The Soup and Sorrow Digest

continuation of part 1

The tamarind seeds in his mouth had since been sucked of its sour-spiciness, and the mental list of cousins to scavenge still looked just as exiguous as an hour before. He buried his eyes in his tired hands and for a moment lost himself in the faint smell of naphthalene—an odorous leftover from Rolando’s house. The parlay with Steve, the trysts with José, shriveled in its lascivious glow. They meant nothing then, they meant nothing now, and less so with the news of a serial killer wild in Los Angeles. He could not bear to return home and face his mother’s weeping. The choice for the night lay between making the trek to Ventura and braving Inez who lived just a few blocks away. But Inez was the one aunt on whom his ebullience burnished no shine. Ricardo could feel her canine snarl and her belligerent eyes daggering him sermons about hell and God’s judgment. His choice for the evening was simple enough. Or should he do the merry-go-round of relatives again in the neighborhood?

This sucked tiger balls.

He could fix it, Ricardo thought. He could fix it. All he needed to do was swear by the La Virgen de los Dolores, and claim it was a sickness, a cold. A cold that lasted six months, but a cold still. Yep, a cold that had run its course—Steve’s musky scent bloomed alive in his mouth and his nerves raked with fire.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“It’s you,” the hard voice of Miguel said from behind him. Having recognized Ricardo’s muscular neck and broad back, he blustered forth in all the pride afforded by acid-wash jeans and a jersey.

He planted a foot onto the seat across from Ricardo. “Stevie’s missing his Chiquita. Who’s who in the relationship?” Miguel’s lips peeled back from tobacco stained teeth.

Turning tamarind seeds in his mouth, Ricardo looked at the moving mouth in a wonder over the crazy mad world of names he had helped perpetuate. The schoolyard taunts and teases he had ignored, unfazed. He was the aggressor, never the aggrieved, never the f***. The f*** was the snot-faced Andrew squealing to every kick of his, not him. As long he fought or fled and never fell, he was no f***.

Miguel drew closer. Pepper and garlic breathed over Ricardo’s nose. He jabbed fingers on his clavicle, punctuating every word. “You. Keep. Yourself. Away. From. Me. You. F***.”

And that was what he was. No denying that. Ricardo fleered. “Whatever you want Mi’jo. You’re too small anyway.” Ricardo spat the tamarind seeds at Miguel’s pug nose. No sooner had the brown seeds tinkled to the table, did Miguel pounce his hands on Ricardo’s shoulders. But Ricardo caught them midair, and with the digging of his feet into the ground, he shoved the hands back, driving Miguel to stumble back into the wall behind. The table rumbled. A chair scuffed. Alexandro shouted for the two boludos to leave the shop.

The two men refused to back off when the tall broad Carlos strode into the bustle. “hey, hey, Miguel, Rico’s my man.” He wiped his thumb against his nose, sniffing manfully and sat himself across from Ricardo. “Miguel, give the maricón his peace. He needs all the peace he can get if he’s going to avoid Hernandez’s brothers looking to smash him up.”

In his panic over possible homelessness, Ricardo had ignored the persnickety concerns about standing among his peers in the neighborhood. Those concerns came rushing on him now with the image of Hernandez’s brothers looming over him and puncturing his lungs. His chest tightened. He shrank from Miguel still snarling like an irate bald baboon and staggered a brave face for Carlos.