By Jesús Mena

This trio of short stories tied for first place in the 2017 Writing Contest sponsored by the San Miguel Literary Sala, A.C., located in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico.


This feature first appeared in Somos en escrito on February 23, 2017.

The Spirit

We lived in a string of lean-tos behind an old service station next to Emilio’s Bar. All the families living here were just like chickens, going to bed at sunset, not because nature dictated our clocks, but because any light in a one-room hovel alerted the migra that mojados who had crossed the Rio Grande in the dead of night were nesting here.
A four-year-old at the time, I was sleeping on the floor on the soft, red blanket that was my bed when late one night my grandmother flicked on the bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. She stumbled in with our neighbor Victoria leaning against her shoulder. Victoria’s eyes were slits, her face ashen. My grandmother, who was a curandera, slid Victoria onto her bed and quickly ushered me out the door.
“Vámonos! Fuera!”
“What’s going on, huelis?” I whimpered.
“Shht!” she shushed firmly, her finger on her lips.
I had already weathered my share of immigration raids so when my grandmother demanded silence, I was a mouse playing dead. But my body shuddered when I heard dreadful groaning coming from inside our shelter. Victoria was in agony. Was she dying?
The full moon that loomed over the large mesquite tree across the alley was a gray skull baring its ugly teeth at me. I could not bear to look at it so I sat on the cracked sidewalk, chin on my knees, staring at the alley and trying to ignore the wailing. It seemed like hours before my grandmother stepped out carrying a bucket filled with foul-smelling water that she splashed onto the alley. The water stained the gravel an eerie gray in the moonlight.
I grabbed her skirt and pleaded, “Can I go in now, huelis? Please?”
“Cállate, niño!” she uttered, shoved me aside, and rushed back in. Now I was terrified. My huelis loved me. She had never treated me like this.
Victoria began screaming: “No! No!”
Then I heard sobbing.
I rushed to the door, hoping I could sneak a peek. The adults inside started arguing then the light seeping through the cracks of the wooden door went out, the rusty doorknob squeaked as it turned, and Victoria’s husband stepped out carrying a dark bundle followed by my father and my grandmother. My mother called me back in and put me to sleep. The hard wooden floor was humid, giving off a dull musty odor.
Later that night I woke up screaming when I saw a translucent, blue figure floating through our shack. My grandmother ran to my side and picked me up in her arms. She brewed an herbal tea for me to fend off bad dreams and cuddled me on her lap, rocking me to sleep.
Dawn came and my grandmother and my parents acted as if nothing had happened. No matter how much I pestered them, they dismissed my questions about the night before. We moved out of the area when my father landed a good-paying job as a plumber, but images of that eerie night were indelibly etched in my mind. My grandmother always assured me that my childhood imagination had conjured up this dark tale. It was not until she suffered a stroke that placed her at heaven’s door that she decided to rid herself of her earthly burdens.
“Te acuerdas…de..de..aquella noche,..mi’jo…” she said, her voice faltering as she recounted what had happened that strange night.
Victoria had had a miscarriage, she said. They didn’t call the priest to give the child his final blessing because the priest was an Anglo. They were afraid he would call the migra. They had buried the child in the empty lot behind Emilo’s Bar, and my grandmother had said the final prayers. Her dying wish was that God would forgive her.
Her revelation was jarring. That lot with its scraggly bushes once was my favorite place to play hide-and-seek. It was also my sanctuary whenever I got in trouble with my parents. I had carved out a small hideout in the brush where I found solace. Somehow I felt like I had a friend there to console me. I lost that little haven when the garage owner turned that lot into a place for oil changes, and the earth gradually darkened to a pitch-black. The image of a baby drenched in this waste haunted me. My soul yearned to pay my last respects.
I went to my hometown, which had grown into a small city with a cluster of ramshackle cottages on its outskirts. Ankle-high weeds covered the backyards there with well-worn paths leading to sagging outhouses; kids were playing stickball in the alley. I felt at home. But my old barrio was quite a ways from those shanties. I finally reached the street where we once lived. The panaderia at the street corner that once filled the air with the sweet scent of cinnamon from freshly baked pan dulce had been supplanted by a dry cleaner. The garage and the bar had been leveled, replaced by a large cinderblock building. A grocery store occupied the portion of the structure where the garage used to be. Next door, there was a sign that read La Señora Adivinadora with a large Tarot card taped to the windowpane that showed Persephone, the high priestess sitting on her throne between the darkness and the light in front of the Tree of Life.
I walked into La Señora’s place, which had a glass counter with a collection of talismans mounted on shelves and a black curtain separating the small front room from the rear. The curtain slid open and a somber woman with dark brown eyes and black flowing hair strolled out. Around her neck hung a gold chain with an image of the Virgen de Guadalupe set in mother of pearl.
“Buenas tardes,” she said as she walked to the counter. “Would you like me to read your fortune?”
I looked past her to the rear of her unit, which stretched all the way to the alley. Concrete now covered the former back lot of Emilio’s Bar.
“Come into my reading room back here,” she said. “A special spirit resides there that guides me.”
I pursed my lips.
“I know,” I nodded as I closed my eyes.


The Stetson

Winter unleashed heavy downpours that battered noisily against the windowpanes. Gonzalo tossed and turned. His older brother Maurilio was snoring exceptionally loud tonight. It was a nightly ritual that began with hoarse guttural mutterings that would then dull into a drone before Maurilio would finally slide into a deep sleep. The steady drip of the rainspouts added to his insomnia.
With Maurilio’s snore down to a whisper, it became the mouse that prevented Gonzalo’s slumber. That vermin had been harassing the family for weeks despite the traps that had been set throughout the house. He heard it scratching at some package in the kitchen cabinet. He listened intently, hoping to hear the loud thump that said: This rata is dead meat! When it was satisfied with its treasure, the mouse scurried down the hallway, its claws rasping against the wooden floor, avoiding all the mines scattered on the floor. It was quiet again. The chiming of the clock told him it was midnight when his father’s truck pulled into the driveway. The pickup door opened and slammed shut. He heard his father come in the front door. His mother was still awake.
“Hola, mi amor, I’m home,” he said jovially.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asked.
“Is that any way to greet your viejo?” he asked.
When he was drunk, he was always sure he could sweet-talk her out of anything. They had been fighting for weeks. Gonzalo’s mother Mencha always made light of the squabbles whenever he asked her what was going on. The arguments that vibrated through the sheer walls usually began with his mother taking his flattery quietly for a while before the exchanges flared into nasty quarrels. Tonight, however, she seemed to have little patience for his accolades.
“Ándale preciosa! Let’s jump into bed and make out like old times,” he said.
“Those days are long gone,” she said sternly.
“Ay dios, you are a lioness tonight,” he said, laughing lightly. “What got into you?”
“Maybe I’m tired of being taken for a pendeja?”
“I always treat you with respect,” he snapped.
“Really? Partying till all hours? We’re barely making ends meet, and you don’t even come home from work on payday. You go out and spend money like it’s nothing.”
“You worry too much, amorcito,” he said. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”
“Get your filthy hands off of me,” she said.
“You are my wife and I am going to make love to you,” he said firmly.
“What? You didn’t get enough with Carla tonight?”
“Carla? Who is Carla?”
“You know what I am talking about! My friends have seen you with her. Una cantinera! Que asqueroso!”
“Ay, amorcito mío. Chismes, chismes, chismes,” he said dismissively. “You believe everything you hear.”
“I saw you tonight with her! Julia drove me over to the bar, and we waited till you left with her.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.
“You filthy liar. Get the hell out of here! I never want to see you again!”
There was a dead silence.
“If I leave tonight, you will never see me again,” he said.
“That will be too soon!”
Gonzalo heard the front door bang shut, his father’s hurried steps on the porch, and the pickup rush out the driveway. His mother’s sobbing sent his heart racing. He desperately wanted to comfort her. He struggled to get up but his legs felt like lead weights. What could he tell his mother? How could he possibly soothe her? He found himself sinking into a dark pit as he sobbed himself to sleep.
Mencha’s sadness blanketed the house like a fog the next day. She avoided Gonzalo anytime he tried to talk to her. He told Maurilio what he had heard the night before, and the two of them finally approached her.
“Don’t worry, Amá, he’ll be back,” said Maurilio. “He wouldn’t walk away from us.”
“He has nowhere else to go,” agreed Gonzalo.
But the weeks turned to months without word of his whereabouts. His father’s departure spawned a deep guilt in Gonzalo. He should have had the cojones to get out of bed and intervene. He kept recreating the fight. All he had to do was step in and ask them what in the world was going on, and they would have been embarrassed and calmed down. Maybe they could have worked things out. Instead, he had just cried like a baby. An 11-year-old baby, for Christ’s sake.
What pained Gonzalo most was how his mother’s life changed. She became the neighborhood tailor, stitching dresses for quinceañeras and other special occasions but the money she pulled in was not enough. She started cleaning homes for gringos on the other side of town, cooking, scrubbing floors, changing baby diapers, and doing laundry. On her first day, she left well dressed, eager for the challenges of the new job. She came home exhausted and just scrambled some eggs and frijoles for dinner. Her eyes slowly lost their luster. The thought of his mother on her hands and knees in some gringo home burned a hole in Gonzalo’s belly. He argued with her to stop working. He could drop out of school, get a job, but she was adamant that her kids would graduate from high school and carve out a better life.
Gonzalo’s father now seemed like a ghost from his childhood – a carpenter who straggled home from work every day with his frayed Stetson sprinkled with sawdust. He would shake off his hat off in the front yard, walk in, smile at the family and head for the bedroom to read Western dime novels. He was a sullen man who ignored the silly banter or the rowdy spats between the boys around the dinner table. He wasn’t a real father. Gonzalo felt he had been abandoned since birth, a void that bred a rancor that gnawed through the remnants of his childhood innocence.
Each night Gonzalo dreamed that he stood before the shell of a house under construction. There was the dense, sweet smell of sawdust and the piercing whine of the saw. He’d step in and his father stopped pounding his hammer, tipped back his hat, and stared at Gonzalo with a smile. Livid, Gonzalo struggled to confront him but found himself staring, impotent with rage. Eliminating all that reminded him of his father became an obsession. He trashed the stack of his father’s paperbacks that were covered with dust. He urged his mother to dump all of his father’s belongings. She refused.
“They are his and he will return and get them one day,” she said.
Gonzalo frowned.
“Amá, how can you believe that jerk will ever return?”
“Don’t you ever use such language in referring to your parents,” came her indignant reply.
Her response only fueled his drive to erase his father’s existence from his world. One sunny afternoon when the family had fired up their barbecue pit in the backyard, Gonzalo was rummaging through his parent’s closet in search of a folding chair when his eyes zeroed in on his father’s dressy Stetson that he wore on his weekend parandas. He stared at it, grabbed it, walked out and threw it in the barbecue pit. Mencha gasped. The three of them looked on with an almost pious silence as the hat burst into flames and slowly became a gray sliver that blended into the burning charcoals.


Fallout

The drone of Mrs. Gray’s math class recital suffocated my thoughts. She bored me stiff. Mrs. Gray eyed the classroom as she paced the length of the blackboard, carefully seeking her next victim. She seemed to enjoy making us squirm.
“Moisés, can you recite the nine’s multiplication table?” she said.
Moisés walked timidly to the front of the class. He was clearing his throat when the shrill wail of the town siren shattered Mrs. Gray’s spell. We all leaped from our seats and scurried under our desks. From my hunched position, I watched an imposing Mrs. Gray march up and down the aisles, inspecting all the crouched bodies, making sure everyone was in the proper fetal position.
“Make sure you are covering your eyes,” she said, raising her voice over the siren’s whine. “Benigno, get your legs completely under the desk.”
The siren ceased its howl, the drill ending too soon, so we all crawled out from under our desks. I raised my hand before the teacher resumed her lesson.
“Mrs. Gray, why do we cover our eyes in a bomb drill?” I asked.
“To protect your eyes,” she said. “You could go blind from the light of an atomic explosion.”
“But how does that protect us from radiation?”
Mrs. Gray looked annoyed. “You know the auditorium is designated as a fallout shelter. Once the explosion is over, we’d go to the auditorium.”
“But it’s got big windows. How can it protect us from radiation?”
“And what about everyone else in town? ” chimed in Benigno. “Where are my parents supposed to go if they dropped a bomb on us?”
“The town has a fallout shelter,” Mrs. Gray said frostily as the bell rang and we all raced raucously from the room and headed home.
Moisés, Benigno and I savored the shade of the magnolia trees that towered over the landscaped yards on the gringo side of town as we walked home that muggy afternoon.
“Did you guys check out the note Mrs. Gray sent home?” I asked.
It was an official city memo that asked families to set aside a month’s supply of canned and dried foods, water and other necessities. It was part of the nuclear-preparedness program that city officials had unfurled with much fanfare.
“A month? Sometimes we’re lucky if we got a pot of beans at the end of the week,” said Moisés.
“I’m not gonna show this to my Dad,” said Benigno. He yanked the note from his book, crushed it into a wad and thrust it into the corner garbage can.
We grew quiet. The three of us had seen the newsreels in the movie theater a couple of months ago warning all Americans to prepare in case Russia nuked our country. The film was frightening – an atomic bomb going off with a horrific boom followed by a ball of fire that spread into the sky like a giant mushroom.
“Do you really think they’re gonna drop a bomb on our little town?” asked Benigno.
“Of course. The Russians got a bomb aimed at every town in America,” I said.
Benigno looked depressed.
“The city bomb shelter is on the gringo side of town,” lamented Benigno. “How are my parents and my little sister gonna get there? We don’t even have a car.”
“We gotta do something to help our families,” I declared.
“Like what?” asked Moisés.
“We could build our own fallout shelter,” I said, a bit surprised at myself.
They looked at me skeptically.
“Really?” asked Moisés. “Just how are we gonna do that?”
“I don’t know but we gotta figure it out.”
Moisés shook his head.
“If we get hit, we might turn into some kind of nuclear monsters…” growled Moisés as he contorted his face, moaned and breathed heavily then started chasing Benigno. Benigno shrieked and sprinted away.
My friends were trying to laugh it off but I knew they were as worried as I was.
When I got home, my father had me lug some scrap lumber from his dusty blue pickup and stack it in the backyard.
“What’s this for?” I asked. My father was a carpenter who would never let any lumber go to waste.
“Not sure…might come in handy someday,” he said.
“Can I have some of it?”
“What you planning…a clubhouse?”
“Something like that.”
“You know where the nails and hammers are. Just don’t mess up my saw,” said Dad with a smile.
I was ecstatic. It was the first time Dad had trusted me with his most prized possession – his electric saw. Lumber, nails, tools – we had everything we needed to build the fallout shelter. I rushed next door to tell my buddies.
“Hey you guys! I got the stuff we need to make a bomb shelter.”
Moisés and Benigno rushed over to my place to see but they seemed less than enthusiastic when they stared at the pile of mangled scrap with splinters and nails jutting out at odd angles.
“You couldn’t build a doghouse with that,” said Moisés.
When I pulled out my father’s electric saw, their eyes lit up. I squeezed the trigger switch and the silver blade roared to life.
“Let me try that,” said Moisés.
“I’ll teach you how to use it…if we build the shelter.”
Benigno smiled, picked up a hammer and began driving rusty nails out of the lumber. My chest swelled as I taught Moisés how to use the saw. We began arguing about the proper architecture with the debate getting heated at times. The intermittent whine of the power saw and the banging of hammers soon eliminated the chatter.

I called the club to order as I crouched on a small wooden crate. The shelter was finished except for the lead lining needed to protect us from radiation. Being the entrepreneur, I had talked Moisés and Benigno into chipping in fifty cents each to buy some baby chicks. We planned to raise them into hens, sell the eggs they laid and, when the hens were too old to produce, we could sell them to make chicken soup. Our chickens would be cheaper than the ones at Hinojosa’s Market. We would make a killing in the neighborhood. The income would get us the lead we needed.
Of course, bold ventures invariably encounter obstacles. Our first challenge was sharing our hideout with the chicks. It’s hard to conduct a serious business meeting with chicks darting in and out between your legs. With time, our troubles grew.
“You guys, it’s starting to smell in here,” complained Benigno.
“It’s chicken shit,” groused Moisés. “That’s why chickens live in chicken coops, not in fallout shelters.”
Suddenly one of the chicks let out a shrill cry and hobbled as it raced in circles. Moisés had accidentally stepped on it.
“Damn it, Moises! You almost killed one of our investments,” I yelled.
“Investments, my ass!” cried Moisés. “Who would want to come into this stinkin’ fallout shelter? We don’t even know where we can get the lead even if we had the money.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.” Unfortunately, he was right. I had no idea where to get the lead.

One day I was helping my father build a new house when I saw the plumber pouring a silver liquid to seal the drainage pipe he was installing. Molten lead! How could I have been so blind? Plumbers used lead to seal pipes! Our problem was solved. I called a meeting of my buddies to unveil my discovery. We all headed to the shelter, and I unlocked the latch, jiggled and kicked the twisted door until it finally came loose.
“Watch out for the chicks,” said Moisés.
More than once they had escaped, and we ran ourselves ragged chasing hyperactive little feather balls. I crouched down with a watchful eye but none of the chicks even peeked through the crack I opened. I slowly swung the door open ready to snatch any chick that made a run for it. None did. It was quiet. Too quiet.
“Something’s wrong.”
We walked in and looked around.
“Holy shit!” said Moisés.
The neighborhood alley cat had apparently dug his way under the dirt floor and gobbled up our little treasures. There was nothing left but feathers strewn on the ground. We were speechless.
“What a drag – que pinche aguite!” muttered Moisés after a drawn-out silence. “I told you we should’ve built a floor to this thing.”
“We didn’t have enough lumber,” I said.
“So much for the fallout shelter,” sighed Benigno.
It was also the end of our club. I was never able to coax the guys into starting up again.
I’ve always felt that I failed to capitalize on the dramatic potential of our project. It could have been the basis for a great science fiction screenplay. Picture a newscast that erroneously reports that the Russians have just launched a nuclear attack on the United States. People scurry for cover, quickly overwhelming the city’s designated fallout shelter. In the chaos, the mayor and some of his cronies are stranded on our side of town. They come to our sanctuary, pleading for a chance to enter our shelter.
Gringo politicians begging Chicano kids for a share of the fruits of their labor? That’s a story line that would light up faces in any barrio.

Jesús Mena, the son of undocumented Mexican immigrants from the south Texas Rio Grande Valley, grew up as a migrant farm worker, following the crops each year with his family along the entire US Midwest corridor. He was managing editor of ChismeArte, a pioneering Latino literary journal. After stints as a journalist with various newspapers including the Brownsville Herald, Orange County Register and Oakland Tribune, he became director of media relations for UC-Berkeley and subsequently held a similar post at the Harvard University Kennedy School of Government. Jesús is currently working on a historical novel set in the Rio Grande Valley in the early 1900s. ​

​Por Oscar Moreno

Si alguna vez le vuelves a caer a Juárez y tienes que y puedes regresarte al El Paso, te puedo dar algunos tips, depende de lo que quieras hacer. A los gringos y pochos les choca que te vean medio Mexicana. Con ellos tienes que ser completamente gringa o completamente pocha, lo cual quiere decir que mínimo tienes que ser medio gringa o medio pocha. Para los pochos, ser medio Mexicano es puro pedo. ¿Qué tienes que hacer? Primero, si andas en Juaritos, en tu casa o dónde andes, deja tu IFE, tu pasaporte Mexa, tu credencial caducada de la UACJ, tu licencia de Juárez, todo. Llévate tu pasaporte gringo, tú licencia del chuco. Segundo, nunca hables español. Puro Inglés. No dejes que se te salga ni una sola letra de español. Ahorita que estamos aquí en el puente, pues quien nos oye, pero ya cruzando con los oficiales, haz de cuenta que llegó el Will Smith y te echó un flashazo de todo tu tiempo en México. Tercero, que no te agarren viendo a Juárez. Mal plan que tu cantón este tan cerca. Yo no tengo buen ojo, pero desde el puente lo puedo ver.
Cuarto, cuando vayas de Juárez a El Paso, deja todos tus pesos en casa. Que no te agarren los gringos o pochos enseñando a Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, para ellos, puro George Washington. A los del 656, les valdrá wilson, nomás aguas porque luego puede que te acaben pidiendo un poco para ahorrarse espacio de billetes en sus carteras, con eso de que ahorita un dólar equivale a cómo veinte pesos.
Yo sé que la regaste. Yo sé que nunca pensaste en acabar acá. Pero por cómo pintan las cosas, puede que regreses. Ahora, estando en Juárez, seguramente te van a decir güera, sobre todo por lo blanca que estás. Pero solo un imbécil pensaría que eres gringa, pero si pasas por pocha que nunca ha pisado tierra Mexa. Te van a hablar en Inglés de chiste, te van a decir “Go, UTEP!” a pesar de que esa no es la porra y a pesar de que no terminaste tu licenciatura acá. La misma gente que te trató de la patada sirviéndoles alitas en el Grand China Buffet, te va a tratar de la patada cuando les quieras regalar quesitos y jamonsitos en Costco sucursal Juárez. Te trataron de la patada en el Circle K de la Airport cómo cuando me dijiste de una morra que se encabronó porque no le vendiste birria con una licencia de conducir falsa, y te dijo que eras una “pinche pocha pendeja”. Nomás porque vio tu apellido en tu gafete, te vio güera y te oyó gringa. Aguanta vara porque algún bato te va a querer tirar rollo diciendo que votaste por Trump, cuando el día de las elecciones nos conocimos pagando multas en la corte. Te la van a regar por haber estudiado diseño gráfico en IADA cuando ya no pudiste terminar en El Paso y van a creer que con lo nerda que eras en la Prepa del Chami, que siempre pudiste haberte ido a una ingeniería. De seguro tu misma lo pensaste cuando a tu jefe le colgaron los tenis. Menos mal que no te dijó que te fueras a la burger cómo me lo dijo mi jefe antes de que lo cagara el payaso. Que descanse en paz y que Dios lo bendiga.
Ni pedo, chamaca. La regaste cómo muchos la regaron cuando se soltó el desmadre de violencia generación 2007-2012. El desmadre que nunca terminó y no te hagas, que tú también hiciste el tuyo.
Este sería consejo extra,  no te lo tengo que decir, pero aguas con cargar droga, ya tienes antecedentes por un pinche gallo de uso personal. No debería ser así, pero por el güero enojón ese, ya cualquier pretexto te buscan. Y si no te encuentran pretexto, se lo inventan. Date cuenta, eres la enemiga número uno de ellos, con todo el coraje y el miedo del mundo.
Así fue, así es y así será siempre aunque no hayas hecho nada malo a nadie más que a ti misma, y no hablo de los gallos, que si traes, comparte. No, pero lo que nunca entendiste es que hay un lugar y un momento para todo pero estando acá, si veo cómo puede valerte queso. No sé si fue Silvio Rodríguez o José Alberto Jiménez o Mijares o Arjona el que cantó que no soy de aquí ni de allá. Pero no creo porque ninguno de esos cabrones era de Juárez.
El desmadre personal ya se acabó, te toca decidir que sigue.  Ahí te agarro dibujando sobre tu pierna y tus brazos, son caricaturillas pero son mejores que los tatuajes que se avientan los disque machos gangstas de acá o los chami-cholos de allá. Si te dicen que no tienes futuro, nada más acuérdate que muy probablemente mañana vas a despertar.

​Oscar Moreno, born and raised in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, México, endured the crime wave that took over his hometown in the late 2000s. During that time, he studied Creative Writing at the University of Texas at El Paso and then did a Master’s in Art and Design in the Autonomous University of Ciudad Juárez. He’s now in the Creative Writing MFA at UTEP, commuting every day across the border.

​Por Oscar Moreno

Esos días eran de diluvio de Cuaresma y diluvio de balas. Llovía sobre los empresarios extorsionados, sobre los drogadictos en centros de rehabilitación, sobre los dueños de bares, sobre los maestros, sobre los policías, sobre los sicarios, sobre los soldados. Era un diluvio sin arca. Nada más era cuestión de ver cuando se iba a inundar la calle cómo de costumbre en Juárez y que cuando el agua iba a alcanzarnos las cejas, ahogándonos. Me hubiera gustado ser Noé, pero solo me tocó ser Benicio y solo tenía un par de animales: Dos perros muertos enterrados en el patio después de que los atropellaron enfrente de mi casa.
Por eso tenía tanta urgencia de decirle a Cristina cuánto me gustaba. De cuánto me gustaban sus ojos y cabello color miel, su piel que (en buena onda) me hacía pensar en el betún de vainilla, de lo chaparrita que era, de cómo volaba su falda del uniforme con cada paso que daba, que más que pasos eran brincos, de sus piecillos en las zapatillas negras del uniforme. Pero en cada ocasión que estaba sola y yo veía oportunidad de hablar con ella, no podía. Estaba en primero, siempre se ponía en las escaleras que conectaban el primer piso de los grupos de primero con el segundo piso de los grupos de segundo. Siempre bajaba las escaleras y me quedaba sobre el último (o primer escalón, dependiendo de la perspectiva de cada quién) y la veía, intentando animarme a hablarle. Me llegaba una parálisis y unas ganas de darme la vuelta y correr, cosa que si hice varias veces. Por una parte, esperaba que no se diera cuenta, por otra, esperaba que sí, a lo mejor hasta curiosidad le daba verme hacer eso.
Pero sabía que no podía depender de la curiosidad para hablar con ella, entonces un día me animé a ser directo y decírselo. ¿Qué iba a pasar? De verdad esperaba que ella también dijera que yo le gustaba. Y si no, pues ni modo, o más bien que culero. Pero era el tipo de culería que se perdía entre todas las cosas culeras que el universo estaba vendiendo en oferta en ese entonces. Hubiera sido bien si fuera venta de liquidación, pero ni madres. No me quedó más claro aquella vez que saliendo de la escuela, iba en el carro con mi mamá y nos quedamos en un embotellamiento ahí en el Parque Industrial por la escuela. No nos extrañaba este tráfico pero si nos extrañaba que fuera tan lento. Esas filas se hacían más para ir a El Paso que para otra cosa. Ya luego nos tocó ver lo que había pasado: Un Camry color cromo agujereado de balas y estampado contra un poste de luz. Estaban los del SEMEFO metiendo un cuerpo adentro de su troca y otro cuerpo lo cubrían con una manta blanca que lentamente se empapaba de sangre. Al lado estaba una ambulancia, con los paramédicos atendiendo a una persona que no podía ver dentro, pero antes de que pudiera deducir bien de quien se tratara, mi mamá me volteó hacia ella con su mano derecha.
-No veas –  me dijo y quizás tenía buen motivo para hacerlo, después de un rato sentí algo cómo electricidad llenar mi cuerpo, cómo un susto mezclado con unas ganas enormes de llorar. Intenté aguantarme, no quería armarle una escena a mi mamá en el carro. Pero llegando a la casa, sentí un calor enorme en mi cuerpo y muchas ganas de cerrar los ojos, sintiendo que todo se me iba de mi control y acabé desmayándome sobre mi cama. O por lo menos, eso me han dicho que fue cuando le cuento esto a la gente. En su momento se sintió más cómo un chorro de ganas de dormirme inmediatamente. No recuerdo si soñé algo, solo recuerdo algo de Cristina y algo sobre los cuerpos del auto baleado. Juntos me hicieron pensar que si, en efecto, a lo mejor no nos quedaba mucho tiempo y tenía que cantársela a Cristina. Valer burger lo veía muy probable para mí y para ella, entonces era hora de decirle la verdad.
La mañana del día siguiente me quedé viendo a la lluvia caer sobre los pastos y árboles del patio de la escuela desde la ventana del salón. Intentaba disimularlo pelando los ojos, fingiendo que veía el cuaderno o que leía los libros. Le caía bien a los profes, entonces no era tan probable que se dieran cuenta de lo que hacía. De todos modos los profes ese día andaban como idos, cómo si no hubieran dormido bien o cómo si se quisieran resfriar. Nada más esperaba  a que fuera el receso y en lo que iba a decirle. Si algo lograba la lluvia sobre el zacate y los troncos de los árboles era tranquilizarme.
Llegó la hora del receso y salí a buscarla al primer piso. No estaba y no la vi en ningún lado. La busqué también en el tercer piso y nada. Sus compañeros me decían que tampoco la había visto, que no había venido a la escuela. Decidí ir a la tiendita y vi que Sergio, el encargado, andaba sollozando entre las veces que recibía dinero y las veces que repartía papitas, tortas y burros. Estaba la posibilidad de que andaba de mariguano cómo le gustaba chismear a mis compañeros. No sabía si admirar que con todo y lo que lo que se veía de triste, un así viniera al trabajo. Pero tampoco sabía si encabronarme con la escuela por hacerlo venir a trabajar tan desmadrado.
-¿Qué pues, Mister Sergio? ¿Lo cortó la novia?- le pregunté.
Sergio negó con la cabeza.
-¿Entonces?
-¿Andabas preguntando por Cristina?
Asentí y trague saliva. El aire mojado me dio frio. Se acercó y susurró.
-Mataron a sus papás. Ella se dio un trancazo en la cabeza porque el carro se estampó contra un poste. Están esperando a que sea la salida para decirles. No querían fregarles el receso o las clases. Pero claro que sus profes y yo si nos tuvimos que enterar- dijo tragando un sollozo.
No sabía que decir ni que hacer, más que dar una sola cosa:
-Gracias.-
En efecto, a la hora de salida, los prefectos nos guiaron al patio de la escuela. Nos pusieron a todos en filas alrededor del Director Luján y la subdirectora Macías. Luján se veía presidencial con su cabello negro, altura y saco.
-Compañeros- empezó. –Les tengo noticias muy tristes. Su compañera Cristina Velarde de segundo B está en coma después de un ataque armado que sufrieron su familia y ella en la tarde de ayer. Se encuentra hospitalizada en la Poliplaza Médica. Si se animan, pueden pasar al hospital a dejarle alguna carta o regalo para que cuando despierte vea que la tuvimos en nuestros pensamientos. Somos un instituto laico, pero si están en necesidad de orar, háganlo-
Ahora le llovió a Cristina y a sus papás. Escuché a alguien exhalar y decir “Ni de pedo se despierta”. Algunas de las niñas tenían lágrimas en los ojos y se les escuchaba sollozar. Después de un rato de silencio, nos dejó salir.
Le pedí permiso a mi mamá para que me llevara al hospital para dejarle unas flores a Cristina. Pero me echó un chorro de preguntas: “¿Qué hacían los papás? ¿No los habrán matado por narcos? No digo que lo hayan sido, pero por tu bien y el de ella, por eso luego acabamos todos jodidos”. Me chocaba que dijera cosas así, pero tenía que aguantarme de no enojarme porque luego si armaba una escena de seguro no me dejaba ir a ver a Cristina. Escribí una carta, mi mamá me ayudó a escoger unas rosas en Wal-Mart y me dejó en el hospital, con ella esperando en el auto.
Cómo muchos, no soy fan de los hospitales. Incluso cuando los pintan de beige y los llenan de lámparas hoteleras, siguen sintiéndose y viéndose cómo el interior de un refrigerador sucio. Igual y esos son los escalofríos y sudor frío que se me trepan siempre que me meto a uno.
Pregunté por Cristina en la recepción y me perdí, tuve que dar cómo dos vueltas por todo el piso del hospital hasta llegar a su cuarto: el 204. Toqué la puerta y entré. Me recibió una chica de cómo treinta años de cabello largo negro, pálida cómo Cristina, chupando una Tootsie Pop de cereza. Se veía cansada, con sus ojos mostrando los rastros de una sombra que había sido corrida y arreglada varias veces.
-¿Vienes a ver a Cristina?- preguntó, con una voz ligeramente chillona.
- Si, señora- dije.
-No soy señora. Soy Enid, la tía de Cristina. Pásale- dijo y me dejó pasar.
Le di las gracias, cuidadosamente asomándome al cuarto. Y ahí vi a Cristina en la cama, con sus ojos cerrados y una venda sobre su frente. No sabía que fuera posible que se viera aún más pálida de lo que era, pero así estaba. Su pierna estaba firme y levantada, enroscada en un yeso ya con algunas firmas. La estaba viendo dormir, cosa que no esperaba hacer hasta ya que fuéramos novios. Ahora si tan solo pudiera hablar con ella. Cerré los ojos e intenté verla cómo cuando estaba despierta, cuando la veía en la escuela. Pero intenté no cerrar los ojos por demasiado tiempo, no quería verme raro. Le dejé las rosas con la carta entre las demás tarjetas y cajas de regalo que le habían dejado. Volteé a ver a Enid y le di las segundas y últimas gracias que le había dado en la visita y me fui.
Por una semana sentí la incertidumbre si iba a despertar Cristina. Por ahí los maestros nos decían que parecía que iba bien, pero no se podía confirmar nada aún. Nos recomendaron que si habláramos de sus padres que fuera solo para darle el pésame y no para más, que evitáramos cualquier mención de ellos en otros sentidos. Marcelina de Segundo B dijo que duró todo el día en el hospital gritando y llorando, pero Elizabeth de Segundo D decía que se la pasó encerrada, que nadie realmente podía saber si gritó tanto.  Luego un día llegó a la escuela en una silla de ruedas, escoltada por los prefectos. Se veía fría y distante, nada que ver con la Cristina que había visto en los recesos anteriores. En un receso, la vi viendo a los jugadores de futbol en el campo. Me acerqué a ella.
-¿Cristina?- le dije.
Volteó a verme.
-¿Qué quieres?- preguntó.
-Soy Benicio. Te fui a ver al hospital- le dije.
-¿El de la carta y las flores?-
-Sí-
-Ah. Gracias.-
-De nada. ¿Entonces te gustaron?-
-Si-
-¿También la carta?-
-Pues…me gustó tu letra. Y la ortografía-
Un grito desde el campo nos hizo voltear a verlos. Los jugadores estaban gritando y abrazándose, haciendo el tipo de gestos exagerados cómo los de “El Piojo” Herrera.
-Bueno, gracias- le dije
-De nada- contestó
Uno de los porteros sacó la pelota con una patada.
-¿Entonces yo no te gusto?-
-Ehm…no…ahorita no quiero novio-
-Va. Entiendo.-
-Perdón-
-No, está bien-
Me volteé para irme.
-Oye, no te vayas- dijo
Me regresé hacia dónde estaba ella.
-¿Qué pasa?
-Nada. Nada más si me gustaría que te quedaras aquí-
-Pero, ¿Y tus amigas?-
-Antes de todo este desmadre se estaban haciendo güey conmigo-
-Va, entiendo- Sonreí.
-Nada más una duda…-
Volteé a verla, intentando tragar saliva de la manera más disimulada.
-…¿Por qué no me dijiste antes?-
-Apenas me animé-
Asintió con la cabeza.
-Va-
-¿Si está todo bien?-
Un gentil coraje se veía en sus ojos.
-Es muy feo lo que te pasó-
-No me hagas mandarte a la chingada cómo a los demás-
-Perdón-
-No pasa nada, no hagas nada, ni me digas nada. Nada más quédate, ¿Va?-
-Va-
Dije y los dos nos quedamos viendo a los chavos jugar futbol.

​Oscar Moreno born and raised in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, México, endured the crime wave that took over Juárez in the late 2000s. During that time, he studied Creative Writing at the University of Texas at El Paso and then did a Master’s in Art and Design in the Autonomous University of Ciudad Juárez. His writing has been featured in the New York Times, the Seattle Star and the Rio Grande Review, while his scripts and short films have placed highly in such film festivals as the Sundance Lab and the Austin Film Festival. At present, he is in the Creative Writing MFA at UTEP, commuting every day across the border.

Rinconcito
es un rincón pequeño especial en Somos en escrito para escritos cortos: un poema, un cuento, una memoria, ficción de repente, y otros.
​

​Por Saray Argumedo

El viento fronterizo carga una voz quebrada, que grita dolor, rencor, sentimiento. Al caminar por la 16 de Septiembre hacia la Catedral, me acerco más y más y me doy cuenta que es el llanto de un hombre. Se encuentra tirado en una banca, en frente del edificio que en aquellos tiempos se llamaba el Cine Plaza. Trae una camiseta rota y percudida que dice “Bienvenido Papa Francisco a Ciudad Juárez”. Sus pantalones también se encuentran rotos y sucios, repletos de aceite de carro. No trae zapatos, sus pies llenos de ampollas de lo tanto que ha caminado descalzo.

A su lado derecho lo acompaña lo que parece ser una botella de agua, en ratos él bebe de la botella y la vuelve a dejar. Se persigna dos veces, mira hacia el cielo, une sus manos como si estuviese arrepentido.  Su rostro lleva lágrimas, llora y platica con el mismo, su saliva cae en sus piernas cada vez que agacha la cabeza para ver dónde está su botella. La gente pasa y se le queda viendo. Lo que muchos no entienden es que el hombre que se encuentra tirando en la banca, tomando, sin zapatos, borracho, es alguien que se dejó llevar por la tristeza.

¿Qué pena cargará que lo llevó al vicio?
¿Qué vida vivió que lo llevó a desahogar sé con una botella de alcohol?

La botella hoy carga su felicidad, en ella ha encontrado amor, paz, tranquilidad. Todo lo que no pudo encontrar en el mundo que hoy lo rodea, se encuentra en ella, se encuentra su querencia. Es tanto este amor que ni él es importante. Su mundo hoy consiste en vivir para tomar. Su hogar es la calle. Su paraíso se encuentra en cada trago. En ella se encuentran memorias de su niñez, de su juventud.

La libertad de ser niño, de amar sin pedir nada a cambio. En ella se encuentran consejos de su abuela, las historias que quedaran por siempre plasmadas en su memoria. En ella se encuentra el rostro de su madre, la decepción en su cara de verlo tirar su vida a la basura.Mientras él vive en su memoria los que pasan lo ven con asco, nada más ven lo que quieren ver. Ven a un hombre, vagabundo, borracho, miserable, pobre, muerto de hambre. Pasan y lo tratan como basura.

Lo que estos Cristianos no saben es que este hombre ha sufrido. Y por obras de la vida y el destino el decidió irse por el camino fácil.Con el alcohol intentó cobijar el sentimiento que llevaba dentro, intentó enterrar el rencor de su pasado, intentó ahogar la tristeza, pero lo que él no sabe es que la raíz del sufrimiento allí queda. El alcohol simplemente ablanda las espinas, en cuanto sale de nuestro cuerpo, las espinas vuelven a madurar y pican más que antes. La tristeza es como un túnel largo e obscuro, sin darnos cuenta nos desvía de la luz y se convierte en costumbre.

No se sabe que será de la vida de este hombre, pues igual nosotros cargamos con nuestro propio duelo. Y, ¿cómo ayudar a alguien, si ni si quiera podemos ayudarnos a nosotros mismos?

​Saray Argumedo is a fronteriza from El Paso, Texas, and Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, México, a graduate of the University of Texas El Paso where she published stories about local issues in the magazine called “Borderzine: Reporting Across Fronteras,” and a recent MA graduate in Community and Regional Planning, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. This is her second obra in Somos en escrito.

​Illustration by Andrew Huerta, www.artstation.com/andrewhuerta

By Álvaro Huerta

Part I

​I have always been nervous about visiting my old neighborhood.
One day, my brother Salomon—an acclaimed artist—invited my younger brothers (Noel and Ismael) and me to meet him at our old neighborhood—East Los Angeles’ notorious Ramona Gardens housing projects. (Apart from his good looks, Noel possessed the most talent and smarts among the brothers and in the projects.)
Salomon had to retouch his mural in memory of Arturo “Smokey” Jimenez, who was murdered by the cops in 1991. His killing sparked days of protests and riots from local residents against a long history of police brutality and harassment in America’s barrios.
Two days later, after receiving Salomon’s phone call, I drove my 1967 Mustang to the projects.
Many years had passed since I left the projects to attend UCLA, as a 17-year-old freshman—majoring in mathematics.
I always felt nervous about returning to my old neighborhood ever since, not knowing how my childhood friends and local homeboys would welcome me.
I abandoned them all: Buddy, Herby, Ivy, Chamino, Peanut Butter, Nayto, Teto, Tavo, Joaquin and Fat Ritchie. There is always a fat kid. I felt like I left them and my family in a hostile place.   Together, we were safe. Separated, we became vulnerable.
My heart pounded as I approached the graffiti-decorated projects. I parked at the Shell gas station on Soto Street, near the 10 freeway. I looked at the rear-view mirror, as I combed my dark black hair with my Tres Flores hair gel and reminded myself that this is where I came from. Be tough, I thought to myself. I gained my composure and slowly mustered a tough demeanor. Signs of weakness only attract the bullies in the projects. I started my engine, cruised over the railroad tracks, slowed down for the speed bumps, passed the vacant Carnation factory and parked in front of La Paloma Market—where our family got credit.
As I got out of my car, not far from Smokey’s mural, a couple of homeboys confronted me.
“Where are you from, ese?” one of the homeboys asked, slowly approaching me. Actually, it was more of a demand.
“Hey, punk, what are you doing in the projects?” a young homebody chimed in. He must have been only 13 years of age, but was ready to defend his neighborhood. Sometimes, being tough is the only thing that a kid from the projects has to hold unto.
Before I could answer, a stocky homeboy replied, “Hey, man, leave him alone. I know this vato. We go way back.”
“Fat Ritchie, is that you?” I asked, relieved to be saved from the onslaught of blows that awaited me. There is something about pain that never appealed to me.
“That’s right,” he said, as he welcomed me with a bear hug.
“Hey, bro, how did you get so buff?” I asked, amazed at his transformation from the neighborhood fat kid to the muscular gangster. “Where do you work out? Gold’s Gym?”
“Nah, man, try San Quentin State Prison,” he proudly responded. “There’s no Gold’s Gym in Ramona Gardens!”
“Oh,” I said, feeling like an idiot for asking a stupid question. “By the way, have you seen Nayto?”
“I don’t know what happened to him,” Fat Ritchie responded. “Most of the guys we hung out with as kids are either dead, in jail, on drugs or got kicked out by the housing authorities. Only the dedicated ones stuck around to protect the neighborhood.”
As kids, we roamed the projects without paranoid parents dictating our every move. Life back then was not as violent. It was a time before crack, PCP and high-powered guns flowed into the projects without limits. While drugs and violence existed before the drug business skyrocketed and outsiders intervened in the projects, back then, problems among the homeboys usually resulted in a fistfight. And since no rival gang or outsider dared to venture into the projects, Ramona Gardens was our haven—except when it came to the cops or housing authorities (who behaved more like prison guards).
We were just a bunch of project kids hanging out, playing sports and getting into trouble. Every time we got into trouble, Nayto was in the middle of it.
There was something special about Nayto. He was tall and muscular for an eleven-year-old. He was dark-skinned with curly brown hair. He had great athletic skills that gained him respect among his peers. Despite his crooked teeth, he was always smiling. He seemed restless, always planning for his next scheme and adventure. Like many kids from the projects, he didn’t have a father in the household, making it difficult for his mother to keep track of him and his two younger brothers.
Reminiscing about Nayto takes me back to my childhood, when I played sports with my friends all day long. We liked playing baseball. It was a hot Sunday morning. We met, like always, in front of Murchison Street Elementary School. We had no parks in the projects, so we played on Murchison’s hot asphalt playground. We brought our cracked bats, old gloves, ripped baseballs and hand-me-down Dodger jerseys.
One by one, we scaled the school’s twelve-feet fence. Most of us climbed easily, like Marines performing boot camp drills. Yet, Fat Ritchie struggled. Like many other times, he found himself sitting on top of the fence, as Buddy shook it.
“Don’t mess around man,” Fat Ritchie pleaded with Buddy to stop.
“Hey, Buddy,” said Nayto, “leave him alone or else I’ll kick your ass, again.”
Once on the playground, we picked teams. Suddenly, Nayto ran off towards the school’s bungalows without saying a word. The game was not the same without Nayto. We would miss his home runs and wild curveballs. He would even nose dive like Pete Rose, when stealing second base. But, the game must go on, where we started to play without our best player.
Short a man, the team captains argued over the odd number of players to pick from. As a compromise, they decided that the team with less players got stuck with Fat Ritchie.
As the game began, we heard a noise coming from the janitor’s storage facility, adjacent to the empty bungalows with the broken windows.
“It’s just Nayto messing around,” yelled Joaquin from right field.
In the bottom of the third inning, Nayto finally emerged from the storage area. He ran across the playing ground with his clothes drenched in what appeared to be motor oil.
“Nobody say shit or else,” Nayto yelled, as he interrupted our game.
“What did he say?” asked Buddy.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Let’s keep playing, it’s just Nayto being Nayto.”
“Come on, let’s play,” said Herby. “I need to go home before I Love Lucy re-runs start.”
A few minutes later, a police helicopter appeared over the storage area. Five LAPD cars surrounded the school. Before we could run, the cops cut the lock on the fence and stormed the playground like a SWAT Team.
We knew the routine: we got down on our knees, put our hands behind the back of our heads and waited to be spoken to.
“Did you street punks see a dirty Mexican kid run through here a few minutes ago?” said a white cop. “He’s about five feet tall and full of oil.”
Following the neighborhood code, we stayed quiet in unison.
“Fine,” said the exasperated cop. “Clear this playground before I arrest all of you for trespassing.”
Frustrated, the cops drove away without knowing about Nayto’s whereabouts.
Pissed off, we slowly picked up our bats, gloves and balls to leave the school playground.
Out of nowhere, Nayto reappeared and ran towards the storage room, again. This time, he emerged carrying a large, oily item. 
“Nayto ripped off Toney-the-Janitor,” said Fat Ritchie in a panic, while checking out the pillaged storage room.
We all ran home, before the cops returned.
Days later, as we played tackle football on the parking lot, Nayto cruised by in a gas-powered go-cart. We stopped our game and chased after him on our old bikes and skateboards.
It wasn’t your typical push-from-behind, wooden go-cart. It was a customized, low rider go-cart: painted cherry red, velvet seat covers, leather steering wheel and small whitewall tires with chrome-plated spoke rims. The engine was positioned in the back, like a VW Beatle. It had a Chevrolet emblem glued to the front.
It was a barrio gem!
“Where did you get that low rider go-cart?” I asked with envy.
“I made it myself,” Nayto said, not making a big fuss over his invention.
Aware of his tendency to lie, I closely examined the go-cart. The frame consisted of parts from Nayto’s old Schwinn bike. The seat—with the velvet upholstery—was a milk crate taken from La Paloma Market. And I will never forget the leather steering wheel, which Nayto took or borrowed from a stolen ’76 Cadillac El Dorado convertible that the homeboys abandoned in the projects. It still had the shiny Cadillac emblem in the center. In the front of the go-cart, the Chevrolet emblem also originated from a stolen car in the projects.
Once stripped by the homeboys, like a piñata at a kids party, the stolen car parts were up for grabs for the locals, prior to being torched.
The engine looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out where Nayto got it from.
“Read what is says on the engine,” Nayto said, impatiently.
I took a second look at the oily engine. “Property of M.S.E.S?” I asked, not being able to decipher the acronym.
“I thought you were the smart one?” Nayto said with a smirk. “M.S.E.S. stands for Murchison Street Elementary School.”
“Oh, man!” I said. “You stole that … I mean … you got that from the storage room when the cops were looking for you the other day at Murchison.”
“Why do you think the school doesn’t clean the playground anymore?” he asked. “Do you remember that big vacuum cleaner that Toney-the-Janitor drove after school, while trying to hit us?”
“Yeah, that jerk hit me one time,” I said. 
“I hated that man,” said Nayto. “That’s what he gets for messing with us.”
“How about a ride?” I asked.
“Get on before the cops come by,” he replied.
We cruised around the projects in his customized, low rider go-cart, chasing down the little kids on their way to church and the winos in front of Food Gardens Market. Protecting their turf, the winos hurled empty Budweiser bottles at us, missing us by a mile. Unfazed, Nayto stepped on the pedal. Not paying attention, he ran over a cat. It belonged to Mother Rose, the only black lady left in the projects. Fearing Mother Rose’s wrath, he kept driving until we got drenched from the water gushing from the yellow fire hydrant on Crusado Lane. 
Lacking a local pool, the homeboys would open the fire hydrant during hot days for the kids.
Driving for almost an hour, we ran out of gas. Luckily, Nayto was always prepared. He had a small water hose handy, where I volunteered to siphon gas from an old Toyota Pickup that belonged to Father John Santillan from Santa Teresita Church. Nayto claimed that he was once an altar boy, where Father John wouldn’t mind if we borrowed some gas.
Either way, there were some bad rumors in the neighborhood about Father John, so we didn’t consider it a sin.
Grateful for the ride, I siphoned the gas before the Sunday mass ended. The gas left a bad taste in my mouth. The Wrigley's Spearmint gum that my father gave me later that day didn’t help. That adventurous ride, however, was worth every drop of gas that I consumed.
Those were the days...

Part II

The phone rang. It was 3:00 a.m. I slowly opened my eyes, taking a deep breath before I answered the call.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing that good news never comes this early.
“Fat Ritchie passed away,” Buddy said. “The cops killed him, where witnesses said he was not armed.”
I hung up the phone. I felt numb. Another childhood friend was killed. When was this ever going to end, I wondered aloud?
Like most of the kids from the projects, from day one, Fat Ritchie never had a chance. He was a short, chubby kid who was constantly picked on by the neighborhood bullies. Whenever we played handball, one of the bullies would force him to stand against the wall until everyone had a chance to hit him with the ball. Once, while playing football at Murchison, the quarterback gave him the ball and everyone, including his teammates, dog piled on him until he couldn’t breathe. When he got up, everyone acted like they were innocent. 
Since I last saw him, however, no one dared to pick on Fat Ritchie. Those who thrived in the penitentiary returned with a sense of respect and status. 
While Fat Ritchie had earned the respect of the neighborhood, it was another story with the cops. Angry that they couldn’t bust him on a major crime, the cops falsely arrested Fat Ritchie for armed robbery based on the word of a local snitch. A couple of years later, upon his release, Fat Ritchie became another victim of police brutality.
Three days after receiving the tragic news, I returned to the projects to pay my last respects to Fat Ritchie. It was also an opportunity to reunite with my other childhood friends.
I arrived late. The church was full. I decided to wait outside with the other mourners, waiting for the coffin to be taken to the hearse. 
Suddenly, I saw a tall homeboy with dark skin and curly brown hair carrying the coffin with three other homeboys. They’re all dressed in black with dark sun glasses. 
“Is that Nayto?” I asked a stranger.
“What, ese?” he asked, sounding annoyed while he got closer to me.
“Back off, man,” I replied, letting him know that I, too, grew up in the projects.
Once the homeboys gently placed the coffin inside the hearse, I walked towards the tall homeboy, as he made his way towards a 1967 Impala low rider. He got into his car and started the engine. 
“Nayto, is that you?” I yelled out in his direction. 
He glanced at me and, with without a word, drove away towards the cemetery.
A tear came down my cheek.