Read Online South by South Bronx by Jr., Abraham Rodriguez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jr., Abraham Rodriguez
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would like to authorize my assistant to have access to it for me while I am away on business.
âyou canât fall in love with him, alan said. a puerto rican. he said the words like he was spitting out teeth.
âyouâre not supposed to get involved with him, was how he corrected himself.
âthatâs not what you said at the beginning, she said.
âyouâll be with someone, but donât fear him, sarita said. he has strong guardians.
âbut where am I going? she asked, staring at herself in the mirror. her hair, for some reason, had turned black. a woman carrying a tray of curlers bumped into sarita. there was a clatter crash. pink curlers bounced everywhere like tiny bunnies.
the cell phone beeped its song. oh say can you see? she shook she jumped she searched her purse. she was dressed for the party.
âava, help me.
âdavid. where are you? whatâs wrong?
âthey killed my brother, he said. I think theyâre on the way here now.
she ran. always this thing with time: time running out, we havenât much time, racing against the clock, or else it was sometime :
âsometime youâre going to have to choose, he said, again and again in his precise alan speak.
âwe should let her sleep, a voice said.
no, the doctor said, giving her a shot of sodium pentathol. make her talk first. and he squeezed her face with his hand like he would squash a tomato.
âno, she said.
The windows were wide open. Blue sky almost touchable through that clean pane. The bed was at the perfect angle to see nothing but sky through both windows. No buildings, no rooftops, no sight of anything but blue sky and cotton clouds. These were dream windows, painted by DalÃ. The chilly breeze made her pull up her blanket. A sick flat taste in her mouth.
Her eyes were wet. The strange blue room alternately calmed and panicked her. She sat up a little, clutched her folded knees. Wanting to hide, wanting to take it back. Something, everything, to blot out all the lines connected to her with an eraser.
There was the smell of coffee. The sound of water in the sink. Dishes. A manâs footsteps in the hallway. Nearer, near.
She closed her eyes. The same way a little girl closed her eyes, and said, âYou canât see me.â
She was counting to ten.
9.
it was the dress that did it.
not the woman in his bed, for there had been many others after, to disappear in the morning with that first vodka splash. women who left no tracks, no visible proof they had ever been there. he could have dreamed them, but he didnât dream belinda. and he didnât dream that dress.
hanging from shower curtain rod. eye level as he pissed and flushed. there hadnât been a dress hanging in his bathroom since belinda. was her habit, her mark of permanence.
(there was also: bra and panties. actually, a black g-string so flimsy that just staring at it made it slip off the curtain rod.)
âchangó, changó.â
the cleansing tobacco rolling slow into the air, he especially puffing the dress. (how it shuddered from his smoke breath.) maybe he should have been praying something, but he only muttered changó, changó like in that song by celia cruz
fought off the first wave of disconnected images with vodka and ice. cleansed that sense of DOOM with that first bright hit. that tumultuous puerto rican aguacero splashing the windows clean.
the second ice-clinking swallow stopped the pictures. he busied his hands making another vodka ice, then rolling a cigarette slow calm. the cigar had gone out. maybe it meant something spiritually. he parked it on the ashtray for another cleanse later. but now sat in the small kitchen, in the narrow confined space with nothing but the ticking cateyes on the wall as his nerves settled, free of turbulence.
equilibrium.
that was the thing people left out when they started the rap on the evils of drinking. the equilibrium, the sense of things falling
âyou canât fall in love with him, alan said. a puerto rican. he said the words like he was spitting out teeth.
âyouâre not supposed to get involved with him, was how he corrected himself.
âthatâs not what you said at the beginning, she said.
âyouâll be with someone, but donât fear him, sarita said. he has strong guardians.
âbut where am I going? she asked, staring at herself in the mirror. her hair, for some reason, had turned black. a woman carrying a tray of curlers bumped into sarita. there was a clatter crash. pink curlers bounced everywhere like tiny bunnies.
the cell phone beeped its song. oh say can you see? she shook she jumped she searched her purse. she was dressed for the party.
âava, help me.
âdavid. where are you? whatâs wrong?
âthey killed my brother, he said. I think theyâre on the way here now.
she ran. always this thing with time: time running out, we havenât much time, racing against the clock, or else it was sometime :
âsometime youâre going to have to choose, he said, again and again in his precise alan speak.
âwe should let her sleep, a voice said.
no, the doctor said, giving her a shot of sodium pentathol. make her talk first. and he squeezed her face with his hand like he would squash a tomato.
âno, she said.
The windows were wide open. Blue sky almost touchable through that clean pane. The bed was at the perfect angle to see nothing but sky through both windows. No buildings, no rooftops, no sight of anything but blue sky and cotton clouds. These were dream windows, painted by DalÃ. The chilly breeze made her pull up her blanket. A sick flat taste in her mouth.
Her eyes were wet. The strange blue room alternately calmed and panicked her. She sat up a little, clutched her folded knees. Wanting to hide, wanting to take it back. Something, everything, to blot out all the lines connected to her with an eraser.
There was the smell of coffee. The sound of water in the sink. Dishes. A manâs footsteps in the hallway. Nearer, near.
She closed her eyes. The same way a little girl closed her eyes, and said, âYou canât see me.â
She was counting to ten.
9.
it was the dress that did it.
not the woman in his bed, for there had been many others after, to disappear in the morning with that first vodka splash. women who left no tracks, no visible proof they had ever been there. he could have dreamed them, but he didnât dream belinda. and he didnât dream that dress.
hanging from shower curtain rod. eye level as he pissed and flushed. there hadnât been a dress hanging in his bathroom since belinda. was her habit, her mark of permanence.
(there was also: bra and panties. actually, a black g-string so flimsy that just staring at it made it slip off the curtain rod.)
âchangó, changó.â
the cleansing tobacco rolling slow into the air, he especially puffing the dress. (how it shuddered from his smoke breath.) maybe he should have been praying something, but he only muttered changó, changó like in that song by celia cruz
fought off the first wave of disconnected images with vodka and ice. cleansed that sense of DOOM with that first bright hit. that tumultuous puerto rican aguacero splashing the windows clean.
the second ice-clinking swallow stopped the pictures. he busied his hands making another vodka ice, then rolling a cigarette slow calm. the cigar had gone out. maybe it meant something spiritually. he parked it on the ashtray for another cleanse later. but now sat in the small kitchen, in the narrow confined space with nothing but the ticking cateyes on the wall as his nerves settled, free of turbulence.
equilibrium.
that was the thing people left out when they started the rap on the evils of drinking. the equilibrium, the sense of things falling
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