It took my father a moment to respond, but he didn’t do it with speech. Instead he reached across the table, picked up the second half of Rodrigo’s half-eaten chile bomb, and plopped it in his mouth.
“Kind of sweet,” he said after a few chews. “Good with carne asada.”
My drunkle and my father exchanged another long squint. A moment later, my drunkle rose to his feet.
“I must piss,” he said.
Mi papi nodded and sorted through the remaining peppers. There were about eleven or so various shapes, shades, and sizes. He picked one up and took a nibble just for pleasure.
“Take your time,” mi papi answered. “I’ll be here.”
My drunkle disappeared into the house. It was a while before he returned, but when he did, my drunkle had two fresh beers with him, both of them opened. I thought having two open beers at once was kind of weird, but my drunkle did a lot weird things when it came to alcohol, so I let it slide. However, we were sitting next to a cooler filled with cerveza, so why had my drunkle gone to the kitchen to get beer? I guess mi papi’s reputation for eating peppers caused him to want to be well prepared with liquids for the upcoming battle.
My drunkle took a big sip and sat back down.
“Okay, let’s finally see what’s in your pants,” said my drunkle to my father.
“Same as yours, Ernesto,” answered mi papi. “Same as yours. Only bigger.”
Everyone laughed. The crowd closed in tighter. It was now time for the real heat.
My drunkle and mi papi went back and forth and back and forth eating peppers. Truly, it was impressive. Each of them ate chiles that would send the stomach of most billy goats to the hospital. And mi papi did it without liquid. He drank nothing. All he did was nibble on a few corn tortillas between bites. My drunkle, of course, slurped beers, but he would have been doing that anyway, contest or not. The two of them ate until every pepper was gone.
“A stalemate,” said my drunkle, ready to call it a night and head to the bars.
“Espera,” said mi papi. “Not so fast. Sonia,” said mi papi, turning to me, “please, go get my box.”
“Your box?” I said in disbelief.
“Si, my box,” answered Papi.
Mi papí's box was where my father kept his private chile peppers, his secret stash that was too dangerous to leave lying around. In fact, that’s why they were in a box, because if he had used only bags to store then, the habaneros would have burned a hole right through the plastic.
“What’s this about a box?” asked my drunkle with a hint of concern in his voice.
“Yes, and my gloves,” my father instructed, not answering the question. It wasn’t even wise to touch these peppers with bare hands.
A look of worry flashed across the eyes of my drunkle. I went to the garage where mi papi kept his stash. Two minutes later I returned with my father’s private box of habanero peppers.
“Estos son los chiltepins, la madre de todos los chiles,” my father explained as he spread out the legendary chiles. They were chiltepins, the mother of all peppers. “But you don’t have to continue if you don’t want, Ernesto. After all, I’d hate to ruin your birthday,” my father said.
“My birthday present will be setting your insides on fire,” my drunkle replied, though clearly worried about the chiltepins.
My father slid the garden glove over his fingers and reached into the box. My drunkle put on the other glove from the pair I had brought. The two of them looked like Mexican Michael Jacksons.
“Let’s hope these have a bit of heat, huh?” said my drunkle in an effort: to sound bold and unafraid. Then he took another big gulp of beer, finishing what was left in the first bottle. A second later, he took a gulp from beer number two. The challenge was on.
Using a garden glove, my drunkle picked up a nasty-looking little chile for my father to eat. It was the first pepper we had seen with a streak of yellow in it.
My drunkle passed the pepper to mi papi. It was less than an inch long. My father didn’t even hesitate. Using his gloved hand to hold the pepper, he grabbed the habanero, bit the whole thing down to the stem, and started to chew. All was quiet beneath his furry mustache. Everyone stared.
Unlike with the earlier peppers, this time it was a slow, deliberate chew mi papi used. And many tears came to his eyes. We all watched in silence as he concentrated deeply. It was as if he were inhaling and exhaling with that special type of rhythmic breathing pregnant women used during childbirth.
After about ninety seconds, mi papi finally swallowed. Another minute passed before he spoke.
“A touch of kick,” he said as he tore off a small piece of tortilla and started to nibble on it. “Yes…some kick,” he repeated softly.
I looked at mi papi. The pupils of his eyes were dilated as big as coins. Next it was my drunkle’s turn.
Mi papi reached into the metal box and pulled out a chile for my drunkle, a medium-size reddish-orange habanero. One look at it would not have indicated to anyone but the most knowledgeable of pepper people that mi papi had just selected a nuclear warhead.
Using the gardener’s glove, he passed it to my drunkle. My drunkle took his time and studied the pepper.
“Where are these from again?” asked my drunkle, curious to know about the origin of mi papi’s secret stash.
“Xalapa,” he answered.
“Xalapa?” replied my drunkle, a bit taken aback. Xalapa was infamous for its chile peppers. People said the region marked the doorway to hell because no one other than Satan could eat such hot habaneros.
“You can still quit,” offered mi papi.
My drunkle stared him in the eyes and squinted. Everyone knew he wanted to quit. Everyone knew it made sense to quit. Everyone knew he should quit.
But his pride got in the way.
“Never,” said my drunkle. “In two more minutes, I’m going to melt the teeth out of your mouth.”
At the time, none of us had any idea that my drunkle had been cheating all along. It turned out those weren’t beers he was drinking; they were beer bottles filled with olive oil. My dirtbag drunkle had filled up two empty cervezas with olive oil from the kitchen so that he could coat his tongue and protect his mouth from the heat of the peppers. It was an old Navajo Indian trick; but when he ate the habaneros de Xalapa, his cheating plan backfired.
My drunkle took a bite and slowly started to chew. A moment later, he curled over and fell to the ground as if he had been shot in the stomach with a cannon.
Greenish liquid started to ooze from his lips. Tía Luna cried out, “Call an ambulance!” but there would be no stopping the volcano. Hot lava began shooting out of both ends of my drunkle’s body. He quickly stood and vomited his way to the bathroom, holding his rear end like a four-year-old who had to poop but wasn’t going to make it to the toilet in time. Aside from the fact that it was outrageously disgusting and my aunt was genuinely fearful for my drun-kle’s life, I laughed and laughed and laughed as if it were the funniest thing I had ever seen.
And that’s when I realized I had been totally wrong about this birthday party. It was the best fiesta I’d ever been to.
Tía Luna scowled at me.
For the next three hours my drunkle stayed locked in the bathroom, moaning and groaning and vomiting and diarrheaing. I imagined sometimes he sat on the toilet, other times he kneeled in front of the toilet—and back and forth and back and forth. The habaneros de Xalapa had proven to be too much for him, a quart of oil in his system or not.
Mi papi put the garden glove back on his hand and tossed the rest of the peppers into the box.
“Throw those away,” ordered mi ama. “You’ll kill somebody.”
“Bahh, these peppers aren’t for eating,” my father answered. “Habaneros de Xalapa are my secret ingredient for removing rust off the garden tools. Why do you think I keep them in the garage?”
I smiled ear to ear.
“Sonia,” said mi papi, handing me the box. “Please, put the
se back.”
“Sí, Papi,” I answered, heading gleefully to the garage.
Tía Luna turned to mi ama. “Do you see how she takes pleasure in other people’s pain?” she said.
Mi ama nodded.
“She needs Abuelita,” said my aunt, plowing a bite of birthday cake into her mouth.
Mi ama nodded again.
I headed to the garage, not really trying to hide my happiness. For the rest of the evening, every time my uncle farted, he moaned.
And I smiled.
chapter trece
We had so much extra food on Sunday that my aunt invited her church group over for a lunch buffet. Church ladies, I’d discovered, could always be counted on for two things: damning sinners and accepting free food. Our house was packed with disciples of the Savior who had appetites the size of sumo wrestlers.
They ate everything in sight, making a ton of crumbs, spilling salsa, and leaving half-empty soda cups everywhere as they did it. Plus, every time someone took a tamale, Tía Luna told them not to expect much because they’d been made by a girl with manos poseídas por el Diablo, hands possessed by the devil. The women would stare at me, frown, then munch away like porky pigs in a barn anyway.
When my drunkle woke up at two o’clock in the afternoon and stumbled into the living room, he found himself surrounded by a bunch of Jesus ladies wearing big hats, his butt hole burning like lava rocks. I’m sure he thought he had died and gone to hell. At least he sure looked like he had.
But Tía Luna looked happy. Maybe my drunkle’s fortieth birthday party had been a bust, but the Church Brunch Tamale Buffet was a grand-slam success. (Praise Jesus!) Those ladies ate and yapped and crossed themselves until almost nine o’clock that night. By the time they left, our house looked as if a hurricane had blown through. Of course I was the one who had to clean it up. I missed a fourth day of school.
That afternoon, I had a surprise visitor.
“Yo, girl, I thought you evaporated off the planet.”
It was Tee-Ay.
“No, I just have some stuff to do around here,” I responded, happy to see her. I took her into the living room.
“My uncle’s back,” I told her in a soft voice.
“Again?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
Even though he had actually been back for a while, I somehow hadn’t gotten around to informing Tee about it yet.
“Why doesn’t your dad give him the boot?” Tee-Ay asked.
“He’s my mom’s brother.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What can I say?” I added. “He’s family.”
“So,” she said.
“Tú no entiendes a la familia,” I answered. “We do things differently.”
In mi cultura, we always put family first. Always. It’s what makes us strong. We support one another. We sacrifice for one another. We do what we can to be there for one another—even for those who are struggling. No, my people may not have a lot of money, but we do have values. More than lots of other kinds of Americans do, at least. (Though I wouldn’t dare mention that to Tee-Ay. That could set off a nuclear war.)
“What about doing for you?” she asked me.
“We do for each other,” I answered.
“How’s that fair?”
“I told you, Tee. It’s family.”
Suddenly, my drunkle stumbled in. He rubbed his hands through his greasy hair then looked at Tee-Ay as if she were nothing more than a cockroach.
“Oye, Sonia. Qué pasa?” he asked.
“Nada,” I answered. “Todo está bien, Tío.”
My drunkle paused, scratched his chin, turned, and wandered into the bathroom. A moment later, we heard a loud fart.
“That just ain’t right,” Tee-Ay said, shaking her head in disapproval. “You gotta represent for yourself, girl.”
“You just don’t get it, Tee. You just don’t get it.”
Though we went to the same school, took the same classes, drank from the same bottles of Diet Pepsi, and shared the same french fries, there were a million miles separating me and Tee. Funny how just a little bit of darker skin pigmentation can change so much between two people.
“You know what, Sonia?” Tee-Ay said, getting ready to rip in to me.
I looked up. What? I thought.
There was a pause.
“Aw, I’m just gonna bounce,” she said, stopping herself mid-sentence before she spoke some words I’m sure we both would have regretted. Tee-Ay bent down and grabbed her backpack.
“But you just got here,” I said, not wanting her to leave.
“Yeah, I should go. I only stopped by to bring you some schoolwork so you wouldn’t get left too far behind.” She reached into her bag and tossed some papers onto the table. I glanced at them, then laughed.
“What?” she snapped. “You screwing up in school ain’t funny, Sonia. It ain’t funny at all.” Wow, was she mad.
But Tee-Ay didn’t understand. I wasn’t laughing at the schoolwork. I was laughing at the fact that I had already done it. All of it. And more. Over the past few nights I had already guessed where my teachers would be going in class and worked ahead so that I could keep up my grades.
“I already did it,” I said, looking at the papers. “Yeah. Tomorrow’s too.”
Tee-Ay paused while she pieced it all together.
“What a dork!” she finally said with a grin.
“Wanna share some papas?” I asked. “I’m kinda hungry.”
“Absolutely,” Tee-Ay said, putting her backpack down. A minute later we were in the kitchen where I cooked us up some sliced potatoes, nice and crispy with salt and ketchup. I even had a Diet Pepsi in the fridge we were able to share. For the next fifteen minutes we laughed and ate and just did a whole lot of talking about a whole lot of nothing, exactly like we would have done at school. It felt good.
Then my drunkle walked in, drawn like a wild animal by the smell of food.
“Sonia,” he said, sniffing the air. “Tengo hambre. Qué tenemos?”
I looked at Tee-Ay and lowered my eyes. Break time was over.
“Puedo hacer huevos y papas con salsa ranchera si tú quieres, Tío,” I said softly, offering to cook him up a Mexican omelet.
He paused to think about whether it was good enough.
“Está bien,” he answered. “Pero apúrate. Tengo hambre,” he added, telling me to hurry up. Then he exited the kitchen, expecting me to call him when his food was ready.
Tee-Ay picked up her things and prepared to leave, but I wanted her to stay. There was so much more to tell her; about Geraldo, about Tía Luna, the things that had been going on with my drunkle.
“Good to see you,” Tee-Ay said as she headed for the door. “And get back to school.”
I paused before answering. Inside my head a voice screamed, Please don’t go. Don’t Go!
“I will,” I answered as I forced a smile. Tee-Ay reached for the door handle.
Don’t go! the voice screamed again. Please, Tee-Ay, don’t go!
“Thanks for stopping by,” I added.
We hugged. I felt my stomach gurgle. Tee-Ay left.
“Sonia …” called a voice from the other room. “Qué pasa? Te dije que tengo hambre.”
I headed to the kitchen, took some eggs out of the refrigerator, and decided that no matter what, I was going to go to school the next day. I didn’t care what anyone said. We could throw a party for Jesus himself, I was NOT making any more tamales.
And if Jesus did come, he’d better bring some apostles to clean up the mess, because I was through.
I was completely and totally through.
chapter catorce
I returned to school the next day, expecting to get into a little bit of trouble for missing so much class, but hardly a teacher said squat to me about having been absent for four days in a row. They didn’t ask where I’d been. They didn’t ask for a note. They didn’t ask for any assignments. I just turned them in on my own. It was as if no o
ne even cared if I came to high school. I guess in their eyes, I was just another Mexicanita, here today, gone tomorrow, with many, many more to follow.
Actually, one teacher did say something to me, my World History teacher, Mr. Wardin. It was after I handed him the homework for the days I’d been out.
“Well, Ms. Rodriguez,” he said in his intellectual voice. “With such an atrocious attendance record, I would not have expected the shrewd decision to keep up with your studies the way you have. It’s almost oxymoronic.” He paused. “Do you know what the word oxymoronic means, Ms. Rodriguez?”
I lowered my eyes.
“Just try coming to class more a bit more frequently than you cruise the shopping mall, Ms. Rodríguez. In case you didn’t know it, in this country, your education matters greatly.”
When school was over that day I wasn’t sure what had me feeling worse, the fact that no one seemed to care or the thought that the one person at school who did care had made me feel like an ignorant wetback. Either way, I was bummed out and needed a pick-me-up.
But unfortunately, Frijolito was gone.
I stared in Santiago’s front window for five minutes, watching a group of new kittens wrestle and play and body slam each other. The new cats were all cute and fluffy and happy.
I hated them all.
Maybe Frijolito had been moved somewhere else, I thought. I went inside. The bell on the door jingled as I entered.
“¡Hola! ¡Hola!” said a parakeet when I walked in.
“Cállate,” I said to the dumb bird as I closed the door behind me. “This is America; speak English.”
I looked around, but Frijolito wasn’t nowhere. I hoped he had gone to a good home. One without a drunkle.
The pet shop boy with the emerald green eyes, Geraldo wasn’t around either, but it had been a long time since I’d seen him, so who knew what could have happened? Maybe he’d found a new job. Maybe he’d found a new place to live. Maybe he’d found a new girl.
Maybe it was a white girl.
I hope she chokes on a grape, I thought as I turned to leave. White girls always ate grapes.
“You would like to hold him?” came a voice. I smiled. But I smiled on the inside because I didn’t want the stupid rude boy to see me.
The Secret Story of Sonia Rodriguez Page 7