Drowning Tucson (5 page)

Chuy was the first to throw a punch. Felipe didn’t flinch. It landed on his forehead, splitting the skin open above his right eyebrow. Blood
drained down into his eye, but he made no move to wipe it away. Rogelio was next. His fist came at Felipe, as large as a cement block, and knocked his jaw loose. When Davíd blasted him in the ear, he heard it more than he felt it. Already he could feel his head swollen with blood, and this was just the beginning. That’s how it worked.

Felipe’s knees buckled beneath him and his body began to fall to the ground, but someone caught him from behind and held him upright as a flurry of fists pummeled his face, breaking his nose and popping teeth out of his mouth, but Felipe didn’t cry out, he only waited for it to be over, thinking how nice it would be to crawl into bed and tell his mom it’s going to be okay, just bring me a cold washcloth and lay it on my face, and then he felt the sharp sting of someone punching him in the kidneys and he lost his breath, unable to regain it because he was being kicked in the stomach and in the balls and his legs went out from under him but he didn’t fall—how come I’m not falling?—because the crowd had pushed in so tightly around him that there was nowhere for him to collapse, and everyone wanted a shot at this pussy who’d dared to disrespect them, dared to turn his back on the Kings when they had let him in and shown him the ropes and trusted him, only for him to turn around and shove it back in their faces, knowing damn well this wouldn’t fly in their neighborhood, even if you are a Nuñez,
especially since
you are a nuñez, and so many people were beating him from so many different directions that he could no longer discern one blow from the next, nor did he realize he had finally crumpled to the ground where they continued to kick his limp body and stomp on him, yelling and cursing this boy beneath them, who was never going to be a man, despite his courage to stand up to them and take his punishment, which was only supposed to be an assbeating, but had turned into a swarm of people taking their fear and rage out on the bravest man who had ever walked 24th Street, and Felipe opened his eyes and through his blurry red vision tried to decipher the mass of limbs that continued to bludgeon him, but he could see nothing, could only hear the weeping of Lavinía and her friends, and Ricardo watched in horror as the men who beat Felipe came away with bloodied hands, and he tried to plead with them to stop, he’s had enough, but saw that they were not giving up, that they
were so far away from satisfying their rage that he could do nothing to the mob as they kicked Felipe into a pulpy mass, and he knew they would keep kicking and punching in the general area where Felipe once lay, even though they were beating their own hands and feet into bloody stumps, completely unaware that they had begun beating each other, and Ricardo knew they would never stop because this was not a man in front of them, he was less than that, a coward, not worthy of his body lying on the ground in pieces, not worthy of the dirt mixing with his blood and turning into rusty mud, not worthy of the street they were smearing him into, the street Felipe, the last of the Nuñez brothers, had grown up on, the street where his mother, Señora Carmen Nuñez, who wanted nothing more than to turn her boys into respectable men, sat in solitude waiting for the door to open, wondering whether her youngest son would return home with a look of pride in his eyes or hanging his head in shame.

The grass in Reid Park was covered with eggs. Bright dots by the thousands. Up in trees. Sitting in the seats of swingsets. In clumps of brush. A mob of children stood behind a long line of police caution tape, waiting for the sound of the horn so they could break the strip and rush after the eggs.

Alright. Fuck the ones sitting out in the open, Davey. Run right through em and head for the trees.

Yes, sir.

I mean it. Last year the golden egg was hidden at the top of the rocket slide. Kid won five hundred bucks and a family pass to Justin’s Water World. We
need
that egg.

The whole time he was talking to his son, Davey’s father was thinking man, if Davey gets that egg, I’ll be in heaven. Five hundred to take down to the Mile, where I can get the finest piece on the strip, and when Rogelio Nuñez goes waving his fifty around like he does every night at the bar after work, I’ll pull out a nice crisp c-note and show that fuckstick up once and for all. No more of his talk about his bitch and her fat mooseknuckle of a puss bunched up in her acid-washed jeans. I’ve seen her come into the shop on our lunch break, and he’s got nothing to brag about. Hell, I’d be in the bar getting drunk too, fucking that. Damn Mexicans. He should be mailing that fifty to his family back in Meh-hee-co.

He grabbed his son’s ear, jerking his head hard, and Davey heard a pop and felt the cartilage tear and the sting spread through his head like a web. He bit his tongue to draw his attention away from the worse pain.

You hear me, boy? You’re bigger than the rest of those beaners.

Yes, sir.

Just run over the top of em and find the golden fuckin egg and everything will be fine. Now get in there. He knocked his son on the head with his silver-and-turquoise wedding ring.

Davey walked to the rope where the rest of the kids were waiting for the horn to blow so the hunt could begin. He was taller than most of them and felt stupid. The other parents were giving him disgusted looks, making no secret about their disapproval of such a large boy among their children. Heads shaking. Grimaces. And standing in front of them was his dad, loudly telling the others how his son was gonna get that golden fuckin egg this year. Yep, Davey’s got it, he gloated, adjusting his ballsack in his tight jeans.

Davey kicked at a clump of grass. I hate him. Always messin with me. Pullin my hair and rappin me on the head with that stupid ring. He wanted to punch the kid next to him. His head still hurt.

The kids were getting antsy waiting on the horn. They bobbed up and down and nudged each other, plotting their attack.

I’m getting all the blue ones. Blue’s my favorite.

Red’s mine.

Davey thought just the golden egg for me. He was ten years old. Right at the cutoff for being too old for the egg hunt or caring about the other stupid eggs.

It’s not like anyone’s going to card you his father said during their walk to the park. But he had folded his son’s birth certificate into his back pocket anyway. Just in case. They aren’t keeping us out. Let those sonsabitches try. The entire walk his dad threatened the sonsabitches. Dared them to question his son’s age. Davey spent the whole time thinking of how badly he wanted the new He-Man toy—Castle Grayskull.

And now, waiting on the horn to blow, he thought about how he hadn’t peed before they left the house, he hadn’t had the time, with his dad dragging him out of bed and into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on Davey’s face then told him you have exactly two minutes to meet me outside, and Davey picked up a shirt off the floor and shook it and turned it right-side-out and stumbled to the front yard, where his
dad stood beneath the palm tree and said you got sixty seconds to get from this tree to that saguaro in front of the Colón house. Sixty seconds. Go. Davey ran, his head still blurry from waking only three minutes earlier, and wondered why every year his dad did the same thing. No Easter basket. No good morning, just run, Davey. Faster. I can’t believe you let those little wetback mo-ha-dohs outrun you. We OWN them. And Davey waited on the horn and felt his bladder bulging beneath his belt, taunting him, forcing him to thrust his hand into his pocket and pinch the tip of his wiener, and the pain kept him from peeing for now, but he looked over his shoulder anyway and considered going back to his dad, who was still going on about the golden fuckin egg, to ask if he could go potty real quick. But he knew better.

So he crossed his legs and rocked back and forth and wondered when they were going to blow the stupid horn. Don’t think of pee or the golden fuckin egg. Something to make the dumb horn blow—little boy blue, come blow your horn—and back and forth, pinching his wiener and looking around and loosening his belt a notch to let his bladder expand a little so he’d be able to run. Blow your horn, dang you. Dad can take the money, I want the prize. A brand-new mountain bike this year. I’ll ride all over the place. Learn how to jump ramps like the big kids and maybe race professionally when I grow up like those guys in
BMX Magazine,
especially if it’s a cool bike like a Mongoose or a Diamondback or—

The horn blew and the kids ran frantically, stampeding, defying gravity by scooping up eggs as they went, bent over and never running upright, and as Davey watched the kids get farther away from him, the eggs disappeared, the ground turning green again as if a plague of locusts were attacking a field of wheat, like they told him about in Sunday school to illustrate God’s wrath.

GODDAMMIT, BOY. Get your ASS in there and GET THAT EGG.

Davey let go of his wiener and broke into a run—ignoring the pain in his bladder—and heard another parent calling his dad an asshole and why don’t you just leave the poor kid alone, you jerk. He lowered his head and ran straight toward the middle of the group, where the kids were still bunched together and running for the trees. He passed children with big
smiles on their faces, happy with the three or four eggs they’d managed to get their hands on. A few of them had been tripped or knocked over and sat on the ground looking as if they weren’t sure whether or not they should cry or keep going, there were still so many eggs.

By the time he got to the trees, they were full of kids who weren’t afraid of climbing, and smaller ones looked up the trunks at the brave kids and lowered their heads and kept going toward the pond, the cutoff point for the hunt, scattering, looking in bushes, under rocks, sometimes pushing the smallest kids over and stealing their eggs, and the parents shouted words of encouragement that sounded like a crackling roar as the trees broke the sound apart while Davey ran past several eggs mashed into the grass by the mob of children now spread all over the park, searching for the better-hidden eggs or giving up and walking back toward their parents or the playground, but he pushed on, knowing the golden egg wouldn’t be out in plain view, heading toward a row of bushes that lined the bank of the stream spilling out of the pond, where a small girl crouched beneath a bush and then emerged with a glittering egg in her hand.

He stopped running and looked at the girl. She looked back at him, clutching the golden fuckin egg in her fist. He took a step toward her. None of the others had noticed her. None of them saw the two children staring each other down, sizing each other up. Give me the egg. He took another step toward her.

No. It’s mine. It’s my egg cause I found it.

He took another step and saw the girl’s body tense up as if she were about to break into a run. Give it. Gimme the golden fuckin egg. Please. I need it.

The girl smiled at him. He started to smile back. She’s actually going to give it to me.

But then she started laughing and put one hand over her mouth and pointed the other—the one with the egg—at his crotch. At the cold wet stain he hadn’t noticed while he was running. The left leg of his jeans was saturated and sticking to him. He felt more pee seep into his underwear and embarrassment rush into his cheeks. Still, at least no one else saw, if anyone else sees I’ll just die, and the girl bowed her head
laughing. Davey walked up to her, ignoring his pee-squishy shoes, and grabbed the hand with the egg. Get the egg. Gotta get the egg. She stopped laughing and jerked her hand away, backing into the bushes. He followed her, ignoring the branches scratching his face and arms, grabbing at her leg. She fell backwards and tried to scoot away, still clutching her hand to her chest, trying to scream for her mommy. Shut up. Just shut up and give me the egg and pretend you never found it.

NO. She squirmed, kicking at his hand. He ignored the pain, thinking of his dad back there telling the other parents how Davey’s got this one in the bag, the golden fuckin egg, probably dancing around and scratching his nuts.

The girl’s hand touched water, and she stopped moving. He knew she was trapped, but she didn’t stop kicking, wouldn’t hand over the egg.