Velorio Read online

  After a week had passed, after her rage syphoned all the living environment around us, Banto came over and said we were all mobilizing, coming together because Ura had a plan for some great society in the mountains. It would start with stealing some of the trucks carrying the gasoline and diesel.

  “Oye, pescao. We got word. Things will get going near the center of Florencia, Ura knows where they’re off to,” he said, knocking on my door.

  “I’m going fishing with the mongers, Banto. The fish have to be everywhere.”

  “It’s not a request, Bayfish. Ura insists—”

  “So? We’ll go after.”

  I tied my laces. My shoes are gigantic because my feet are wide and long. Banto and Ura tried giving me shit for that, but it would never stick because I moved in on Banto and his pudgy figure. He was the easy one to shit over and once we started up on him, that was the end.

  “Look, mano. Ura’s not going to like that. I’m not taking the hit on this one. I don’t want it. It’s on you, okay?”

  “I want to check up on Cheo and Jorge, cabrón.”

  “Ura’s going to be mad.”

  WE STARTED OUT. My outpost banked near the river but just high enough from its crest that even when she brought in the worst rip current from the mountain, it didn’t faze my home. All she left was garbage washed up by rain and water, huge dunes of rusted metal, synthetics, and tires that littered the ground like their own plastic stream. The wind clipped at us, which was odd. After she left our shores, it was as if she had exhaled and taken all her gusts with her on her journey into the Atlantic, so it surprised Banto and me to feel any wind outside.

  Our barrio sat on an uneven hill that steeped into the large river. Below we saw houses with cars speared into fences like olives on toothpicks. Shacks used to line the banks. They were painted with murals so bright they glowed. And some were repurposed into chinchorros. Every Thursday night you’d catch most of the viejos bellacos drinking and playing dominoes. Whenever there was a capicu, the loser would have to take two shots of chichaíto. But if someone won with a chuchaso, the players would leap into a frenzy and force a palo down the loser’s throat. Double zeros, papi, that’s how you get it in. You’d hear the clattering of the dominoes echo into every alley even the zinc rooftops rung from all the noise.

  Now, there were only the skeleton husks from the shacks. There were no roofs. There were no doors. Many houses had their windows torn right out, concrete and all. It was frightening to see the electric cables webbing the roads and the walls of those abandoned places. The black cables wrapped everything. Some even sparked with electricity. Most people evacuated before she hit. Went off to el Coliseo Clemente for refuge. Or the Robin Morales public school. I knew the mongers wouldn’t leave. Those that chose to stay said it was their home. That no matter how hard she hit, we would be there to rebuild.

  I always met with the mongers to catch my share for the week. To keep me healthy and up on my nutrients. Banto managed well. His mother was one of those gentle types, always cooking after she got home. She complained to Banto that he was fat. Much too fat and needed to run the hills. I’d joke that he’d soon roll down the hills before running. She tried and tried, nagging him whenever she got a chance, all the while serving him a tower of arroz con salchicha. And he ate every grain. In his sadness, he’d eat everything he could find and go back for seconds, thirds, and then dessert. Most of us around these parts were slender and thin. Maybe ugly and malnourished, but never pudgy. And poor Banto, he’d look at me with those big brown eyes of his feeling sorry that he couldn’t control the urge, and I sympathized. His own madre molded him with her sweets and guilt.

  I much liked my routine with the mongers, and whenever Banto invited me to eat at his place, I passed because the food never tasted real. Everyone thought it so tasty. But me? I wanted it fresh from the stream, still wet from the catch.

  “This is so stupid, pescao,” Banto said as we walked. “We shouldn’t be going fishing now of all things.”

  “You going to feed me, cabrón? Are you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Pues cállate la boca.”

  “Look, pescao. Not trying to keep you from all that. But you know how Ura gets.”

  “Then he’ll answer to me, cabrón. It won’t take long.”

  THE RAIN HAD come to a still drizzle, a constant tap that left everything in a wet mist. There was an odd smell in the air, a caked dampness that resembled wet feathers. At first, I thought it was the trash that might have spilled onto every corner.

  I pushed through the escombros. Banto could only stare. He stopped walking and gazed into the expanse. The color had left the horizon. All the trees were naked from green and everything looked sharp and jagged.

  “Diache, she’s impressive. How everything looks burned. How she bent all to her will,” I said, trying to tame the silence.

  “There’s still the whiplash from her tail that might hit us, pescao.”

  “She’s moved way past us, Banto.”

  “You never know if there’s more. Like an earthquake. An aftershock.”

  “That’s not how it works, cabrón.”

  “You don’t know!” he said. His face spoke of sadness and somehow, he looked like he was about to cry.

  “Is Banto cagao en sus panties? You need to call tu mamá? Maybe to feed you some cookies and cream?”

  “Not now, pescao.”

  “You are! You are terrified!”

  “Ya, Bayfish!”

  He made to strike me, but I dodged him and slapped him over his head.

  “Mamao. You aren’t fast enough to catch me.”

  “At least I don’t look like a rotting shrimp.”

  “Cuidao, bicho.” I puffed up to his face and shoved him. He fell backward and spit on the ground.

  “Mala mía, pescao. I didn’t mean it. Perdón.”

  I turned and kept walking to the mongers. In our barrio, whispers told of my past. Of how my mother came to have me. The only thing certain was that she deserted me by the river. It must’ve been what she wanted, the rising tide to drift me away so deep into the sewers that I’d drown with all the garbage from Florencia. I wanted to call it lies. As soon as I was old enough to understand words, I refused to listen to anyone that talked that kind of shit. I knew I looked like a shrimp with skin roughed with green boils and hair on my body, but some called it distinctive. Like dark plates of armor. Yet people knew not to push past the shrimp references.

  When I was older, Ura found me begging for change on the streets. He offered me a space and introduced me to Banto. Ura helped me build my outpost. In the beginning, he’d bring me the leftovers from Banto’s house. I was grateful, of course. I no longer needed to peddle. It wasn’t until he introduced me to the fish mongers that I learned I liked fresh fish, or that I liked most of my food clean and uncooked. But even now I still think it was Ura who saved me.

  The wind started again and Banto got scared and started trembling.

  “Bayfish. This is so stupid. We shouldn’t be going fishing.”

  “Are you going to feed me then, cabrón? Are you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Pues, cállate la boca.”

  “Bayfish, Mamá can give you some food when she gets back.”

  “Back from what, cabrón? Do you even know where she is?”

  “No, but—”

  “Pues, cállate.”

  WE ARRIVED AT el cruce, a subtle two-path divide. One path was lined with a string of houses painted in the colors of our flag. Each boxed house was grouped so close together they looked like a long snake that led to the mouth of the river. There, you’d find the dock where the mongers hung out. The other path went down a long corridor of tilting bamboos and connected to the main road out onto the highway.

  But the paint that used to light the rows of houses in their technicolor was faded and smeared with some yellow hue. And the bamboo path was nonexistent. There was no road in the mountain of debri
s.

  “That color, Bayfish.”

  “That’s the color of leaves, Banto.”

  “Of leaves? You mean tree leaves?”

  “Sí, cabrón.”

  “Dios mío. We should head to Ura, pescao. If we get her tail, we’ll be the new paint.”

  “Shut up with that tail shit. There is no tail. She’s long gone.”

  “You don’t know that, Bayfish.”

  “I do know that.”

  “No, you don’t. How could you? There is no way for us to know anything with the news and power out. What if she stalled just north and we receive whiplash? What if by God she is pushed back down to us? What if—”

  “¡Ya, Banto, ya! We are almost there. Let’s finish here and I’ll explain later how huracanes work because you’re too stupid to understand.”

  “There’s no way to walk in this mess, pescao. If we get stuck trying to push through and more water and wind comes, we are done.”

  “¡Ya, cabrón! I am going to the mongers. Keep talking, cabrón. Keep talking.”

  “But, Bayfish.”

  “You can stay here if you’re too scared. The mongers are still here. I’m going to meet them.”

  “You can’t possibly know that.”

  “Cabrón, I do know.”

  “They must’ve gotten—”

  “¡Ya!”

  I punched into his ribs something evil. He winced and started to tear up trying to catch his breath and only his puffing could be heard in the silence. I felt bad. After seeing him struggle, he looked helpless and pathetic.

  “Perdón, Banto. Perdón.”

  THE DOCK WAS only two miles away but it took us hours to walk through the mess. The remains of the houses stopped and as we came up to the dock, all that was left were two wooden stubs poking out of the river. The river roared and seized in a thick brown muck. It moved so fast you’d think it just discovered the mouth of the ocean. The mongers usually tied their boats next to the abandoned industrial water storage tanks. They’d been abandoned for decades and the mongers set up their fish shops just outside the fenced enclosing and sold their stock. When business was plentiful, the shacks were lined multicolor, brimming with the yellow eyes and scaled red bodies of the chillo, the smooth tender cuts of the dorado, and tin buckets full of live crabs ready to be boiled. On good days, they’d even prepare some cooked samples. Local anglers passed by wanting to purchase their homemade señuelos used for leisure fishing. Cheo and Jorge built a reputation for making the best lures, claimed their bright rainbow poppers or plumillas brought in a bountiful morning catch.

  But none of their boats remained. I left Banto alone and went ahead.

  “Bayfish!” he yelled out to me, but I kept going. I reached the ladder near the white industrial tanks that would lead me down a long concrete corridor where the mongers lived.

  “Cheo!” I yelled. “Cheo! Any of you here?”

  “Pescao!” a voice responded. It was Cheo. An older man in his midforties who fancied himself a bona fide poet. His skin was the color of dark bark. His arms were thick, and he was short with a beer gut. He only had hair on the sides of his head. I went over and hugged him.

  “I was afraid you slept through María. Had to make sure, tú sabes.”

  “I did. Slept through el ojo. She took her sweet time passing through, mano. The slowest I’ve ever seen. Ni siquiera Hugo. And he was mean too.”

  “¿Y Georges?”

  “Pal carajo con Georges. That thing’s a cutie compared to this. You seen how it looks out there right?”

  “Yeah, I saw.” I turned and scanned his home. “Cheo, where are the others? Jorge came by earlier this week and said the fish were flowing.”

  “They took off long before she hit, mano. Headed to Bayamón and Toa Baja to stay with family. They should be ok.”

  “But I just saw him, Cheo. When did he leave?”

  “No sé, mijo. It’s been some time now. Maybe before she made landfall.”

  “And you let them take off like that? Hombre, ¿estás loco?”

  “They tried talking me into going, pescao.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I wasn’t leaving. This is my home. If it goes, I go with it.”

  “Bueno, I think the worst has passed.”

  “I hope so, mijo, I hope so.”

  I moved a milk crate from the side of the wall and sat down. Cheo’s space was much like my own. It was humble with only a simple kitchenette and a cot to sleep on. Most of the mongers used the local bars for bathrooms and they’d shower in the river.

  “You have any bait, Cheo?” I said to him.

  “Sí . . .”

  “Where at?”

  “Bayfish, you really going out?”

  “I need food, Cheo. I’m hungry.”

  “It’s bad out there.”

  “Chico, it’s alright. Just a little messy. Nothing that won’t get fixed up in a couple of weeks.”

  “No, Bayfish. The people . . .”

  He stopped himself and turned around. He didn’t say any more.

  “What about it? Cheo?”

  “The bait’s in the refrigerator out back. The town has been using it to store things. What’s left of the town, anyways. We keeping it running on generators as long as they last. Not sure how much time we have, but we’ll keep it running until we run out. It’s working now. That’s all that matters.”

  “Okay,” I stood up and started making my way out. “Mira, Cheo. Ura has an idea to get things running up again. I’ll be back and tell you the details. Says it’s going to be big. Says it’s going to solve everything.”

  “No, pescao. I have to stay here until the rest come back. Besides, you know I don’t get along con ese cabrón.”

  “Cheo. Just hear me out when we get back. You’re coming. Relájate. Don’t fight it. I’m going out to catch. I’ll meet with Ura and figure out what he has planned. Then I’m coming back here, and we’ll go together.”

  “Bayfish . . .”

  “Ya, Cheo. You’re not staying here alone.”

  I patted his shoulder and went out through the side into a muddy pasture between the rusted and abandoned industrial tankers. The mongers had a large walk-in refrigerator where they kept their fish and supplies. I got to the fridge, picked out a toolbox with the bait, and made my way back to Banto.

  Banto was leaning against one of the light posts next to the river. He was consumed by the raging water, its brown melody humming throughout the air.

  “Okay, Banto. Let’s do this.”

  “Bayfish, how are they?”

  “Now you care, cabrón?”

  “How are they?” he repeated.

  “Cheo is fine. We coming back to get him after we find out what the hell Ura has planned.”

  “And the others?”

  “Cheo says they’re fine. They went to Toa Baja and Bayamón.”

  “They went where?”

  “Toa Baja and Bayamón.”

  “Toa Baja? Bayfish . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  He didn’t say anything. He turned away and started walking upstream. His silence felt different, as if he were keeping God’s secrets. I pressed him but he wouldn’t tell me more, so I just left it.

  Banto and I looked for the best spot to fish. We looked where the river was the least angry, where we could cast our rods without worrying if the currents quickened, or if the ground beneath us was too brittle to support our weight. We climbed the steps of abandoned homes and verandahs absent from people and their conversations. We looked for the best possible spot. We searched for all the fish that the mongers promised, we scanned with our eyes to see if there were any washed up on the sidewalks, we dug inside cabinets, under the covers of bedsheets, underneath drenched sofas heavy with the weight of water, in refrigerators abandoned with weeks supplies of food, now, gone to waste because there was no power. We searched and Banto’s face spoke of sadness.

  We came across a small house. You could te
ll elderly people used to live there by what remained of the decorations: crucifixes, stained portraits of Jesús and María—some of the portraits varied, some looked very pastoral complemented by their drenched and weathered water stains—and broken ornate porcelain dolls with their old and simple embroidery, probably dressed by those forgotten and disappeared viejitos.

  The river had eaten away most of the surroundings, but the little house latched on to the main road desperate to keep its place in this world. We climbed the concrete stairs that were tacked outside. They lead to the roof. There, we walked to the ledge of that roof and sat on its edge and watched the river flow and flow, the sound hummed, and it soothed. The outlook was desolate, the river was so gorged you could not make out where water ended and land began. But we were safe on that roof because it was sound and sturdy and the river only ate away at one side of the house allowing us to have the water flow. It gave us a chance to catch some fish, so we cast our lines and waited for something to pull on them. And we waited there in silence for some time. We feared that night would come to us and leave us stranded because it would get so dark there would be no way of knowing where to go.

  Banto was the first to catch something. But it wasn’t a fish. A boot got stuck on his hook and he pulled it up. It was an expensive boot, a Dr. Martens, and it was a dark ruby red. I laughed at him and he giggled and placed it next to him and we waited and waited again.

  Banto caught something again. But it wasn’t a fish. A blazer caked with so much mud. The blazer looked nice, like something you’d buy at Nordstrom in the Mall of San Juan. I told him to keep it because he could probably wear it once it was cleaned. It might not fit him, but I didn’t want to make him feel bad, so I just let him have that moment. And we waited and waited again.

  I finally hooked something. But it wasn’t a fish. A wig, discolored from all the elements of the river. Banto jokingly encouraged me to try it on, but I threw the wig at him and we laughed. I told him he should keep it and clean it and we could have an entire outfit by the end of the night. And we laughed for the first time together, not at each other’s expense, but at the world around us and how together and alone we were.