by Matt Mendez
“Me too, mija,” Grampá said, scrunched in Fabi’s arms. “Me too.”
Fabi,
I remember the day your mother died. It had been the best of my life. I picked you up early that morning, before it happened, and we skipped school and cruised Memorial Park and hung out by our favorite tree. We chilled all day, from morning until night. Making love outside, in my ride. I thought we would be like that forever.
At the time I guess I didn’t get it. At first I thought you needed time by yourself, but when you started hanging with that Martin dude, I got a little crazy. I get it now. I even get why you hooked up with Martin. Your mama going out with cancer, his dad the same. You two having to bury your parents on the same day. You didn’t have to tell me, I just knew. You blame me for missing that last day with your mama, and I know you wish you had spent that day with her, but if that was the last day I was going to see you then I’m glad it went the way it did.
They called us “The Pulp Fiction Robbers” in the newspapers, which made us sound like a joke. And they’d treated us like one during the trial, making fun of our clothes and how the robbery went down, how we didn’t wear masks. Even for choosing the Denny’s near the airport, deciding that our idea that travelers would be carrying more cash than vatos from El Paso was stupid. Everything about us was a joke except for what happened to Sheriff Clark Jones. The prosecutor called him that during the trial. Over and over.
We’d snuck inside and took a booth by the entrance. We were stoned, having smoked the rest of our supply, and we decided that dealing the little pot we did wasn’t bringing in enough money. I’d wanted to make more. To get enough to take you away, though I hadn’t thought where or far enough ahead to make any real plans—I was thinking maybe Disneyland, Mickey Mouse and Goofy and roller coasters, would take your mind off of your mama dying. It sounds so stupid now, but I thought leaving, getting you out of your head, would somehow bring you back to me—make you love me again. Fernie and Carlo had .22s and I carried a sawed-off under my coat. Carlo was gonna do the talking and hit the register, Fernie was gonna collect the wallets—this was the “Pulp Fiction” part—and I was gonna guard the door, but the plan went to shit almost from the jump.
We ordered food, because the place was kind of empty and we hoped more people would come in, with more wallets and purses to take. Or at least that’s what we told ourselves. I was scared, and I’m sure Carlo and Fernie were too. I still remember my eggs. How they were so runny, almost raw, the yolk spreading across the plate as soon as I cut into them. I didn’t eat.
Instead I watched Carlo and Fernie grub on eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, and toast. They had orange juice and water and coffee, even though I’m sure neither of them actually drank coffee. It was like their last meal.
When Carlo popped up and announced the robbery, a few people actually laughed. They must have thought he was quoting the movie or fucking around, him scrawny and pale and not too different from the dude in the movie, but when he jammed the pistol in our waitress’s face as she brought our check, they realized we were serious. The waitress screamed as the stub of Carlo’s gun pressed against her cheek. I puked all over our table.
Carlo looked pissed off at me as he dragged the waitress over to the register, and Fernie, partially covered in my throw-up, stood stiff as a statue. He just stared at me, like everyone else in the restaurant was doing. I know how stupid this sounds, like at the moment I should have been worried about other things, not caring about people making fun of me or what they thought, but that was all I could do. Like the people in the restaurant somehow knew how big a fuckup I really was. That I’d lost my girlfriend. Had dropped out of school. That I couldn’t even rob a Denny’s. I should’ve ran. We all should’ve run away.
Instead I jumped from the booth and pumped the shotgun and told everyone to get on the floor. When no one did I pointed the shotgun at Jones. He smiled when I did, like I’d just paid for his shitty Grand Slam. I told him to get on the floor and give me his wallet; he said he’d do no such thing. That if I had half a brain in my Mexican head I’d run home back to my mama. Better yet all the way back to Mexico. I could hear someone laughing behind me, and then shushing. No one was sure what to say or do. Especially me.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” Jones said.
“Fuck you,” I said. “I’ll blow your fucking head right off.”
“I was a sheriff in Victoria, Texas, for twenty-two years, and I can tell the difference between a man who does what he says he’s gonna do and a lump of shit in a watermelon patch collecting flies. I could smell you and your amigos the second y’all walked through the door. Now hand me the shotgun and let these good folks get back to their food.”
Jones moved toward me. At the time, I didn’t know that Carlo and Fernie had already booked it (they’re out now already, having served fifteen for armed robbery, at my trial testifying they heard me threaten to kill Jones). Jones was bigger than me, and even though I had the shotgun, and he was an old man, I was the one afraid. He’d blocked the only way out, and I knew the second I let him have the shotgun my life was over.
He grabbed the barrel and tried to pull it away from me, but I pulled back. We yanked back and forth; I could feel the stock slipping from my hands. I tried to tighten my grip, to keep the shotgun away from Jones, when I must’ve overreached and slapped my hand down hard on the receiver and trigger. The shotgun went off; the blast knocked me to the ground, broke two ribs when the stock slammed into my chest. I heard screaming, the restaurant emptying, as panic ballooned inside the room. It took a while for me to be able to sit up, to get my body to work, but when I did all I saw was blood; it covered me.
I didn’t run. I waited outside for the cops. I didn’t shoot Sheriff Clark Jones on purpose; I was just closing my eyes and pulling, same as him. Still, I do sometimes wonder if the prosecutors weren’t right all along. If I didn’t pull that trigger on purpose. If I’d wanted to kill Jones the second he had opened his mouth. Why do men like Jones always think that no matter what, everyone has to listen to them? That even when they have no reason to think they’re in charge, they act like they are? That’s the only reason he’s dead.
I know when the day comes, the Jones family will come to see me die, and they’ll tell themselves their being there is about justice. But maybe after they walk into that room, see me in the chamber, strapped to the gurney and the poisons pushed in, my body seizing to a stop, they’ll get that what they are watching isn’t justice. Or they’ll get it later, when they start dreaming of my killing. Like on nights when I see Jones die, even after all these years, and it doesn’t matter what I’ve told myself during the day. They’ll know they picked wrong. That they picked never-ending death.
EDITING A NIGHTMARE
(CHAPTER TEN)
JD waited for his sister on the front steps of Austin High like she told him to. And of course, Alma wanted to know more about what had happened as she drove. “Tell me again. I still can’t quite picture it,” she said as they arrived. They pulled up beside JD’s Escort. The parking lot was full, except the space beside JD’s car—still, the abandoned hooptie didn’t stand out in a strip mall full of busted cars parked at Big Lots and Dollar Tree.
Alma was still pissed he’d blown off talking to Amá after Friday’s game. And now she sounded like a reporter trying to catch a politician in a lie, wanting to know, in detail, how JD had managed to smash his Escort into a lamppost in an empty parking lot. Only, JD didn’t bother lying. What was the point? The car was wrecked, and no number of imaginary dogs running into traffic or fantastical stories of being chased by road ragers, him swerving like a heroic racecar driver to escape them, was going to explain that desmadre.
“I was fucked up,” JD explained. “One minute I was at a red light, the next I was smashed against this lamppost.” Alma nodded, got out of her car, and squatted by the dented bumper. She examined where it had bent around the pole.
“Ay Dios. Have you told Apá?”
“Why would I do that?” JD said. “He’s the reason I was up here. Why this happened in the first place.”
“Because you followed him here?”
“Not to this exact spot. To a house just up the street. So yeah, that’s right. I blame him.”
Alma shot him a look, the same one Amá always gave him when he talked crazy: one raised eyebrow and her head slightly tilted. Eyes ready to roll if one more word escaped his mouth. “So you get none of the blame? No blame for not coming home after your game like you said you would? Like you promised?”
“You’re missing the point. He’s still cheating on Amá.”
“So, Apá lying to Amá is the reason you wrecked your car and abandoned it, not telling anyone until this morning? That makes sense to you?”
“You don’t have to make me sound so stupid.” JD stared at the car. When he’d gone to get it with Danny, hoping the wreck wasn’t as bad as he’d remembered, he found it was even worse. Not only was the radiator cracked and drained of antifreeze, but the oil pan was busted too. The engine certainly bone dry. “I’m not the one fucking everything up.”
“You are fucking everything up. You’ve been avoiding Amá and the family. Your little brother thinks you’re a bully. You get into fights with your friends. You wrecked your car while driving drunk and could’ve killed yourself or somebody else. And your entire explanation, for all of this, is our dad’s affair. The thing that is happening to all of us.”
JD thought about that. Pops’s cheating had to be shitty for Tomásito, who was too little to understand why his father had to go. And for Amá, it had to feel like a life was ending. But Alma didn’t really live in the house anymore. What was her deal? “Are you having boyfriend problems or something? You’re being a bitch.” Alma grabbed large chunks of her hair and looked ready to pull them out. Her patiently annoyed face vanished as the veins in her neck and forehead bulged.
“I can’t even believe how awful you’re being!”
“Okay, I get it. Everything’s my fault. Whatever.”
“No, you don’t get it! You always think you’re so smart but you never comprehend the most basic things. You don’t get family. You get family all wrong. What the fuck does my boyfriend have to do with anything, you moron? All I wanted to do was help you!”
That’s all JD had wanted. Help. Alma was good with cars. The old man took her on odd jobs when she was little, showing her how to work on them and then, for whatever reason, he never did the same with JD. But instead all Alma wanted to do was mom him up and make him feel shitty, when all he ever felt was shitty. He wanted her to say she could fix it, but looking at the Escort again—the mismatched quarter panels, the cardboard taped to the window, the buckled front bumper, the butterflied front wheels—he knew the heap was a loss. He kicked the passenger door. Watched as the metal creased. He kicked again, the dent growing bigger. He glared at his sister.
“I don’t need any more help. I’m good, thanks.”
“What are you doing? Stop it! Don’t make it worse. You’re always making everything worse.”
“That’s what I do.” JD kept kicking, now busting up the back passenger-side door. His body became slick with sweat as he repeatedly drove his heel into the metal.
“What is wrong with you?!” Alma stepped back, away.
“Fuck you!”
“Goddamn it, JD! You’re the worst.”
JD stopped kicking, turned, and walked away from Alma and his car. He stared at the ground, trying to control his breathing. He wanted to scream—not really at Alma, but just inhale deeply and let out a long exhaust of noise. JD needed away from his sister.
“¿Y dónde vas? You can’t walk home from here, Juan Diego. Don’t be so stupid. Get in the car.” He could hear the exasperation in her voice. How tired of him she was. He was tired of himself too. Looking up, JD realized there was no place to go but the air force recruiting office—he’d gone right up to the front window. He looked back at Alma, where she stood, hands on hips, head cocked, like she expected him to turn around like a scared little kid realizing he’d wandered too far from his mommy. Nope. JD turned back, pulled the Plexiglas door to the recruiting office open, and went inside.
• • •
Last Christmas Eve they’d been sitting in the living room watching Christmas shows on television. Rudolph and Frosty. JD, sitting on the floor, had wanted to get the Kinoflex Pro 8mm he’d lifted from the weekly Anaya family yard sale—open for business even on Christmas Eve! After looking the camera up and watching videos on YouTube, it seemed reasonable to think a camera like this could be the place for JD to start making movies. It looked like an actual movie camera, just smaller. A black case, silver trim with a protruding lens, a sleek handle for handheld shots that was easily removed for placement on a tripod. It didn’t look like the other cameras JD had acquired over the years, cameras made for taping birthday parties and high school graduations. After all, if the Russians made the Kinoflex, then it had to be serious; from what JD could tell from the little Russian cinema and the parade of dashcam videos he’d seen online, they only seemed to be funny by accident.
Amá had been tired from making tamales with his tías and getting ready for the next day at Nana’s, where the entire family gathered every year after Mass, and was falling asleep with her head on the old man’s shoulder. Alma had been at her boyfriend’s, which had pissed the old man off. He’d complained about this being family time, that he always worked, and when he didn’t, everyone should be home. Of course, that was nonsense. Who ever knew when he’d be home? JD had wanted to shoot hoops with Juan or maybe go to some party Danny was talking about, but with his old man grumping around, he knew better than to leave. Besides, he had the camera.
The camera drive motor was manual, a windup, but it wouldn’t rotate. With no rattling sounds, there was probably nothing broken, just a misaligned or jammed gear. There had to be an adjustment JD could make to get the camera running and start filming. Something easy. Unable to focus on Rudolph and his convenient deformity, JD asked his old man if he could borrow some tools.
“For what?” Pops kept his eyes on the TV, his arm around Amá; Tomásito was sitting by his feet. Unlike JD, the family was absorbed by Rudolph. Everyone liked their misfits better on television.
“I wanna take my camera apart. See what’s wrong with it.”
“What camera?”
“I got it at a yard sale.”
“You bought a broken camera at a yard sale? How much you pay?” JD had his old man’s unwanted attention now. Pops leaned forward to look at him as Amá sat up.
“What did you do?” she asked, the question automatic, like a greeting. Good morning. Buenas tardes. You have the right to remain silent.
“I got a camera at a yard sale today.”
“He got ripped off is what he did,” his old man said disgustedly. “Whose yard sale was it? Was it the Anayas? I told you not to go there. Ladrones.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Bullshit. If they sold you something that doesn’t work, then they should give you your money back.”
“He’s right, mijo,” Amá said. “Don’t protect them.”
“I’ll fight them,” Tomásito said, jumping to his feet, striking a pseudo kung-fu pose, and kicking his leg into the air. “Ya!”
“That’s enough,” Amá said, pulling Tomásito into her lap. “Watch Rudolph.”
“At least this one wouldn’t let himself get ripped off.” Letting out a long sigh, JD’s father slumped back into the couch and rubbed his hand across his face, as if he just heard JD confess to trading the family cow for magic beans.
“I knew it was broken. I think I can fix it.”
“Bring me this camera,” his father had said.
The Anayas had wanted twenty dollars for the camera, probably a good price, but he still needed gifts for Amá and Alma, for his old man and Tomásito, too. He probably overpaid for the football he bought for Tomásito, the La Virg
en statue for Amá, and the sunglasses for Alma. The It’s Beer Thirty Somewhere clock for the old man. So JD didn’t feel all that guilty slipping the broken camera into the waistband of his pants and leaving with a gift for himself. It was Christmas, after all.
“Here,” JD said, after grabbing the camera from his room.
His father held it flat in the palm of his hand, as if his hand were a scale determining the camera’s worth. “How much did you pay?”
“A buck,” JD said, guessing his old man wouldn’t care about a dollar.
“Well, at least it wasn’t more than that. I mean, even if you get this running, where are you gonna get film? Get it developed? This thing was ancient when I was a kid. Your tata used to have one. Nobody uses these, mijo. Even for a dollar, you got ripped off.”
“But it’s like a real movie camera. Look at it,” JD insisted.
“N’ombre, these were for home movies. ¿Verdad, mi amor?” He waited for Amá to agree with him, but she was falling asleep again, her eyes blinking closed. “Like I said, your tata had one. Used to record all sorts of unwatchable BS. It doesn’t even record sound.”
JD’s face must have crumbled, because his father added, “But if you wanna try to fix it, I got some small screwdrivers in the glove compartment of my truck that should work. Have at it.”
The screwdrivers weren’t in the glove compartment, but there were always loose tools on the seat and floor. So JD fished around the floor and underneath the seats. The condoms were tucked inside a brown paper bag that JD’s searching fingers had scraped across. He retrieved the bag, and thinking the screwdrivers might be in there, unfurled the worn paper. And discovered the box. It was carelessly ripped open, half left from a dozen. JD sat back with the condoms spilled in his lap, head tingling and body heavy, stunned, like he’d just been in a car accident. One he hadn’t seen coming.