Drowning Tucson (17 page)

Mud squished beneath Sammy’s feet as he crossed the rain-soaked schoolyard of Buena High School, less than a mile from home. It was a cold night, especially for the desert, so he hunched his shoulders a little to shield his chest from the wind, slowing his pace to savor the moment and remember the eyes meeting and the wonderful conversation that had gone on and on between he and J—they had never wanted it to stop—until it was finally time for them both to go home. We have to go home. They had said goodbye and kissed one last time, braver than before, because they no longer had to stare into each other’s faces and see the blush and shy embarrassment of first kisses. Neither of them had known how to kiss except for what they’d heard people talk about or seen in movies and practiced on their hands in the darkness of their own bedrooms, sometimes pecking and licking the mirror late at night while the rest of the town slept.

He was sure that if someone met him on the street, they’d see his toothy smile floating in the air long before they made out the rest of his features. Humming with the rhythm of his steps and walking like he had just conquered the world, Sammy didn’t even give a shit because this was what it was all about—us against the world, and viva los amantes, and all the other sayings people made up for the feelings of love—and now he was halfway across the schoolyard, almost to the soccer field, thinking maybe tomorrow I’ll get up and run or just watch the sun rise. Maybe we can meet up before school and walk together. Maybe I’ll try to get another kiss, he mused, but not really caring if he did
because it would be enough just to see J again and hear the voice that sent his heart flipping in his chest.

Five bodies suddenly appeared out of the drizzle. Look who’s here. The bodies twitched and bumped, stomping in the mud like a herd of bulls. He looked around, knowing he knew them but unable to match faces to names in the confusion of his broken reverie. They came in closer. It’s that damn wetback Sammy, someone said. Sammy’s muscles tightened involuntarily, praying the confrontation would not get out of hand, trying to think of a way out but having a hard time because his adrenaline was on fire, in full gear. All pistons thrusting. He started shaking and someone said yeah, Sammy the Spic, Sammy the Faggot, hahaha, and his hands became slippery with sweat, Sammy the Spiggot, hahaha, that’s a good one, and heads were nodding. The beaner faggot. They slapped each other’s backs and drew closer and he could smell their breath, their shitass tobacco-eating breath, and one stepped close enough for his nose to touch Sammy’s nose and his chest to touch Sammy’s chest, which was heaving in terror, and he sneered in Sammy’s face you’re gonna die, you fuckin fag, you butt-pirate motherfucker, and Sammy kneed him in the nuts and brought his elbow down on the back of the guy’s neck, thinking at least I’ll take one of them down and show them who the fag is here, and then they all came at him, jumping from where they stood and looking to Sammy like they were floating in the air, giving him time to consider each one coming at him and to decide which one he would let hit him first so he would not feel the rest of what was coming.

He turned to his left and took a blow on the chin. Lightning flashed. Then they grabbed him from all sides and his legs buckled and he lay on the ground covering his face with his one free hand and looking at the fucker he had dropped, happy knowing at least I let one of them have it and he’s lying on the ground right here next to me, and maybe I can get one or two kicks in on the guy, but after a couple of boots to the face he realized that’s not gonna happen so he let his body relax and hoped it would be over soon, and the boys kicked and screamed and bit and growled and one of them broke away and grabbed a tow chain from the back of his idling truck, saying let me at that cocksucker, let me AT him, and the kicking and punching subsided for a moment only to be replaced
by a clinking thud that wracked Sammy’s body and sent fire shooting down to the marrow of his bones, and one of the boys saw that the chain was long enough for two of them to use so he picked up the other end, the end with the hook, and laid into Sammy good, over and over, tearing his clothes and leaving gouges in his ribcage and on his legs and the other boys looked around, hungry for more blood, wanting to hit him even harder with whatever they could find, scouring the ground in the murky moonlight, and one found a bottle and broke it over Sammy’s head, and another found a loose slab of concrete from the corner of a nearby tetherball court and he threw it down on Sammy and timed the other two boys’ hitting with the chain so he could pick the concrete up and throw it down again, and each time it made a small booming noise in Sammy’s head until the bottle and concrete and chain had hit him so many times he could not figure out where his head or his hands were and he could barely breathe, only little wisps of air tainted by the exhaust of the truck idling nearby—its body shuddering like Sammy’s—just enough air to remain conscious until he felt no more, except for the rain becoming more fierce, pouring down steadily, licking his wounds clean, and the boys, dripping with sweat and covered in blood, finally said fuck it, and one said let’s roll, and the others nodded but they did not leave right away because they all felt good and pumped from showing this queer what they were made of, real man stuff, and they stood and grunted and caught their breath and finally ran back to the truck idling at the edge of the soccer field with its lights off, giving each other high fives—damn, that was fuckin sweet, yeah, fucked him up good, haha, damn straight—and the driver flicked on the headlights and adjusted his ball cap and reversed the truck until they could see what was left of Sammy through the shower of rain, admiring their work, eyes searching Sammy’s twitching body—his pinky clawing at the earth, his soggy shoelaces—almost falling into a trance until one of the boys in the back shouted COME THE FUCK
ON,
WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE and they nodded to each other, fidgeting in their seats, and the driver pressed down hard on the gas and threw the engine into gear and drove over Sammy to put the finishing touches on the goddam faggot as they tore out of the schoolyard and drove home.

Interstate 10, a massive stretch of highway connecting Florida to California, is unwelcome in the desert. Like a crack in a mirror. Unsightly. For years the desert has tried to reject the asphalt tumor, where semis roar along every day and sometimes a careless driver flicks a cigarette butt out his window and it lands in the brush along the side of the road. Most of the fires last only a few minutes, devouring what little brush may be nearby before fizzing out and leaving nothing but the black skeletons of desert plants. Sometimes, the brushfire spreads and burns for weeks, roaring across the landscape, up into the mountains, burning down homes. The pavement is cracked from the desert’s never-ending battle to shrug off its terrible burden. When the interstate first came to Arizona, the sun joined forces with the desert and has scoured the pavement with its harshest rays ever since, bleaching the asphalt until it starts to disintegrate. The summer floods patiently erode the highway each time they pass through, carrying along with them a few pebbles at a time.

Jaime used Interstate 10 as a guide—walking alongside it at a short distance—but found he was more comfortable among the various desert plants, away from the dangers of speeding vehicles. He kept his mind occupied by recalling the names of the yucca plants, the barrel, saguaro, prickly pear, and jumping cactus. He walked along the side of the road but didn’t have his thumb out. He wasn’t interested in a ride, even if one were offered. The driver might be an undercover border patrol officer assuming he was an illegal, since he carried no ID with him, and deport him to Mexico. He didn’t want any trouble. All of his belongings were stuffed into a faded backpack. In his pocket he had seventeen dollars, all dollar bills except for four fifty-cent pieces he had received inside a ceramic Liberty Bell coin bank from his grandmother on his first birthday.

A semi drove past and sent a swarm of dust flying into Jaime’s face, but he didn’t bother covering his nose or eyes because he’d gotten used to breathing and seeing through dust the day before, on the first leg of his trip north from Sierra Vista, sneaking along the side of Highway 90, hiding behind brush and cactus whenever a car remotely resembling a
police cruiser approached, even though he was sure his father probably hadn’t noticed his faggot son was missing, and if he had, most likely wouldn’t bother to put down his beer long enough to pick up the phone and report his disappearance. So instead of covering his face, Jaime blinked the biggest pieces of dirt out of his eyes and inventoried the backpack’s contents in his mind for the fourth time that morning in an effort to break the monotony of his walk. He carried everything he’d thought necessary the morning before, when he’d hastily packed his bag after the door to their apartment slammed shut, signaling his father’s departure for work. The backpack held three pairs of socks, three pairs of underwear, one pair of jeans, two undershirts, his favorite cassette, a half-empty canteen of water, and an old deck of cards. The cards were greasy and bent from the many nights he played solitaire, wondering what time his father would come home from the bar after a long day of janitorial work at Fort Huachuca army base. The deck was incomplete—missing an ace of spades and a three of hearts, which Jaime had replaced with two pieces of cardboard carefully colored in by a felt-tip marker to resemble the missing cards. He’d already eaten the fruit and beef jerky purchased the night before at a gas station in Huachuca City. Fifteen miles back, where he’d spent the night, Jaime left the empty sandwich bag he’d taken with him because he remembered his father telling him, when he was sending Jaime off on his first Boy Scout camping trip, that if he were ever stranded in the desert with no water he could dig a hole in the earth with his hand and cover it with an upside-down plastic bag and moisture would collect as it was pulled from the ground and into the sky to form clouds. The trick had not worked. He had placed the bag over the hole before he went to sleep, using stones to hold it in place, but when he woke there were only two or three drops in one corner of the dusty plastic.

Jaime walked past a road sign telling him he was still miles from Tucson. He did some quick calculations as he sidestepped a lizard carcass swarming with flies and estimated that he would probably arrive sometime around noon the next day. He walked at a steady pace, whistling songs that matched the rhythm of his footsteps and ignoring the heat of the sun. Mainly he was pleased that he still had seventeen dollars and
plenty of energy to get to the city, so he was optimistic about things working out after all, something he had not been so sure of when he left his house the morning before, after putting everything in order for his father so he could make his own meals and find his own clothes and not have to clean for at least a week or two—all the work that Jaime used to do. He smiled and forced himself to think of all that lay ahead—the possibilities for work, and living in a big city where no one would notice, much less care about, a gay kid—instead of dwelling on his father and his classmates, who certainly weren’t thinking of him right now.

He watched the tumbleweed and a dust devil far off in the distance, ignoring the reasons he was walking. He ignored the time his father came home and found him sitting in the bathroom with a pair of women’s stockings pulled up to the knees and slapped him across the face with his left hand, knocking him unconscious. Jaime came to moments later to find his father standing above him with his belt in his hand saying I ain’t raising no fairy, beating him on his bare legs and shouting IF YOU’RE GONNA ACT LIKE A BITCH, I’M GONNA TREAT YOU LIKE A BITCH. This was easy for Jaime to forget when he looked at the mountains lining the distance and focused on wondering why they looked blue when they were actually brown up close.

When he sat down for lunch among a cluster of boulders and ate a few prickly pear fruits, he had no problem keeping his mind off bad memories. After he removed the needles and peeled the skin off the jellylike fruit beneath, he lay back and enjoyed its sweet, watery juice and didn’t think about the night his father stumbled upon a Hallmark card from the only other outwardly gay boy at school. The card said how he was thankful for the time they’d spent together the weekend Jaime’s dad was out of town and how nice it was to lie next to him in bed and feel his warm body and smell his hair and wake up beside him in the morning and how he missed him even though it had only been a few days. And it thanked him for being the most thoughtful person he knew.