#listlo

We call him Watchman. Not because that’s what he calls himself, it’s actually what he calls us but you say the same phrase over and over again and it becomes a thing. It’s kind of weird to think about cause the nickname he gave us and the nickname we gave him is the same. “Watchman! Watchman!” is what he would say when he entered the store. It started with my dad first because he’d watch over the customers to see if anyone steals. Plenty of opportunists in this neighborhood but that’s how it is over here. Soon it spread to my coworker, then my brother. I’m consistently the youngest so I’m Watchman Jr. 

He’s about my father’s age, late 50’s to early 60’s, a night time customer. There is always a distinction between night time customers and day time customers at the liquor store. If you’re an all day customer you have a problem. He comes in wearing his neon yellow construction vest each time so I want to say he comes in after work. A skinny man, Black-American, wears glasses that seem to cover about half his face. A bit gaunt, maybe that’s how he is, but I’d like to imagine that years of heavy labor never allowed him to gain a pound of fat on his body. He buys Milwaukee 6-pack and maybe a shot of Gilbeys. That’s the cheapest beer combined with the cheapest and smallest liquor. It’s the beer and liquor of the homeless but in this neighborhood where the most common complaint is how hard times have become, the savings choice. You can tell a lot by the drinks people choose. A working class guy like him coming in to buy the same cheap stuff everyday, he favors the buzz over the taste. He knows exactly what the price should be so he’s probably frugal and a bit of thinker at the very least. Plenty of people come in everyday, buy the same thing, never aware of how much it is. It’s just part of their daily program. Give a $20, take the change, go home. It’s certainly not because they’re wealthy to the extent money is no longer an issue, just that the lack of money has become an ingrained issue. But Watchman notices. He always makes noise when the price increases.

I tell the few who notice the same programmed response. Everything is going up. Rent is going up. Gas is going up. Food is going up. So is liquor. It’s at that point they come to realization that’s its a universal truth and even us being “prestigious” business owner of something like a liquor store are just mere pawns in the games of a world much larger than any of us. But that doesn’t stop the complaints, they see the store owner in front of them. They have a direct connection to the man who prices every single item in the store. This isn’t McDonalds or Walmart where they’ll be crushed by the corporate steps. All they have to do is complain to make their voices heard. Unfortunately it falls onto my father’s deaf ears and they know that. They know that if put in my father’s shoes they’d make the same choices. It’s a business, not a charity. We have to remind them that sometimes. 

But Watchman never makes his noise in a serious way. More like something to fill the void of silence. He’s certainly a peculiar person. He espouses the negative stereotypes of his race. He pretends to hide beer in his vest and run away. Complains incessantly for no reason. Asks for free every single time. Tells us his plan to get away with a free beer. It’s as if he plays a caricature of his race, complete with exaggerated manner of behavior and speech. Like a meta-level social commentary. I find the theory of it funnier than the reality. It’s kind of uncomfortable cause it’d be like laughing at what I think a minstrel show was, besides he’s just a regular old black guy who works construction, so I don’t know what to take of it. I think he realizes this, he’s perceptive, goes back to noticing the change in prices. Now he talks about marrying my mom and he tells me it’s ok to for me to call him daddy. He never takes his change. Always the same return when I try to give it to him, “Son put that into your college fund”. It’s about 7 cents max. I return the favor when he’s a bit short but that’s rare. 

In a lower class neighborhood like this there a hood moments. It’s usually a culmination of a guy whose just had enough. That movie “Falling Down” with Micheal Douglas, he plays an office worker who just had enough of the life and has a break down leading up to a chain of events where he ends up with like an RPG on the boardwalk and in a confrontation with the police. That’s kind of what a hood moment is. It’s hard out here. People are always watching their back, distrust is high amongst each other and the larger world itself. Life can’t get any worse, to some people prison is literally preferable because at least in there you’re taken care of. In the real world, you can easily end up in fate worse than that and you see just that all around you. Stress just builds up. You end up living a life with a permanent chip on your shoulder cause you have it worst. You can bring up starving kids in Africa but nobody has actually  of us have ever seen a starving kid in Africa, that’s just TV and you see all sorts of things on TV. Hood moments always transpire over the smallest infractions, it’s never really about the infraction. Like I said it’s a culmination of all the infractions over the course of lifetime and a deep seated somewhat rightful resentment of the world. That small infraction is just the straw the broke the camel’s camels back. But when you’re stuck in a neighborhood where everyone is like that, everyones on edge, everyone is one straw away from something like even murder, it leaves everywhere a powderkeg waiting to explode. But this is a liquor store so it’s a big powderkeg. This sentimentality exists everywhere in the country but what separates the hood from upper middle class is that in the back of everyone’s head, they have nothing to lose so it’s dangerous.  

My dad from time to time have these hood moments. People come in disrespecting him because of his race. Complaining about prices after he’s already explained the situation to them every day  before that. Dealing with homeless people who smell of a literal human shit and at times even cleaning it. My mother’s complaints which are perfectly logical in her head but not based on any type of actual evidence. Just dealing with the same general petty bullshit that the hood is rife with on a day to day for most of his day, for most of the year. It has a way of weathering down a man’s spirit. 

Our neighborhood passed a law banning the use of single use plastic bag. It’s been the biggest source of complaints. It’s probably because of the environment and the recent push to protect which I’m all for but that’s because I come from a bit of money. People around here have more immediate issues to address than something abstract like global warming. Those words are in the same playing fields as Dow Jones or the conflict in some place in the world where no one can point to it in the map. People already pay 5 cents per bag because of the county tax and now they’re telling us that we can’t have plastic. It’s absurd to the people here. Its worse particularly in the liquor store (everythings worse at a liquor store) because beer is chilled so when it leaves refrigerator it naturally gets wet because of the humidity or whatever science behind that. Wet paper = ripped paper. You need to legally be able to cover the alcohol to not get an open carry ticket and in a neighborhood where most residents don’t own cars and the cops are fierce, that’s an imperative. Combine that with the economic situation in which the cheapest single paper bag bought in bulk costs more than the 5 cent charge the government requires so we’re losing money on every bag which is more or less required for every purchase. Legally we could charge more for the bags but when the major chain grocery stores across the street who buy bags in what probably seems like millions in bulk can get away with the 5 cents, we can’t. We can’t increase cause we’d seem like the greedy ones. People don’t already want to pay 5 cents for a bag they don’t like. It’s a perfect storm for the making of a hood moment. 

“Your writing isn’t talented, it’s gifted”, that’s what Professor Collins said to me. I’ve never been good with compliments so I said a meek thank you and made note that I do write a lot. I didn’t want him to think that I just came into class and wrote the initial assessment essay and it happened to be to his liking. That there was real work behind it. Years of writing on some blog that had a small but I’d like to think a dedicated following. “You have good pacing and your word choice is excellent, you’re a visual storyteller and it shows in your paper”, it felt good for something you’ve been working on for a while to be recognized outside of it’s regular sphere of influence, you feel like it has real merit. “You’re grammar and technical skills are God awful though… but we’ll work on that this semester”, I looked at the grade it was a C+.

He was an interesting person. One of those people with a natural magnetic charm. He had absolute command and control over the community college class, there was an underlying respect that he garnered. Not through any type of authoritarian means even though you knew deep inside he’s absolutely capable of just that. He was a people’s champion of sorts. His accent thick like molasses as he puts it. A southerner who quit construction in his nowhere town in a nowhere state. I don’t like to bash the culture of the South cause I don’t think it is all as bad people make it out to be but he did come off as someone who outgrew the culture of ignorance that the South can sometimes be. He one day just drove to Baltimore during the height of the crack wars, found a place near John Hopkins (which if you know is absolute hood), got a college degree and began teaching. He looked like a shorter Woody Harrelson. Weathered face and a wit crafted through years of experience. Not the dry phrases people like to repeat, there was tact in every move, every word. It was immediate, it was sharp. This combined with these blue eyes that would pierce right through you. There was a lot inner turmoil and intensity in them. He hid it behind a kind smile though, even though that looked somewhat practiced. He was a dying man, I think. The first day of class he mentioned that at times he maybe absent and there would an assistant teacher in class to help him, all due to treatment. I wasn’t sure if anyone else caught it but I wasn’t going to press the matter. 

During that semester he really let me focus on the technicality of writing. A mixture of warm compliments and unflinching criticism. I respected that in him. I tend to coast through a lot of writing based class cause years of writing puts me on a different level than most my peers whose hardest work is 2 pages double spaced of the effects of the Spanish-Civil War or something like that. Not to sound like I’m bragging cause my math level is at a 7th Graders at most but I do write and I do it often. I got a C+ the first paper. That’s good enough, next paper I wrote I did more of the same, usual stylized stream of consciousness that I grew accustomed to. I’ll just coast on by and think about movies. The paper comes back D-, he tells me he wants to speak to me after class. I didn’t really get it then. I don’t think I did better or worse than the first paper. After class he takes care of all other business and we discuss the paper. He starts with his first few brief compliments than back to his unflinching criticisms. The paper had every symbol and line imaginable, marked beyond repair. He told me to turn to our writing handbook to see what each sign meant and fix it and he’ll add 10 extra points or something like minuscule like that.

See at that point I respected him a lot as a teacher, a person and as a man. A teacher cause his devotion to the subject was clearly there and he maneuvered the class to make the sour subject of Literature more approachable. I do not like a lot of liberal arts teachers, it seems often they’re just hacks who stroke their own ego using big words and empty ideas hoping to impress a student body that’s forced to be there. He wasn’t that. There was certain conviction. As a person, I respected him cause a Southerner like himself can easily categorized but he outgrew the parts that didn’t seem necessary and embraced the one that were. Our assistant teacher was Ms. Johnson. She was the usual cool, hip, down to earth, black teacher from the city living her life to make the world a bit better. It was an odd juxtaposition but you could tell Ms. Johnson approved of Professor Collins “one hundred” as she would hiply state. I think he even called himself white boy a few times. It made him all that much more approachable to the different type of people that constituted the class. As a man I respected him cause as the semester rolled on and life drained from his face, as his eyes grew more tired more weary. He still put on his best two shoes and persevered. That’s the trait of a real man. That conviction never unflinching, pressing on even when it’s so hard. You hear people talk about needing a day off for “mental health” and I don’t disagree with that, I’ve done it myself but that type of will Professor Collins showed during that semester was something else. Those heavy coughs and that handkerchief he kept around, a testament to his coming fate. 

I wasn’t going to give him a hard time though. If he’s going to take the time to give me some pointers than I’m gonna take my time to do him right too.At a certain point it was looking at the pluses and minuses that determined if I did well or not. At one point he made note that he put a smiley on a paragraph cause he liked it. It all felt like that book Tuesdays with Morrie. It’s about a sportswriter spending time learning with his old professor who is slowly withering away from Lou Gehrigs/ALS. I’m trying my best to be an adult these days, not some punk ass entitled kid who thinks just cause I write more and I do slight better than my peers that I should have a better grade and when I don’t, cry about it. This is a challenge he placed upon me as a man and it’s up to me to meet that challenge and I tried my best. C+ if I did good. D- if I didn’t. It was tough. But every paper the same few encouraging words followed by the poignant criticism. Re-write it and I’ll give you 10 extra points. I rewrote it each time and took on whatever extra credit given. 

By the end of the semester he was missing class more often and Ms.Johnson would be stand in. At no point was his health ever mentioned really after the first class when he mentioned attending treatment. I didn’t know whether to address it or not as we grew more familiar with time. In the modern world, it’s ok for men to discuss feelings. I don’t look down upon that at all. If that’s all someone does when we hang out, that’s something else but to share a moment of candid thoughts from time to time, we’re only human and have one life and that life can be overwhelming. I can understand that. Professor Collins was old school and that approach I don’t think was necessarily something he’d find solace in. He presented me a task and I respected his will and met with that task the best I can. I kept my mouth shut and my head down and did the work. What he’s dealing with is clearly full time and if there’s a moment where he can just badger me for my terrible sentence structure and not think about anything else, well that’s the man’s way. 

I wasn’t going to fan out on him. He was a lot smaller than I imagined, slim figure, a real quiet demeanor. Which is funny because his riding is well known to be the opposite; loud and vicious. He had no visible tattoos besides two small but very noticeable ones on the top of his hands. It yelled to me, “I don’t give a fuck” and here he was in front of me. I absolutely was not going to fan out on him. I definitely was a fan though. It’s that quiet demeanor. That I want to be left alone look about him. It’s his weathered face and eye, youth has definitely took a toll on him. I had this image of what he’d be like and somehow he subverted all that but also exceeded it. That phrase, “so punk it hurts” and you look at him and you got that. 

My friend Omar was there, he doesn’t ride so he didn’t know who he was. It was so weird to see Omar oblivious to someone that will truly rest as one the greats in BMX. It was good though. I remind Omar that this guy was in the X-Games at one point and we geek about it. I don’t remember the interaction all too well. Most of it was small talk, the legend wasn’t exactly the friendliest guy. Not mean, just quiet. We were in the living room with the guy who I was staying with, who’s another BMX royalty. Omar knew that though. He did his google research when we were heading over there and I gave him some historical context but for whatever reasons I can’t remember, our middleman was gone and it was just us three. Me trying my best not to say whatever comes into my head. The pro maybe hoping that I don’t make this weird, I don’t know, I don’t know what it’s like to be him but I’m sure that happens and Omar oblivious to it all, just chilling on his phone. Our middleman was gone for too long. I think it was him who initiated the small talk. Our mutual buddy introduced us as riders I think and that we’re with him. Nothing new in this community and I want to say he asked where we were coming from. The next thing I remember was the look on his face when we told him that story.

Omar and I was traveling through the southwest coming from Los Angeles and heading to Florida. It’s a lot of desert and a lot of driving. Thoroughly enjoyed cause Omar and I both enjoy that type of slow burn travel, car driving can be. I don’t remember where cause the desert blends the landscape into one but somewhere in New Mexico or Arizona. It was night. The land was flat and barren. Thinking back on it, it was cool to be around that endless sand and pure darkness due to man’s inability to conquer those lands effectively, that’s what I like to think at least. Omar felt a certain resonance with the desert, it’s most definitely cause he’s Egyptian. Sand is in his heritage. Sand people will love the sand but it was the stars that he remembers. He always speaks of it. 

We were in Death Valley the night before that incident, this was just stupidity. We setup camp. Omar says he’s going to take a nap. I wanted to take a hike to the mountains. It seemed easy enough because the land was so flat and easily navigable. No trees to get lost in. You see the mountain and you head there and you head back. I told him a few hours but he might’ve already passed out from trip exhaustion so I just walked. Little by little the mountain grew bigger. At a certain point I remember being at the step so I thought time to climb. I hate when people say I climbed a mountain cause I imagine ropes and nails being involved but it was just a steep hike up. I’d get to a certain point and I’d realize there was a higher mountain to be climbed so I continued. I’d get there and the same thing would happen. So I continued. At some point I got near the top and it was cold and windy. The peak was full of loose rocks and God knows how far I was away from camp. I looked behind and our camp was a speck. I looked in front and there were more mountains across the valley. I felt that it was possible to walk through that valley to get there too. A lot taller mountains. It kind of annoyed me, the "extreme” side of me that got me into this predicament but what are you gonna do? I just knew there was never going to be an end to this pointless pursuit so I sat down to smoke some weed. Which is really hard when you’re on top of a mountain and it’s windy as hell. I remember finding some small rock overhang type thing and laying down and trying to block the wind and smoke. Too bad the wind was seemingly blowing in every direction but it ended up working. 

I’m a loner stoner. I heard that term somewhere and always felt that applied to me. I hate being around people when I’m doing all that. I don’t smoke anymore by the way, not relevant to the story but just a tid bit to throw in there. It was ideal though. Stoned on top of a mountain, away from everything. In a barren landscape, no distraction. Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with me but as I get older I just accept myself for who I am. I’m not going to try to fight it anymore. I’m a proud loner stoner (not anymore). I remember praying up there like some Biblical story. I don’t remember what I prayed for but it was probably something very general. I don’t like to pray for specifics cause I feel like I’m being too needy. I do remember I asked for a sign if God was out there cause I do remember those Biblical stories. I waited probably all of 10 minutes and remember thinking how stupid I was to ask for that. Why the fuck does God have to entertain me? It was stupid. It was getting dark, I started to head back. 

Remember that barren lands can’t get lost thing? Well it was dark and I couldn’t see in front of me. No civilization, no light. There was a bit of moonlight and starlight but starlight don’t do nothing. It was all disorientating. I remember thinking, I have to head in a straight line back to make it. If I can do that, I’ll be ok so that’s what I did. It was anxious cause once I got off the mountain there was no camp light speckle left so for a few hours I walked in the what seemed like absolute darkness in pure anxiety hoping I don’t get bitten by rattlesnake or scorpion. “This is why they call it Death Valley”, I was thinking. I stayed straight to my path and I got back but where was I?

The camp was gone. It looked like the spot but I wasn’t sure. Everything was gone. I checked around it definitely seemed like it was the right place. There wasn’t any other campground for like 10 miles or so and I definitely wasn’t that off. Omar was gone, so was my car, and everything I had. I remember there was a new camp sight being built up. I didn’t want to seem like some desert serial killer by heading to them directly cause I came out of seemingly nowhere so I waited until they were outside their tent to say something. I asked about the whereabouts of my camp and mentioned Omar. It’s always weird to use race as a way to describe people to white people. Amongst minorities, it’s whatever but race is very sensitive topic to white people. Normally I’d call him “tall Muslim dude” but I think I called him “tall Egyptian dude”, it seemed more PC. They told me he packed up the camp and took my car to the nearest station to use the phone and report me missing. I was gone for maybe 5 hours most. I politely thanked them for their time and began to curse Omar’s name repeatedly on top of my lungs for the next few minutes. Eventually I wore myself out and laid on top of the picnic table there. I didn’t want to be bitten by rattlesnakes or scorpions. It was cold, it’s very cold in the desert at night. I remember looking up and seeing the stars as clear as I ever saw them. It was quite a sight but the mixture of the temperature and unease of feeling stranded still lingered in my head. I couldn’t enjoy it fully. Eventually I saw a familiar car roll up and Omar got out, “Bruh I thought you were dead”. He reported me missing. We discussed if we should head back and tell them I was found but I think we both settled it was too far and we didn’t care enough. Apparently a group of Norwegian girls came wanting to party but Omar was too busy trying to find me to entertain them. God really is cruel sometimes. “What were you doing up there, trying to talk to God like Moses?”, Omar sarcastically said. 

At this point it was me and Omar yelling over each other to trying to tell our viewpoints while simultaneously defending our own actions. Omar defending himself and myself still cursing his name. I must have repeated “it was five fucking hours” quite a few times that night. This BMX legend was throughly intrigued, his eyes were wide from taking it all in. That’s when I told him that story. “So we were driving at night in the desert and there was semi in front of us”. Omar started bursting out laughing uncontrollably right then, he knew exactly where this was going. The legend looks over to Omar still laughing maniacally, eyes still wide, not saying anything, actively listening. 

So we were driving at night in the desert and there was semi in front of us. It was late at night. Must have been like 3AM. Omar was dead, not literally obviously, not asleep either, but in quiet sedation. I was on autopilot. It’s the desert and there’s no cars around ever besides this one semi so it wasn’t tough. At this point no one was talking, not cause of what happened earlier but we probably smoked ourselves stupid and only had minimum brain cells keeping us going. I was about 15 feet behind the semi truck. Some people like more distance but I’ve been driving in Los Angeles, there is no concept of distance there. Bumper to bumper. When you’re on autopilot that’s just what happens. “Hey pull back a little”, those were the first words out of Omar’s mouth in a while. “Why?”. “I don’t know just do it”, I remember thinking Omar gone smoked himself paranoid but out of courtesy I relented. Not because it was hard to do but I was too tired to deal with any type of special requests at this point. Even the most idle chatter felt like work. A few moments later the tire on semi burst. 

The trailer slid around and narrowly missed hitting us by a few feet. My autopilot changed from cruising to life saving immediately and I had to dodge the large tire debris and the truck which came to an abrupt stop. If Omar didn’t tell me to preemptively to move back, we would have most definitely been destroyed by the trailer, maybe even dead I was thinking but we escaped it all without any scratches. We left the truck behind. Terrible thing but it didn’t flip and I was on flight mode. I look over to Omar and he was still awake with the same expressionless face he had before. He definitely witnessed all that happen but didn’t seem at all moved by our near death experience. “Yo.. we could’ve died”, trying to vent out some of the stress from what just happened, trying to figure out what happened. “I’m not afraid of dying man”, he told me. It was like that high school edgelord reply and it annoyed the shit out of me. “Dude! We almost could’ve fucking died, did you not see what just happened!?. “I’m not afraid of dying”, he said to me again in the same monotone voice and expressionless face. I’m pretty sure I ranted for a bit and he sat there unmoved. A day later, we were still driving in the desert, its endless after all and suddenly all at once it hit him and he burst out all crazy crazy. “WE COULD’VE FUCKING DIED WHEN THAT SEMI TIRE BURST AND TRAILER SWINGING!”, not his exact words but with that trademark fast pace, loosely jointed sentences and ideas, yelled at decibels way too high. Something I expected him to be immediately after it actually happened but a day later it seemed to late. At that point personally all the happenings subsided a bit but I was thinking all sorts of crazy around the surrounding details of what happened. Did God speak through Omar... I still don’t know. I like to think that is what happened. I gave him so much shit for playing hardman “I’m not afraid to die” shit and he’s over here having some sort of strange delayed mental breakdown over the incident. That we could’ve been two dead kids in some mortuary, thousands of miles away from home if it wasn’t for some strange sixth sense happening. Maybe enough of Omar’s brain cells finally recovered and it was finally processing what happened. 

I wished I could say I dwelled on it more but maybe I’ve grown a bit too apathetic or cold, I don’t really know if there’s a difference. I saw that poster on the store wall and immediately knew it was you. 

I was ready to go home after a day of work that night. It was late. On a weekday I remember cause it was only my coworker and I. We did our usual dad jokes of “Sorry I have to see you tomorrow”, I guess a way to joke about our general displeasure with our jobs. It’s far from perfect but it’s what we have to do and it’s not entirely bad. I saw you in the parking lot in front of the store laying face down. I figured you were another drunk and came over to reprimand you. There’s been a lot of heat from the local government about the vagrancy problem as if we were the ones that cause it. I remember going to a board meeting for our store and one representative had a moral objection to what our store does, little does he know so do we. “But this is America” we tell ourselves, something a neighborhood consisting of mostly immigrants know exactly the meaning of, to justify our fall from moral outrightness, our fall is owning a liquor store. A legal drug dealer as some have put it. 

You were laying in a pool of blood. That’s when I knew something was wrong. First I thought you might have fell on your face but it seemed much more serious than that. My coworker came over to see and it was obvious that you were a target. He told me to go home and not speak of it. He knew the ways of the neighborhood but I told him we should at least call the ambulance. He said that this is not a situation for us to get involved with and he quickly brushed me towards my car and immediately left. I was parked and saw people walk by, quickly looking at you and immediately looking away. It was not a situation they wanted to get involved with either. I waited a bit hoping someone else would intervene but the same look away happened. I don’t blame them. You’re a local drunkard who messed with the wrong folks. These are hard working people with friends and families all over the neighborhood. It’s either their people or you and they chose their people and nothing wrong with that. There is no room for ideals here. The neighborhood can be cruel sometimes and they’re all very well aware of that. 

I came out and told you I was going to call the ambulance. You were very incoherent but you seem truly against that. You seem to gesture you were ok but your face was covered in blood and you were unable to move right. I called the emergency services and told them our location. There were a lot of “I don’t know” thrown around in that conversation on my end, one part because I didn’t, other part cause I’m here to make sure you have the best chance of survival, that’s it, nothing else. They asked if I thought you were attacked and I didn’t know how to answer that. I knew you were but I didn’t want to get involved in this either. I said to them it was a possibility but that I didn’t know. I figured thats the best I can do. So we waited.

During that wait I knew those kids were the ones that did this to you. You seemed extra choked up when they walked by and they did so twice. Very slowly, very deliberately. I gave them a quick glance just to assess to situation but I knew it was dangerous to look too long. I remembered what an old gangbanger once said. A guy who looked like he could play linebacker for the Redskins, covered in tattoos, claimed to do 2000 push ups a day, which is probably more fable than truth but he looked the part. Real street guy, real street mind. He told us the scariest out here were the kids who felt they had nothing to lose and the street to gain. I’ve heard a story about him backing down from shrimped armed kids because of that. Now those same type of kids are lurking behind me, their glares just piercing right through me. I didn’t have to look to know that. In my stomach I knew it was them and after what seemed like a long five minutes, they hit the corner into darkness of the alley and left. Maybe.

I’m most ashamed of what came next but I reprimanded you. “Te esta mi tienda de papa”, I think that’s Spanish for “This is my father’s store”. If there is one thing Spanish and Asians mutually understand is the importance and respect of family. It’s in our blood and culture. I wanted you to know how much I hated all this right now. I called you stupid. I called you a problem for bringing this in front of my father’s store. You laying there beaten to pulp, I just yelled at you. I was so mad that you put me in this situation. In this parking lot where numerous others have been killed before. During the late night, just me and you, alone with every figment of my imagination working against me. I was mad that I was in the stronghold of one of the most notorious gangs in the US, infamous for their cruelty. A place supposedly where one of their high shotcallers calls home, lurking somewhere in the neighborhood, maybe one of our customers too. I wish I could say I comforted you during these hard moments but I didn’t. I just hope now that me being there was enough. I was being selfish. You cried a bit. I don’t know if it was because of me or from before but I noticed you silently pouting away. I took a single photo. I know why. Not to immortalize this situation in anyway like it’s memorabilia to my life experiences or anything like that but sometimes life is hard and I don’t think people believe me and that chips away at me too. I deleted it since then. 

A lady came by. She was about to walk away too but in last minute judgement of good heartednessm she turned around and asked what happened. I told her situation and the little I knew. She began to ask you questions about the ordeal in you guy’s native tongue. She used the word “gangas” extra silently and your body almost jerked in reaction. You denied it, blamed it on being a drunk, I knew from the little Spanish I spoke. Maybe they were lurking in the shadow still and you were scared, I would be too. She didn’t press on. I think she knew too. The ambulance came and I quickly slid away and headed home before they could ask anything more out of me. 

A few months later I come into the store and I notice the poster. It was you, your head bashed in but surgically fixed the best it can be. It’s obvious they took a part of your skull out to save you, probably some internal bleeding and pressure from what TV taught me. It didn’t say whether you were dead or alive. From what I can tell, it’s probably a better fate to be not alive cause a good portion of your head is missing and I can’t imagine that not causing some trouble. Your eyes looking in different directions, they felt dead, catatonic. Never to see the world the way it is ever again, maybe in your story that’s better. They wanted to know if anyone knew you. If you had any family. Everyone denied knowing anything, it’s just the way it is. If I was there I’d just say the same line, I have family here too. It’s terrible the picture to reference you was one where you looked like that. Even in the news they put at least some flattering photo or at least a mugshot where you could look tough but I imagine they didn’t have too much too work with here. Not the first one I saw but at least Bacardi’s poster had him looking peacefully dead. A combination of Winter and malnutrition was probably what got him though. I don’t know whats worse. Quick moment of tear or the slow decay that I saw Bacardi go through.

Her.

“Kris... I can’t wait to see your name on the billboards”. It’s not something I ever mentioned wanting but she said it to me. Her voice calm with a certain genuine tone. A habitual liar but she’s also an honest person. Some people won’t get that. I did. I think that’s why we got along so well. We were two kids of country blumpkins who dreamed of the stars and didn’t know any better. You always saw it so well where you lived. You truly marveled under their light. I don’t think I ever saw them like you did. Your eyes shown bright, full of hope, full of anticipation for what came next. I wasn’t there for that stage but it seemed very hard from when you spoke of it. 

After those words. You made me promise to give your sister a better life if I made it in life. All my transgressions were immediately forgiven as long as I did that. Somewhere in you, you already gave up. I told you, I could do at least that but no promises. You already knew the answer. I’m not much but I’m honest and straight forward which makes me predictable with certain things. We were supposed to escape it all but I knew it was doomed since the start and so did you but we pretended well for those following long years didn’t we? But there was something there that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Two people who could at least listen to the other and pretend like we made a difference in each others lives. It was something.

In the end. You spared me when you had no reason to do so. I guess a part of me spared you too. We did that little dance where we didn’t know who did worse. I still live with it being me. That last smile. It hurt to look at. It was almost defeated. Those green eyes that were proudly mix of grey felt more grey than green then. And when you came back last time, you were in need of help. It must have been bad to eat that strong pride of yours. You said the usual words that’d charm just about anyone else but that time I saw through. Those rare moments where I did let you get by and I said nothing. I got it. So I did what I can. Which isn’t near enough that I would do if I could do more. Thanks for getting it too. 

River Runs Between...

We had that official announcement that was your Native name. You thought it was so ridiculous but I think that the side of me you did like. You were Native... and Mexican you never let me forget that too but Native was what was interesting. You seemed like it. Someone so beyond the expectations and universal brainwashing of the world. In that sense you were the most interesting person to me even though you would describe yourself as simple and plain. When people talk about spirituality I was used to crystals and scented oils but you always had this sense of self assuredness in your place in the world, it was something you never questioned. Someone who just merely understood, to be around that was to tap into something else. You never thought much of it all, even your heritage which covets some kind of strange status to mainstream America. To you it was an excuse to go to the Pow-Wow a few times a year. You also knew why you didn’t go and just receive the free money owed to you because of your blood, you knew it wasn’t all that free. You were perfectly made for what you were made for, and you truly realized it. I can’t get over that but I don’t think you were made for me. I remember when we went to the Native American Museum you were so embarrassed when I kept telling you take back what was yours. That all in the museum belongs to you anyway so it wouldn’t be stealing. You can’t steal what was stolen remember? You told me to be quiet because you hated me making a scene where everyone was overlistening but you smiled all the way through.

I was at the most selfish when I was with you. I’m sorry for that. But I can say that I tried my best everyday with you and that’s something you agreed when it all ended. I’m a proud person and you know that. I’m not someone who needs confirmation from a lot of people but I seeked it from you. You spoke only truth and to sometimes hear those truths was what I needed. You understood people naturally, I didn’t and despised them back then and you would defend them. I thank you for that. You always saw the better side, truly. All those years to never hear you utter a single curse word but those few times you did, it definitely hurt a bit more. I’ll never forget when we were out in the mall. I was making the usual dumb joke that you’d laugh at just the sheer stupidity of it. We laughed harder than anyone else there and in the corner of my eye I saw this grandma, alone, just looking at us. She had the most sincere smile on her face seeing us interact the way we did, we were relationships goals. It was then I knew everything with us was ok. 

We are lucky to meet people who carve us into more. We’re all pieces of work and to meet someone who takes the times to polish us up. We’re lucky to find something so rare. In a time where no one seems to have time for anyone but everyone, you always did for me. I wouldn’t be half the person I like about me if  it wasn’t for you, in that sense no regrets ever. It’s funny, I think I grew up the most with you. I hope you saw the best side of me too and there’s a small part of you at the very least can say “Kris really helped me with that”. You really could be a model if you wanted to. 

Most Retard

We called each other the same pet name. It was weird but so normal. I’d say it then you’d say it back to me. It just became part of our weird vocabulary and lingo. You only called me by my name when you were mad, which I wish I could say was rare but it was pretty regular. It was either me or the world. You kept me humble in a way that only a short asian girl can. You told me I wasn’t shit when I was winning. You laughed at me with sheer malice when I made any mistake. Of course when you were serious and I laughed at you, I was absolutely the worst and in your words “never took anything seriously”. When I was feeling myself, you told me I was ugly and my forehead was too big and my eyes too small. You told me I was lucky that you liked ugly guys. Very few people could put up with that, I was lucky to have. 

We never got each other but we got each other. You knew why I lived the life I did and didn’t question it. I tried to know why you did yours but that’s something you’d rather not talk about. I made sure I never made anything too big of a deal. We laughed hard those years, that’s it. Mostly you at me. Even with the constant barrages of insults and criticism once in a while you showed your soft side that was unusually quiet. The calm between the storms. When you last called and you spoke unusually soft. You were scared. We broke up a while back but I never got angry at you like everyone else so I think thats why you came to me. I promised myself years ago if a relationship is ending and those years were good as they always were cause I stayed, that I wouldn’t tear you or anyone down. We’re lucky to even have these moments, hopefully one of them lasts a lifetime but its not less if it doesn’t. You were so angry, your voice couldn’t keep up. It wasn’t the usual. You slowly let it out. And I’d kept shut and listened. I didn’t know what to say to you and I feel bad for that. I did think what is the most important thing for you to hear at that time and what words will mend you the best in the long term and I said those words. You told me I was like a dog that one time. You said it in your usual sort of dismissive tone but I think inside you were glad I was.