“Ay,” the lady said. “Muchas gracias, señor.”
“De nada,” answered mi papi as he handed her back the extra money. A moment later we walked outside and sat down at an outdoor table. Mi papi dug his spoon into the ice cream and took a big bite. I saw satisfaction come to his face.
I stared at him. He seemed to know why.
“Do not stoop to that level, mija,” he said to me in a simple voice. “You must always remember, do not stoop to that level.” It was as if it had never been a question for him about giving back the money to the lady. Then he took a second bite of his nieve de fresa. “Mmm,” he said. “Está buena.”
I smiled. Spanish ice cream really was the best.
After walking around and doing a whole lot of nothing for another hour, we returned home. Rodrigo was still on the couch, my drunkle had gone out, my younger brothers were running around playing championship wrestling, trying to kill one another, and mi ama was standing in the kitchen in the midst of a huge, unfinished pile of tamales. She opened her mouth to say something.
Then she didn’t. I think the look in mi papi’s eyes scared her off. A moment later my father went to the sink, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and began to wash up.
“Now, let’s make some tamales,” he said.
“Papi, no,” I said. “Go watch the game with Rodrigo. It’s your night off, and I know you love fút-bol. I’ll finish,” I said.
Mi papi ignored me and glared at mi ama. “Please pass me that spoon,” he said. Mi ama lowered her eyes, did as she was asked, and passed my father the spoon. A moment later she too went to the sink and started washing her hands.
The three of us finished making the rest of the tamales in about forty minutes. However, I can’t say we talked that much. At least not verbally.
chapter doce
On Saturday morning I began steaming the tamales. The good news was that since it was Saturday, I didn’t have to miss any escuela to cook them. The bad news was I had to wake up at 5:00 a.m. in order to make sure everything was prepared in time for the party. By 6:30 p.m. I had prepared enough tamales to feed an invading Latino army.
Five people showed up to the “grand fiesta.” I guess my drunkle wasn’t the most popular guy in town. It wasn’t long before Tía Luna started in on me.
“I bet you used jarred sauce, didn’t you?” she asked as she stuffed a forkful of food into her mouth.
I didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought,” she continued. “A white girl with an amputated arm could have made better food.”
Tía Luna’s realization that her brother’s party was an absolute failure triggered in her a deep urge to eat, and even though she said she didn’t like the tamales, she began plugging them into her Jesus hole as if her mouth were the bottom of a leaky boat and tamales were the pieces of cork that would plug it and save her life.
“Sonia needs to learn the ways of the old country,” she said to my mother between snorts and chews. “A woman who can’t make tamales is a woman with problems of the heart. She needs to see Abuelita.”
Oh, here we go again, I thought. More talk about how I needed to learn the ways of being a “real” Latina woman from my legendary grandmother, Abuelita, the keeper of all wisdom.
Mi ama contemplated her words. Me, I just hoped she didn’t contemplate them too seriously. I hadn’t been to the part of Mexico where Abuelita lived since I was two years old. They didn’t even have indoor bathrooms there.
“Abuelita can teach her much,” continued my aunt. (Snort-snort.)
“Sí,” said mi ama.
“Abuelita can heal her before the devil takes her soul.” (Snort-snort-snort.)
“Si,” said mi ama.
“Abuelita can…”
“Voy a la tienda,” interrupted my drunkle, telling us he was going to go to the store. His words immediately got Tía Luna off my back. “I need some things,” he said.
We all looked up. Everyone knew my drunkle wasn’t going to the market; he was ditching his own party. After all, this fiesta was lame and it was his fortieth birthday. Surely that would be good for a few tequila shots from a couple of hombres at the local bar, wouldn’t it?
“Voy a regresar en diez minutos,” he said, promising he’d be back in ten minutes. My drunkle grabbed his coat and headed for the door. I found it amazing the way he could lie to a person straight to their face without a hint of care whatsoever.
Tía Luna didn’t know what to do or say, so she started snorting tamales at a faster and faster pace. Maybe we would go through all the food after all?
A minute later Papi saved the day.
“Ernesto,” said my father just as my drunkle was about to leave. “Now that you are forty, do you think you are man enough for the habaneros?
My drunkle stopped. Slowly, he turned.
“¿Habaneros?”
Whenever Mexican men get together, there is always a show to see who was most macho. Often it’s tequila. Sometimes it’s rooster fights. At my drunkle’s fortieth, mi papi had just proposed a contest to see who could eat the hottest chile pepper. It was a direct challenge to my drunkle’s manhood, and in the world of macbistas, a direct challenge to someone’s manhood could never go unaccepted.
“Alfredo, don’t make me laugh. When it comes to habaneros, I will beat you like a lazy mule.” My drunkle laughed.
My father took a step toward the patio table in the backyard.
“Sonia,” said mi papi. “Please, get my chiles.”
“Sí, Papi,” I said with a smile.
My father took a seat and pulled his chair forward.
“We’ll see, Ernesto. We’ll see,” said mi papi. “That is, when you get back from the store.”
Mi papi stared at my drunkle, squinting his eyes. My drunkle rubbed his unshaven chin and squinted back. After a moment of intense squinting between the two of them, my drunkle began taking off his coat.
“The store can wait,” said my drunkle. “First, the chiles.”
It was only the second time I ever remember that mi papi had gotten the person who worked the Sunday night shift at the gym to cover his Saturday night shift so that he could do something other than be a janitor, but I guess sometimes things just work out in life. And though mi papi was no machista, when he saw that no one was enjoying the food, no one was dancing, and pretty much no one had even bothered to show up, he knew he had to do something to keep the evening from turning into a complete disaster. A habanero contest was the only solution.
And it would be perfect.
My drunkle took a seat across the table from mi papi. The few guests who had bothered to come gathered around to watch.
“Me too,” said Rodrigo, jumping into a third chair.
My drunkle looked at Rodrigo, and his lips curled to a frown. “This is only for real men, pisshead. Get lost.”
Rodrigo’s face turned serious. He leaned in close so he was almost nose to nose with my drunkle. “Maybe I’ll buy you a bra for your tits now that this birthday has turned you into an old woman,” he answered.
Everyone laughed. Part of the fun of habanero contests was all the insults that flew back and forth.
“Can you believe the vieja fears me?” Rodrigo added with a giant grin.
My drunkle leaned over, grabbed Rodrigo by his shirt, and issued my brother a serious warning.
“Okay, shit ears, you wanna play? But be warned, because I’m gonna burn a new ring through your asshole,” said my drunkle.
“And then my butt will match your face,” said Rodrigo. Everyone laughed again.
“Keep clowning, barf chin, keep clowning. But this old man knows a few tricks…and you should know, I play dirty.”
“Bring it on, vieja,” said Rodrigo. “Bring it on. I’m right here.”
“Aquí tienes los chiles, Papi,” I said.
It got quiet as mi papi unwrapped a big plastic bag that held an assortment of my father’s peppers.
“I want to play too,” my eig
ht-year-old brother, Miguel, said, suddenly squirming up to the table.
“Miguelito, no,” said mi ama. “This is not a thing for you.”
“Si,” said Miguel, pulling away from her grip. Mi ama tried to grab him, but he yanked his arm away like a spoiled brat.
“Miguel, listen to your mother,” said mi papi.
“No,” answered Miguel.
Everyone stopped and turned to stare at my brother.
“I want to play,” he said with a pouty look on his face.
Everyone then looked at my father to see how he would handle his son’s tremendous disrespect. Would mi papi scream? Would mi papi spank him? Would mi papi use his belt? In mi cultura, children never spoke to their fathers as if they were pendejos.
Miguel crossed his arms in disobedience. Of course, all the attention only made my younger brother feel even more powerful. Papi, much to everyone’s surprise, allowed his behavior to pass.
“Are you sure you want to play?” my father asked.
“Sí,” said Miguel, as stubborn as a mule.
“Okay, have a seat,” said mi papi, looking over at empty chair number four at the table.
Miguel smiled from ear to ear and jumped into the chair, doing his best to look like a real man. Mi ama lowered her eyes. She knew her son was about to experience the wisdom of mi papi. And she knew it would be painful.
“So, it’s me versus the Rodriguez men,” said my drunkle, looking around at his competition. “It makes me laugh that this is the best you have to offer.”
My father, paying no attention to the taunts of my drunkle, turned to Miguel. “You pick which chile everyone eats first. Youngest always chooses.” Miguel looked at all the choices on the table and studied the peppers. There were two colors of peppers in front of him, red and green. Figuring that the reds were hottest, Miguel chose red for my father, red for my drunkle, and red for Rodrigo. Also figuring the bigger the pepper, the hotter the pepper, Miguel chose for each of his competitors the largest peppers in the batch.
And for himself, Miguel chose a small, green habanero. Rodrigo and my drunkle did their best to suppress their laughter.
“Are you sure, mijo?” asked mi papi. I could only shake my head. Miguel was wrong on both sides. Green peppers were almost always hotter than red peppers, and the smaller the chile, the more heat it usually had. Miguel had pretty much chosen for himself a stick of dynamite.
“Sí, estoy seguro,” said Miguel, puffing out his chest. “And don’t try to trick me. Eat!” he ordered.
Mi papi, not wanting to be disagreeable, raised the pepper Miguel had chosen for him to his mouth. “Okay, if the man of the house says eat, I guess I must eat.”
Miguel smiled. Mi papi ate the whole pepper in three chomps. Miguel seemed impressed. Then my drunkle then did the same, except before he put the pepper in his mouth, he called Miguel penis face. Finally Rodrigo ate his. Not one of them blinked from the heat.
Miguel, approving of how well each of the men had handled the hotness of their peppers, figured he too was in for a breeze of a time. He lifted his habanero.
“Here,” mi papi said, interrupting, “let me cut that for you. A small pepper like this can get stuck in your throat or something.”
My father took the small green pepper from his son’s hands and sliced it into thirds on a plate. Then he began to cut at it a little more. Miguel rudely reached across the table.
“Stop messin’ with my chile,” said Miguel to our father as he took back his pepper.
What Papi was really trying to do was quickly take some of the seeds and veins out, because that’s what gives habaneros their heat. But Miguel wanted his pepper back, so my father gave it to him.
“Okay,” said mi papi, doing as he was told. “Here you go.”
My father passed the sliced pieces back to Miguel. Of course, I was hoping mi papi’s quick effort to reduce the chile’s heat would help.
It didn’t.
About three seconds after the small tip of the green habanero entered Miguel’s mouth, he began to chew. His teeth were the fuse that lit the dynamite. Flames began to burn, and my brother immediately started to spit. But spitting never works with authentic babaneros. Screaming and crying came next, but what did a habanero pepper care if my brother screamed and cried? Legend says that authentic babaneros have minds of their own, and once they are in your mouth, they dance around like crazy gypsies setting fire to anything they touch. Miguel started to run. His tongue was blazing, tears poured from his eyes, and he yelped in pain. Everyone except mi ama laughed.
Trying to get Miguel to calm down, Ama ran to my younger brother and hugged him, but the burn was so intense that he broke away from her grip and raced to the garden hose. We all watched with great amusement as Miguel cranked the hose to full volume and tried to rinse out his mouth with water. However, his lips were burning so badly that no matter how much water Miguel shot down his throat, the flames wouldn’t stop. Finally in desperation, Miguel grabbed a handful of dirt and began rubbing it on his tongue. I guess he figured the wet black soil would help stop the pain. After all, when you are “enchilada,” as my people like to say, logic abandons you.
People in the yard shrieked with laughter as Miguel ate grass like a cow. After a moment of chomping on earth, Miguel looked over at the people falling all over themselves laughing at him and ran inside the house, embarrassed and ashamed. Everyone in the backyard continued to hoot and roar. It would be half an hour before Miguel would show his face again, and I was sure that for the rest of his life, our family would often retell the story about the time Miguel had turned into the mud-eating pepper boy.
“A lesson earned is a lesson learned,” said my father as everything finally settled back down. Then he looked at my drunkle. “Shall we continue?”
“I hope you were paying attention,” said my drunkle to Papi. “Because soon it will be like father, like son.”
“I pick,” said Rodrigo, eager to get on with the fun. My father pushed the bag of chiles in Rodrigo’s direction. The contest continued.
Instead of choosing a pepper, however, Rodrigo stood up, went to the cooler, and grabbed himself a beer. It was the first time he’d ever done such a thing in front of my father.
Psst! he opened it and took a sip. But Papi didn’t say anything, he just stared. At seventeen years old, mi bermano was a boy who thought he was a man.
Rodrigo, acting as if there was nothing odd about his actions, sat back down, took another sip of cerveza, and looked through his habanero choices. A minute later he had selected peppers for his opponents. Rodrigo wouldn’t make the same mistake as Miguelito, he was too old for that. The contest began for real.
I had to admit Rodrigo did better than I thought he would, but chiles are something that take years to develop an estómago for, and during round number four, Rodrigo met the pepper that would remove him from the contest.
Within seconds of his first bite, his eyes turned to teardrops. Moments later he looked up with deep concern on his face and told my father, “I can’t feel my tongue.”
“Finish your pepper,” said my drunkle.
Rodrigo wiped the water from his eyes with his sleeves. He raised the second half of the chile to his lips, then paused again.
“The roof of my mouth feels like paint that is peeling.”
“Finish or quit,” answered my drunkle.
Rodrigo moved the small piece of green fire even closer to his mouth. His eyes filled with more and more water. The hotter the pepper, the more your eyes tear up.
“My chin is numb.”
“Eat.”
“Are my lips still on my face?”
“Quit stalling, ass eyes. Eat.”
My brother hesitated, already knowing that his insides would burn for a week. Again, Rodrigo wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“EAT IT!” shouted my drunkle. My brother pushed the pepper to the edge of his teeth…and then set the unfinished piece down.
“No puedo,” he
said in defeat. “Me rindo.”
And that’s when Rodrigo made his real mistake. With his eyes watering so badly, he forgot the golden rule of pepper eating and rubbed the water from his eyes with his fingers instead of his sleeve. Mouths were, of course, somewhat able to handle the heat of babanero juice. But a person’s eyes, no way.
“Ayyyyy, I’m BLIND!” Rodrigo shouted as he leaped up from the table.
My drunkle immediately tried to help.
“Wait, cabrón, listen to me, listen to me! Try rubbing your eyes with your elbows. It’s the only thing that will work.”
Rodrigo, desperate for relief, paused and did his best to listen to the wisdom of the elders in this most desperate and painful of situations. Taking my drun-kle’s advice, my brother began to raise his elbows to his eyes.
But of course, a person’s elbows cannot reach their eyes. My drunkle began to laugh.
“Raise them higher, pussy nose. Raise them higher!”
At this point, Rodrigo’s brain stopped working. Goodness knows why, but he started to run away as fast as he could. It was the first time I had ever seen a person crash into a fence at full speed. Rodrigo bounced off, fell to the ground, and rolled around, grabbing his balls. I guess he must have somehow banged them on the low part of the post. Mi ama, thinking quickly, grabbed the garden hose Miguelito had used to stop the fire in his mouth and began to spray Rodrigo. I don’t think anyone knew why my mother was spraying the back of his T-shirt with hose water, but she must have figured any kind of wetness was sure to help.
Rodrigo had no idea what was happening, so he tried to stand up and run once again. This time he crashed over a chair and landed face-first in the bushes.
“Use you elbows, ball breath!” shouted my drunkle. “Use your elbows.”
Mi ama, desperate to help, stretched out the hose to its full length and stood three feet away from Rodrigo, spraying his pants. From his upside-down position, lying face-first in the bushes, my brother continued to scream. Even Miguel came outside to laugh.
“Two down, one to go,” said my drunkle as the commotion with Rodrigo settled. “You dare to continue, Alfredo?”
The Secret Story of Sonia Rodriguez Page 6