Under the Aztec Sun
As he slowly regained consciousness, Martinez felt he was dreaming. Confined in a small dark space, he was being jostled up and down. It took several minutes for his head to clear, but once it did he was able to identify the steady humming noise as that of an automobile engine. In the dark he tried to stretch his legs, only to realize that someone had him hogtied.
Maria? He pictured his wife, Maria. God, why couldn’t he think straight? Straining to recall what had happened, Martinez drew a blank. He’d been angry with Maria. But angry about what? Each surfacing image was unclear. Like fragments of a faded photograph or puzzling scenes of a movie incorrectly stitched together.
Realizing he was in the trunk of a moving car was easy. Figuring out how he got there was not. He breathed in the hot musty air. Was he inside Maria’s Pinto. Wait. The Pinto was a hatchback. No trunk. By the roughness of the ride he easily determined the driver was speeding down some unpaved road. But headed where?
The bumping suddenly halted, the engine quieted. Martinez heard the driver’s side door being slammed shut. Footsteps crunched over gravel. Someone fumbled with a key. And then the trunk flew open and Martinez closed his eyes against the blinding sunlight. When he opened them again, he recognized the Indian blanket he sometimes spread out on park grass so Maria could sit without staining her clothes. He was in his own trunk. But who was outside? Martinez squinted, but only saw mottled colors floating against a dark silhouette. Maria? No. The silhouette belonged to a man. A large man.
Still unable to make out the shadowy figure, Martinez cleared his parched throat and said, “Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want?”
A solemn, low-pitched voice answered, “I’m the man whose life you destroyed.”
The big man slowly eased into focus. Martinez watched him pull a white handkerchief from an inside pocket of his black coat and wipe his pockmarked face. His hair was tucked beneath a tilted fedora. Behind the man, Saguaro cactuses stood apart at irregular distances with their limbs held up like scarecrows guarding an endless stretch of baked red earth.
“I don’t know you,” Martinez said, feeling dampness under his arms. He tried, but was unable to squirm free of his restraints.
Maria. Something about Maria filled his mind. A Taco Bell on Sepulveda. It grew clear. He remembered now that he had caught her coming out of the restaurant with another man. But it wasn’t this man who stood outside the trunk, was it? No. The man with Maria was much younger, much thinner. But who was that man with Maria? More importantly, who was this man in front of him?
The big man turned his back to Martinez and raised an arm. He removed his fedora and swiped a forearm across his forehead. For a long time he stared into the thick emptiness of the desert. When he finally turned around to face Martinez again, the man said, “It was my daughter’s fifteenth birthday.”
Martinez closed his eyes and tried to draw out the memory of this man. Nothing. All he could recollect was Maria. She and her companion had sat down beside each other at a patio table. They laughed and touched fingertips under the shade of a large green-and-white umbrella.
Martinez remembered the hurt he felt when seeing his wife with another man. The physical pain in his chest. The turning in his stomach. The wobbling of his legs. All that rushed back. But the man outside. Martinez had no recollection of him.
“She was all I had,” the big man said. He turned back around to face Martinez and slowly leaned his head into the trunk, so close that Martinez could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath.
“Who are you?” Martinez said.
The man pulled away and said, “I am a man with nothing left to live for."
“Oh, God,” Martinez murmured.
The big man shook his head. “You remember now, don’t you?”
Martinez remembered.
While he’d sat watching from his car, Maria had leaned into her companion. They kissed. Martinez had gripped the steering wheel. His vision blurred. He recalled with clarity how he reached beneath the seat and felt the cold steel of the pistol. Then everything happened quickly. He pointed the weapon out the window and kept squeezing the trigger until the magazine was empty. Maria was on the ground. Her lover, too. But it was the table behind Maria and her lover. That was where he’d seen him. Martinez’s eyes widened. “God. I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter.”
The big man closed his eyes and raised his head to face the blistering sun. He breathed in deeply as if he needed his lungs to hold every bit of the desert air. His eyes welled. Red flecks were visible on his pulsing neck and his twitching nose.
Closing his eyes again, Martinez replayed the final moment in the Taco Bell parking lot. The big man was weeping, holding his daughter in his arms. Then when the man spotted Martinez, he had carefully laid his child onto the ground. When the man got to his feet and started across the lot, Martinez squeezed the trigger. But the weapon had been empty. He could still hear the hollow clicks. He had tried to restart his car. Then the big man was upon him. Nothing after that.
“Don’t kill me,” Martinez said.
The big man shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Relieved, Martinez sighed.
Once again the big man raised his face to the sky. “The Aztec sun will take us both.” He then turned and started across the earth. Martinez screamed, but the man continued on until he reached the nearest Saguaro. There he sat and closed his eyes. While Martinez screamed, the big man removed his cap and set it in his lap.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Personal Business
Personal Business
Gil. Talk about a pancake. Guy finds out his wife’s getting hammered by a coworker and what’s the first thing he does? He calls me up to ask if he should apologize for neglecting her.
“Sure,” I say. “Buy her some roses, too. Hell, why not go all out and bring home a stone.”
“I’m serious,” Gil says. “She went outside the marriage because I never made time for her.”
So naturally, I want to know -- since he’s got a handle on his wife’s affair -- why he’s wasting his dime on me.
“I want Trixie’s lover offed,” he says.
“I don’t do domestic disputes.” Sure, I’m in the business of leveling the playing field, but I don’t get involved with domestics. Too crazy. Too unpredictable. Too emotional.
“But we’re practically brothers,” Gil says.
“If I do it for you . . . word gets out and next thing you know every jellybean whose wife spins a fling starts wanting a personal favor. It’s not good business to get involved in personal shit.”
Gil, after pausing on the phone for a few moments, says, “I’d do it for you.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Would you?”
“You know I would.”
God damn pancake. Forced my fucking hand. “So you’re saying you’d off yourself for me.
“When Gil doesn’t answer right away, I can almost feel his fear bolting right through the phone line. What’d he think? That I didn’t know?
Charlotte, loafing on the living-room sofa, turns down the volume on the television. Good. She needs to hear this, too.
Gil finally breaks his silence, speaks: “I’m not sure I get what you’re saying.”
I try real hard to keep anger out of my tone. “So I’m what, Gil? A sap? You don‘t think I know you’ve been banging Charlotte?”
Charlotte glances up, wide-eyed. I narrow my eyes, can almost see beads of sweat bubbling up on her forehead.
“It’s not like that. I mean --” But Gil’s brain is spinning faster than he can slap the sentences together.
Charlotte’s still staring. She’s scratching an elbow and blinking a lot.
“I have to get going,” Gil says. In the earpiece, his voice is quavering.
“No.” I reply. “Not yet. Besides, Charlotte wants to say good-bye to you.”
On the sofa, Charlotte stiffens. Her eyes grow even rounder.
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says. “Let’s you and I talk about this.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing. Talking.” I raise my free hand, point to Charlotte, curl my finger to call her over. “Hold on. She’s coming.”
Charlotte shakes her head.“Oh. I guess she doesn’t want to talk right now. Too bad.” Then I tell Gil, whose breathing has grown quick, that Charlotte’s not going to say goodbye after all.”
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says again. “Don’t do anything hasty.”
I wait a minute before answering. Then I say, “You’re right Gil. Let me try your approach.”
Gil doesn’t say anything. Charlotte doesn’t move.
Still holding the phone, I address Charlotte, saying “Babe. Sorry I neglected to find time for you.” I reach inside my coat, withdraw my revolver, thumb the hammer back.
“Not like this,” Charlotte says, real soft. “Please, Ricky, not like this.”
“What’re you doing?” Gil says, his voice in a desperate panic. “What are you doing, Ricardo?”
I squeeze the trigger. Charlotte falls back into the coffee table. Shit crashes everywhere. I breathe in the sulfuric odor and place the revolver on the kitchen counter. Then I raise the receiver to my mouth, say to Gil, “No. Your way didn’t work so well. My way didn‘t either, but what the hell.”
The phone on the other end crashes down into its cradle. I go over to the sofa and sit down, grab the remote and start searching channels. Charlotte’s on top of the collapsed coffee table, a forearm over her face. The bullet entered her throat. Blood is still containing, arterial spray littering the whole damned place.
I check my watch. Gil. What a fucking pancake. He won’t be hard to find. Some pancakes -- they just don’t have the sense to listen. After all, I did try to convince him getting involved with domestic strife was too emotional.
***
BIO: Robert Aquino Dollesin was still a kid when he left the Philippines. He now resides in Sacramento, where he writes now and again. Among numerous other venues, some of his work can be found on Storyglossia, Nossa Morte, Big Stupid Review, and forthcoming in Thug Lit.
Gil. Talk about a pancake. Guy finds out his wife’s getting hammered by a coworker and what’s the first thing he does? He calls me up to ask if he should apologize for neglecting her.
“Sure,” I say. “Buy her some roses, too. Hell, why not go all out and bring home a stone.”
“I’m serious,” Gil says. “She went outside the marriage because I never made time for her.”
So naturally, I want to know -- since he’s got a handle on his wife’s affair -- why he’s wasting his dime on me.
“I want Trixie’s lover offed,” he says.
“I don’t do domestic disputes.” Sure, I’m in the business of leveling the playing field, but I don’t get involved with domestics. Too crazy. Too unpredictable. Too emotional.
“But we’re practically brothers,” Gil says.
“If I do it for you . . . word gets out and next thing you know every jellybean whose wife spins a fling starts wanting a personal favor. It’s not good business to get involved in personal shit.”
Gil, after pausing on the phone for a few moments, says, “I’d do it for you.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Would you?”
“You know I would.”
God damn pancake. Forced my fucking hand. “So you’re saying you’d off yourself for me.
“When Gil doesn’t answer right away, I can almost feel his fear bolting right through the phone line. What’d he think? That I didn’t know?
Charlotte, loafing on the living-room sofa, turns down the volume on the television. Good. She needs to hear this, too.
Gil finally breaks his silence, speaks: “I’m not sure I get what you’re saying.”
I try real hard to keep anger out of my tone. “So I’m what, Gil? A sap? You don‘t think I know you’ve been banging Charlotte?”
Charlotte glances up, wide-eyed. I narrow my eyes, can almost see beads of sweat bubbling up on her forehead.
“It’s not like that. I mean --” But Gil’s brain is spinning faster than he can slap the sentences together.
Charlotte’s still staring. She’s scratching an elbow and blinking a lot.
“I have to get going,” Gil says. In the earpiece, his voice is quavering.
“No.” I reply. “Not yet. Besides, Charlotte wants to say good-bye to you.”
On the sofa, Charlotte stiffens. Her eyes grow even rounder.
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says. “Let’s you and I talk about this.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing. Talking.” I raise my free hand, point to Charlotte, curl my finger to call her over. “Hold on. She’s coming.”
Charlotte shakes her head.“Oh. I guess she doesn’t want to talk right now. Too bad.” Then I tell Gil, whose breathing has grown quick, that Charlotte’s not going to say goodbye after all.”
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says again. “Don’t do anything hasty.”
I wait a minute before answering. Then I say, “You’re right Gil. Let me try your approach.”
Gil doesn’t say anything. Charlotte doesn’t move.
Still holding the phone, I address Charlotte, saying “Babe. Sorry I neglected to find time for you.” I reach inside my coat, withdraw my revolver, thumb the hammer back.
“Not like this,” Charlotte says, real soft. “Please, Ricky, not like this.”
“What’re you doing?” Gil says, his voice in a desperate panic. “What are you doing, Ricardo?”
I squeeze the trigger. Charlotte falls back into the coffee table. Shit crashes everywhere. I breathe in the sulfuric odor and place the revolver on the kitchen counter. Then I raise the receiver to my mouth, say to Gil, “No. Your way didn’t work so well. My way didn‘t either, but what the hell.”
The phone on the other end crashes down into its cradle. I go over to the sofa and sit down, grab the remote and start searching channels. Charlotte’s on top of the collapsed coffee table, a forearm over her face. The bullet entered her throat. Blood is still containing, arterial spray littering the whole damned place.
I check my watch. Gil. What a fucking pancake. He won’t be hard to find. Some pancakes -- they just don’t have the sense to listen. After all, I did try to convince him getting involved with domestic strife was too emotional.
***
BIO: Robert Aquino Dollesin was still a kid when he left the Philippines. He now resides in Sacramento, where he writes now and again. Among numerous other venues, some of his work can be found on Storyglossia, Nossa Morte, Big Stupid Review, and forthcoming in Thug Lit.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Eternal Grains of Sand
Subbed on 10/3/09 to Smokelong Quarterly
***
Eternal Grains of Sand
Grainy red twilight streamed through the billowing kitchen curtains of an Ohio farmhouse.
Standing in front of the sideboard, a young housewife blotted her palms on her apron. She then reached out and wrapped her fingers around an egg-timer. She flipped the egg-timer over and watched with awe as fine yellow grains trickled through the egg-timer's cinched center.
On a secluded beach in the Indian Ocean a team of artists gathered at the base of a mound of yellow sand that had drizzled down from the heavens. Working together, the determined artists molded the sand into a huge block. Once their huge block of sand had been moistened with frothy seawater, the artists began to painstakingly sculpt. Armed with bottomless buckets, high pillars were formed. Crafting additional blocks of sand in the same manner, the artists erected the four ornate walls of an ancient temple.
The temple was shaded by wide-canopied, fruit-bearing trees. Then colorful birds and screaming monkeys and creeping mammals were brought in to fill the sky above the trees and the crotches of the trees themselves and the earth beneath the trees and the hollows beneath the earth. Metallic-armored insects were released to provide glint and buzz to the silent nights. Stars and a moon were tossed into the air to sparkle the black sky.
Satisfied with the world they'd put together, the artists stepped into the temple they'd created and began to etch a smaller block of sand into a low round table.
Once finished, the artists departed the temple and disappeared like vapor into the misty forest.
For a long time, time stood still. Vines tangled the walls and the pillars of the temple. Gnarled roots of the trees the artists had planted grew up out of the earth around the temple. The insects and animals multiplied, evolved into different creatures.
Then one night a monk robed in orange appeared from a gap between the trees that surrounded the temple. The shadows of the leaves of the trees shivered on the monk's pale and solemn face.
Slowly, he made his way over the earth and entered the temple. Stooping over the low table that the artists had built, the monk began to chant. He removed his chakpu from inside his robe and tapped it over the low table, releasing a flow of red sand. The sand dripping from the chakpu changed colors. Orange and blue and yellow. Working throughout the night, the monk tapped out a brilliant rainbow; circle encircling circle encircling circle.
His work complete, the monk departed the temple and disappeared into the same surrounding forest in which the artists had gone.
Inside the temple, on top of the low table, in the rainbow's vibrant red center – its eye -- a young Ohio housewife stood in the glow of the grainy red twilight streaming in through the billowing curtains of her kitchen window and blotted her palms on her apron. She then reached out and wrapped her fingers around an egg-timer.
***
Eternal Grains of Sand
Grainy red twilight streamed through the billowing kitchen curtains of an Ohio farmhouse.
Standing in front of the sideboard, a young housewife blotted her palms on her apron. She then reached out and wrapped her fingers around an egg-timer. She flipped the egg-timer over and watched with awe as fine yellow grains trickled through the egg-timer's cinched center.
On a secluded beach in the Indian Ocean a team of artists gathered at the base of a mound of yellow sand that had drizzled down from the heavens. Working together, the determined artists molded the sand into a huge block. Once their huge block of sand had been moistened with frothy seawater, the artists began to painstakingly sculpt. Armed with bottomless buckets, high pillars were formed. Crafting additional blocks of sand in the same manner, the artists erected the four ornate walls of an ancient temple.
The temple was shaded by wide-canopied, fruit-bearing trees. Then colorful birds and screaming monkeys and creeping mammals were brought in to fill the sky above the trees and the crotches of the trees themselves and the earth beneath the trees and the hollows beneath the earth. Metallic-armored insects were released to provide glint and buzz to the silent nights. Stars and a moon were tossed into the air to sparkle the black sky.
Satisfied with the world they'd put together, the artists stepped into the temple they'd created and began to etch a smaller block of sand into a low round table.
Once finished, the artists departed the temple and disappeared like vapor into the misty forest.
For a long time, time stood still. Vines tangled the walls and the pillars of the temple. Gnarled roots of the trees the artists had planted grew up out of the earth around the temple. The insects and animals multiplied, evolved into different creatures.
Then one night a monk robed in orange appeared from a gap between the trees that surrounded the temple. The shadows of the leaves of the trees shivered on the monk's pale and solemn face.
Slowly, he made his way over the earth and entered the temple. Stooping over the low table that the artists had built, the monk began to chant. He removed his chakpu from inside his robe and tapped it over the low table, releasing a flow of red sand. The sand dripping from the chakpu changed colors. Orange and blue and yellow. Working throughout the night, the monk tapped out a brilliant rainbow; circle encircling circle encircling circle.
His work complete, the monk departed the temple and disappeared into the same surrounding forest in which the artists had gone.
Inside the temple, on top of the low table, in the rainbow's vibrant red center – its eye -- a young Ohio housewife stood in the glow of the grainy red twilight streaming in through the billowing curtains of her kitchen window and blotted her palms on her apron. She then reached out and wrapped her fingers around an egg-timer.
Characters
Characters
Robert on Sunday felt them wriggling beneath his skin, contorting their bodies in an attempt to burst free. They sucked from within, their outlines swelling each time they drew breath. The suckered pads of their palms pressed outward, and they altered their shapes inside him.
They rose and swirled like soap bubbles. Their colors leaped through Robert's veins, leaving a milky trail. And their textures – like colored-paper streamers – whipped against his organs.
From very far away they pleaded, revealed themselves.
Allison, eating her hand. Montague, his undulating skin rippling with color. Beverlyn, murky water rising in her coffin. Boston Joe, his body reshaping itself like clay.
They blew warm breaths against the inside of Robert's eyelids, they dug the marrow from his bones with curved fingernails.
They materialized from smoky vapors and shattered mirrors. They melted on his tongue. Their odors pounced on him. Like bugspray, like cook grease, like strawberry-scented candles. They popped like kindling, batted the screens like insects, wailed like patrol cars.
“Tell my tale,” they begged.
So Robert picked up his pen. But when he began to write . . .
. . . they faded away.
Robert on Sunday felt them wriggling beneath his skin, contorting their bodies in an attempt to burst free. They sucked from within, their outlines swelling each time they drew breath. The suckered pads of their palms pressed outward, and they altered their shapes inside him.
They rose and swirled like soap bubbles. Their colors leaped through Robert's veins, leaving a milky trail. And their textures – like colored-paper streamers – whipped against his organs.
From very far away they pleaded, revealed themselves.
Allison, eating her hand. Montague, his undulating skin rippling with color. Beverlyn, murky water rising in her coffin. Boston Joe, his body reshaping itself like clay.
They blew warm breaths against the inside of Robert's eyelids, they dug the marrow from his bones with curved fingernails.
They materialized from smoky vapors and shattered mirrors. They melted on his tongue. Their odors pounced on him. Like bugspray, like cook grease, like strawberry-scented candles. They popped like kindling, batted the screens like insects, wailed like patrol cars.
“Tell my tale,” they begged.
So Robert picked up his pen. But when he began to write . . .
. . . they faded away.
Sores
Sores --
The red, dime-sized rosettes first appeared on the back of my neck. Next day they'd spread to my shoulders. Got to itching so bad I couldn't put a shirt on. By that second night the tiny blisters covered every inch of my body. The slightest movement caused scores of them to burst, leaving oozing wounds. Hardly able to move, I grabbed the phone, called Rachel, told her to come straight over.
She got in using the key under the mat. She came into the bedroom. You in here, Petey?
I'm In bed.
She hit the lights. Catching sight of me she brought her hands to her mouth. You gotta be kidding me. She crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed. She asked, Can I touch? I nodded. Rachel gently ran her fingertips over the sores. Then she shed her clothes, pressed herself against me. Whispering in my ear, she asked, How long until I'm infected?
I told her the bumps had spread wildfire-quick. She smiled. I gotta call Jenna.
You'll be sorry, I said, feeling milky liquid ooze from the rashes.
Why?
You know soon as people know you got something, they want a piece, too.
The red, dime-sized rosettes first appeared on the back of my neck. Next day they'd spread to my shoulders. Got to itching so bad I couldn't put a shirt on. By that second night the tiny blisters covered every inch of my body. The slightest movement caused scores of them to burst, leaving oozing wounds. Hardly able to move, I grabbed the phone, called Rachel, told her to come straight over.
She got in using the key under the mat. She came into the bedroom. You in here, Petey?
I'm In bed.
She hit the lights. Catching sight of me she brought her hands to her mouth. You gotta be kidding me. She crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed. She asked, Can I touch? I nodded. Rachel gently ran her fingertips over the sores. Then she shed her clothes, pressed herself against me. Whispering in my ear, she asked, How long until I'm infected?
I told her the bumps had spread wildfire-quick. She smiled. I gotta call Jenna.
You'll be sorry, I said, feeling milky liquid ooze from the rashes.
Why?
You know soon as people know you got something, they want a piece, too.
Arm in the Wall
The Arm in the Wall #22
In the one room apartment I rented after my wife walked out on me, there is an arm sticking out of the wall next to the sunburst clock. Most of the time the arm just dangles quietly from the wall. But once in a while it will raise itself up and wave to me. Glad for the company, I wave back.
Sometimes I wonder if there is more to the arm in the wall than just an arm. I mean, if I chipped away at the stucco would I discover an attached torso, legs, a head? On very rainy days I’m tempted to take up an ice pick and go at it. But then I begin to remember my wife, how content I was before I realized there was more to her than two ample breasts and a moist vagina.
I think I’ll just continue sitting here, enjoying the fact that the arm is still just an arm.
In the one room apartment I rented after my wife walked out on me, there is an arm sticking out of the wall next to the sunburst clock. Most of the time the arm just dangles quietly from the wall. But once in a while it will raise itself up and wave to me. Glad for the company, I wave back.
Sometimes I wonder if there is more to the arm in the wall than just an arm. I mean, if I chipped away at the stucco would I discover an attached torso, legs, a head? On very rainy days I’m tempted to take up an ice pick and go at it. But then I begin to remember my wife, how content I was before I realized there was more to her than two ample breasts and a moist vagina.
I think I’ll just continue sitting here, enjoying the fact that the arm is still just an arm.
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