December 31, 1998
I awoke that morning in piss-soaked sheets. Gabe snored breathily beside me, a yellow stain spreading around his pimpled ass.
The night before, my father drug Gabe home fall-down drunk from the little bar down the street, a building of whitewashed adobe sandwiched in between leaning two-story rowhouses. It could have transported itself straight out of a Dumas novel, with legs of smoked ham hanging from the ceiling and a clientele of old men playing checkers. Dad said Gabe had been shooting whiskey and talking at the locals about Franco and Anarchism. Thank God for the language barrier, or he'd probably be in the hospital now, instead of here pissing the antique bed.
I left him to soak and padded across the cold marble floors, fitting my bare feet into the hollows carved out by generations of strutting aristocrats. We were staying in an eighteenth-century duke's mansion in Alcaucin, Spain to celebrate my graduation from college, and I felt like I was living in a twisted fairytale populated with characters from a Coen Brothers film.
The solid oak doors squeaked as I went out. The winter wind ruffled the surface of the swimming pool and rattled the piercingly pink bougainvillea blossoms. I climbed up the steps to the watchtower, hugging my bare arms against the chill.
The watchtower of our house was the highest point in town, looking over the terracotta roofs and whitewashed walls which spilled through the gullies below. The wind tossed my hair and whistled with a wild and lonely sound, and the beauty of it rose up sudden and fierce inside me, making my skin burn and my eyes tear up. I dug my fingernails into my arms, trying to contain it. I'd kicked dope in order to go on this vacation, a week of sick days and sleepless nights, and all those emotions I'd dulled with heroin were coming back to haunt me, tearing through me violently at odd moments.
I smelled cigarette smoke and turned to see my mom mounting the last steps. She leaned against the wrought iron bannister beside me, squinting in the winter sun. "Gabe made an ass of himself last night," she remarked unnecessarily, gazing out at the view.
"Yeah."
I wasn't sure what else there was to say on the subject. We stood silently, my mom's cigarette burning double-time in the gusty breeze.
We spent the day playing Risk at the scrubbed oak table. Gabe got up around noon and lurched out to the patio to smoke bitter Cuban cigarettes and dream his dreams. I washed the sheets.
They were having a New Year's celebration in the town square that evening, and at around nine thirty there was a knock on the door. It was Alfredo Ramirez Ramirez, a local man who had imprinted on me. His surname was apt, because he had a horrible stutter. I called him "The Man So Nice They Named Him Twice".
He wore an ancient suit and his odd, toothy grin. "Llles acomp-p-p-paño a lllllla ffffiesta?"
"Sì, claro." I followed him out into the night towards the sounds of revelry in the square. Gabe loped behind, smelling of expired booze. Alfredo shot him tight-lipped glances.
The town square was a bare patch of cobbles surrounded by old buildings of white stucco with timbered porticoes. A two-story clock tower rose up from the city hall at the head of it. A handful of townspeople gathered around, drinking wine and twirling sparklers. Alfredo Ramirez Ramirez handed us plastic cups of champagne, and before an hour was up, Gabe was yelling made-up Spanish words and trying to set my hair aflame with stolen fireworks.
Alfredo turned to me with a serious face, telling me I was young, and that I had plenty of time to find a new boyfriend. I nodded grimly, sucking on the burnt ends of my long bangs. Inside, though, I felt like my life was already over. My full-time job as a failure awaited me back home: the only employment I'd been able to get upon graduation was at a gas station. My bi-weekly paychecks were gone in a day on dope. Gabe had been running some shady hustles I couldn't even bear to ask about in order to keep us high, and we were next to homeless, trying to hide our habits from our parents. Gabe was the only person who would accept me as I was at that point.
Right before midnight, Alfredo handed me a cup containing twelve grapes. He glanced nervously at Gabe before giving him one, as well. "You're s-s-supposed to eat one g-g-grape for each ch-chime of the clock, for g-g-good luck."
"Cool," I said, and Gabe cackled when I translated.
The clock struck. I popped a grape in my mouth, then another, and another, with each chime. Gabe, however, lobbed his at the heads of his neighbors, yelling "Salud!" every time he hit someone. They gave him wide-eyed scowls and scuttled out of his path.
As the clock finished ringing and he ran out of grapes, Gabe took out his pocket knife and waved the three-inch blade in the air, his triumphant pose silhouetted against the fireworks. "Viva la Revolución in 1999!" he yelled.
Alfredo's lips drew tight, and he stomped over to Gabe and grabbed the knife from his hand. It threw Gabe off balance, and he fell on his ass on the cobblestones.
"Hey, fuck off, Comrade Ramirez Ramirez Ramirez!" he yelled, struggling to get up again.
Alfredo handed me the knife, which I pocketed, shame bringing tears to my eyes. The others in the square had gone silent, watching us.
"I'll t-t-take you guys h-home," Alfredo said.
I helped Gabe up, and we started up the steep and winding streets. Large drops of rain began to fall, conjuring complex and earthy smells from Alfredo's suit. Behind us, the music started up again.
"What the fuck was that?" Gabe complained, flailing his lanky arms. "Why did you take my knife away?"
Alfredo kept his eyes forward as he walked jerkily beside us. "Your b-boyfriend needs to c-calm down. He's going to get in t-t-t- trouble."
"I'm really sorry," I told him. "Thank you for your help."
He brought us to our door, and I could see the pity in his eyes even in the darkness. "Happy N-N-New Year." He handed me a folded square of notebook paper. "This has my a-a-address. You should write to mmmme."
I nodded, wiping my eyes. Alfredo turned and trudged quickly back down the cobbled alleyway.
Gabe leaned against the wall of the house, humming some anarchist marching song under his breath. I tried the doorknob; it was locked.
Gabe pushed himself unsteadily off the wall. "Wha, they locked us out?"
"It's late," I said. "They always lock it."
Gabe sneered and pounded on the door, the noise reverberating like thunder in the cavernous entry. "Heeeeey!" he yelled. "Heeeeey, wake the fuck up, you bastards!"
"Shhhh!" I said, trying to grab his hands. He laughed and slapped my arms away, knocking again.
The door flew open. My dad stepped out in his pajamas, his face pale and livid, and slammed Gabe against the door.
"You motherfucker," my dad muttered through clenched teeth, his face very close to my boyfriend's. "I'm going to kick your fucking ass, you sonofabitch."
Gabe's jaw went slack with surprise, and his knees collapsed. He slid down the door, and my dad hauled him upright again by his collar.
"Dad, stop," I said, but he ignored me. He slammed Gabe against the wall again.
"You're a worthless piece of shit. Worthless."
"Dad, stop!"I tried to pull him away, but he was so lost in his anger he didn't realize I was there. Gabe's limp head flopped against the oak door with a crack as my dad slammed him again and again.
My father was a big guy, and Gabe a drunken Gumby. In my mind's eye, I saw the Spanish police arriving, wedging their little cars up through the alley, the sirens echoing painfully off the stucco row houses. I saw jails and hospitals, tears and guilt.
Taking a deep breath, I threw a punch, catching my dad in the eye. It didn't make a "whap" sound like it does in the movies, just a little, meaty "plip". It reminded me of when I'd once punched Robbie: anticlimactic and impotent-feeling.
But it got his attention. My dad finally turned towards me, his mouth forming an "o". His eyes filled up with tears.
He let go of Gabe, who almost fell, but caught himself, stumbling upright again.
Just so they'd know I loved them both equally, I drew my fist back and punched Gabe, too.
They both stood blinking at me. The only sound was the rain pattering on the terra cotta roofs, and the faint bump of pop music in the square.
Gabe turned first, and stumbled inside. My dad followed him. I watched them go, rain trickling down the back of my neck, wondering how my life could possibly get any worse.