next to him, her eyes fixated on the screen. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and began sucking. Soon, she was smiling and nodding her head up and down to a song about the alphabet. Boy held her hand, occasionally wiping the sweat away on his pants. The turning bolt on the front door signaled that Mom had returned.
‘Mommy!’ Girl hopped off the couch.
‘Hi,’ Mom said, opening the door.
‘You’re early…’ Boy stood.
Mom ruffled her hand through his hair as she walked to the kitchen. Girl followed close behind her, coughing. Boy sat back down on the couch, mesmerized by the TV.
‘It’s close to dinner time!’ Mom called out. ‘What do you guy’s think? We could do a Barney?’
‘Char-load!’
From the kitchen he heard Mom say, ‘We had a Char-load last night. We could also do a… hey, what’s this?’
The free food application. Boy froze, unsure of what to do next.
He ran to the kitchen to find Mom looking at the application. ‘Did you do this?’ she asked, her eyes suddenly dark. ‘Did you fill this out?’
Boy started to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Mom.’
‘Why don’t you ever listen to me goddammit!? I told you we’re not getting food stamps!’ She threw her purse onto the kitchen table. It slid off the table, taking the salt and pepper shakers with it. ‘Do we look like a bunch of goddamn beggars to you?’ she yelled. ‘Do we!?’
Girl started to cry after the salt and pepper shakers shattered onto the floor.
‘I told you NO! That’s not who we are GODDAMMIT! That’s not who we are!’
‘I’m sorry, Mom!’
Mom ripped up the application into tiny little pieces. The pieces fell onto the floor like dirty snowflakes. She grabbed Boy by the shoulder and led him to the bathroom. ‘Put your hands on the counter and pull your pants down!’
Boy struggled to get out of his jeans.
‘Now! Dammit! Now!’
‘No!’ Girl yelled from outside the bathroom door. Mom removed her belt and wrapped it once to form a loop.
‘Mom, no!’ Boy pleaded.
Mom raised her hand, the belt high in the air, the shiny belt beaming under the bright bathroom light. She raised her hand a few inches higher, clenched her fist tightly around the looped belt, looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, saw her son’s tears, saw her young daughter screaming in the hallway, saw her own tears, and dropped the belt.
She whispered, ‘I-I-I can’t do it.’
Mom sat down on the toilet, sobbing uncontrollably. Boy joined her first, hugging her neck. Girl crawled into her lap.
‘I’m sorry,’ Boy kept saying. ‘I was just trying to help.’
‘I know, Sweetie, I know,’ Mom cried. ‘Jesus, what have I become?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Girl said, mimicking Boy.
‘It’s okay. Both of you, it’s okay. I love you both.’
‘We love you too,’ Boy said.
‘I want you both to know the truth, okay?’ Mom looked at her two beautiful children spawned from two different men, and started kissing their tears away. In their little black olive eyes she saw her own pitiful reflection. Here was her chance to tell them that she’d been fired for stealing and that she was sorry, incredibly sorry for what she’d done. Here was her chance to admit her mistake, to come clean for once.
‘We’re moving soon,’ she finally said. It was as close to the truth as she would ever come.
‘Where?’ Girl asked as she wiped tears on her sleeve.
‘Far away from here.’
Chapter 5: Outside Over There Mexico
Boy’s Age: 23
Boy’s name isn’t important.
Friend parks his car outside the Border Checkpoint. He sprays Febreze over his sleeves, followed by Axe body spray across his chest, followed by a squirt of cologne on the nape of his neck. Paranoid as a mother. That sticky stank of bud is still present but at least he’s tried.
Outside Texas hot suffocating moisture. Outside border check point photo of Obama. A new country so close Boy can taste it.
‘Leave your credit cards in the glove box,’ Friend says. ‘Let’s go.’
‘All right…’
Boy is too high to get out of the car but does so anyway. Outside over there Mexico. Approach the border normally. American citizens coming through with piles of cash. Hello Mexico. Hello third world. Hello second world. Hello first world.
Friend says that, ‘Hello Mexico. Hello third world. Hello second world. Hello first world.’
He whips out a pair of sunglasses, shiny reflective things. Together, they walk to the Border Checkpoint casual and cool. The cloudless blue sky over Texas is as foreboding as it is beautiful. ‘Don’t look suspicious,’ Friend reminds Boy, ‘good practice for later.’
Get in line. American big gun pig-nosed. Blue eyes the color of sorrow. The border guard says something to Boy: What? Passport. What? Passport. What? Son, can you hear me?
‘Give him your passport,’ Friend says, nudging him.
Boy shoves his hand deep into his pocket, returns with his ticket to freedom. The border guard looks it over. He runs his finger along it like it’s the inside of a woman’s legs. Boy watches his fingers and wonders where they have been. Nasty things, fingers. The passport is scanned and stamped and observed and fingered again and handed back to Boy.
They pass through the checkpoint.
Friend chides, ‘Dude, get your shit together. You almost got stopped back there! We really don’t want that to happen on the way back. We don’t want to get caught with you-know-what…’
‘Sober up.’
‘Yeah, we need to sober up. Food. Restaurant. Nice Mexican one. I know a place that’s near a dentist’s office. Five star service, two star prices. Got to love that.’
Border Town, Mexico unfolds before them. Pink and turquoise buildings in various states of disrepair clutter the streets. A billboard above a building with chipped cornices hosts a picture of a Mexican girl holding a can of sweetened condensed milk that reads: Mami quiero ser grande. Roadside vendors sell blackened corn smothered in butter and sprinkled with cayenne pepper. They sell little trinkets and marzipan and necklaces and guitars painted like Mexican flags. They sell koozies.
Boy looks at all these things like any good tourist. Like his counterpart, his peers, his family, his neighbors, his law enforcement, his government – Boy was bred to consume. You can take the American out of America, but you can’t take America out of the American. I think Abraham Lincoln said that.
Boy picks up a keychain of a naked woman with red, green and white tassels hanging from her waist. He waves it at Friend, watches the reflection tremble in Friend’s glasses. It’d make a great collage, if he could only capture it.
‘Maybe your new girlfriend,’ Boy jokes.
A green Ford truck drives by. A harness has been installed in the bed of the truck and mounted with two black machine guns. The guns are manned by law enforcement officials with balaclavas pulled over their heads like condoms. One looks Boy directly in the eyes.
‘Holy shit,’ Boy whispers. He drops the keychain.
‘I told you, we don’t screw around down here,’ Friend says.
‘You’re barely Mexican.’
‘My grandfather was half-Mexican. That makes me one-eighth.’
The green Ford turns away from them. A man pulling a protesting white donkey painted as a zeb
ra walks past them. The man yanks harder on its leather bit. Spit flies from its chapped lips to the cracked cement.
Friend points at the animal. ‘Look at that damn zonkey. We got to take a picture with it.’
‘Zonkey?’
They walk over to the man as he curses the animal in Spanish. He sees Boy and Friend approach and replaces his scowl with a shattered smile. His face is shaped like a funnel, eyes are dark as molasses and his skin is too. A Mexican flag baseball cap rimmed with sweat stains covers his forehead. Parabola shadow.
‘Foto,’ Friend says.
‘Cinco dólares.’
‘Cuatro.’
The man agrees.
‘Give the man four dollars,’ Friend says to Boy.
‘You’re the one who wants the photo.’
‘I did the negotiating, you pay the fee.’
Boy grumbles and pulls four dollars out of his wallet. He forks over the money and slides in next to the zonkey; the stink of animal sweat and dried feces curls his nose. Friend gives the man his iPhone and the man snaps two photos.
‘You’re lucky he didn’t steal that,’ Boy says.
‘He ain’t going to steal it. I have his zonkey.’
‘What the hell would you do with a zonkey?’
‘What do you think I’d do? This thing’s a cash cow.’
‘Cash zebra.’
‘Gracias,’ the man says.
‘De nada.’
₪₪₪
They cross the street and are waved down by a hooker in blue jean shorts and clear high heels. ‘Don’t say anything to her,’ Friend says. ‘That’s not what we came here for.’
‘Still need food,’ Boy says.
‘You hungry little bitch.’
‘It’s your weed, man. Mad munchies.’
‘We’re going to a restaurant, don’t worry. Just up here. See that dentist office? Yeah, that one. Every time I come here I eat at the same place. Going to get me some frog legs and a pinche margarita.’
They pass a couple of tourists obvious in their fanny packs and wide-brimmed hats. Their faces are ruddy from the heat. The man is the size of two Mexicans, the woman the size of two and a half.
Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 6