I did, however, soak up a lot of experiences in the park, so I don’t feel like such a Godforsaken loser having spent my summer playing, instead of writing. The funny thing is that some writers probably wish they had played more with their kids and been able to devote a whole summer to them. In any case, I am not letting go of the nagging desire because it’s the one thing I have not done. (Well, I haven’t been to Europe, but that’s not as crucial.) Well, and it’s the one specter that haunts me on a regular. Like a few days ago, I felt like I was having a mid-life crisis; no fooling, with the blues and everything. And since I’m happily married and love my life in general, I knew it was THIS. So, here goes again. Let’s not even say again, aqui esta y ya.
My first short-short draft (yes, it’s a draft) is a fun story about an undocumented immigrant who encounters the walking dead and juxtaposes the experiences of walking through the desert with the horrors he is seeing. Wow, that doesn't sound like fun at all.
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September 30, 2011
Written by Maria J. Estrada
Ismael reinforced the door one more time; not that it mattered because they would not figure out how to undo the latch, let alone open the door handle. But, it gave him something to do, quietly duct tapping another layer of cardboard behind the nailed coffee table. He knew the cardboard wouldn’t hold so much as a fart outside, but it was all he had.
Besides, the muertos were confused and quite pendejos. Though, every now and then he would spy one outside the window, and he swore he saw a twinkle of intelligence in the glossy eyes, but it was just a reflection. Besides, he knew by now that they were blind. Even though he was pissing his pants, when things got ugly, he had left the trailer when they weren’t so many to get his tools out of his car. They only noticed him when he, stupidly, slammed the car door shut and then exclaimed, “¡Puta madre!”
His heart skipped. He heard someone turning the latch. It was followed by a rhythmic scratching.
“¿Who is there?” he whispered. He looked through the small window, as he spied Betty the Whore. She turned to see him; nothing about her face revealed that she was one of them. Just as he had seen the week before, her long blond hair was neatly braided, and she still had on a gorgeous red lipstick that he loved her to wear when she did unladylike things for him down below. But one of them must have bitten her below her skirt because she was as jodida as all the other ones walking and dragging their sad asses through the dirt.
He gasped and asked no one, “Oh no. ¿Si es como SIDA?” Thinking long and hard he blanched; what if she had not been bitten? Crossing himself out of habit instead of devotion, he sat heavily on his only kitchen chair. It scraped loudly, causing Betty the Whore to moan. Betty remained out there, calling the attention of others, not many, but enough to make him grateful for the dried corn he had stashed in the cup board.
Two hours later, he realized Betty the Whore wasn’t giving up.
He stared at his toolbox and assessed everything he could use to kill her and the five others. A screwdriver would work, but could he take it out fast enough to kill others? He put the most lethal items on the floor: three screw drivers, a large wrench, and a hammer.
“Hmm, five tools for five muertos,” he muttered, eyeing the pincers and practicing his numbers and words. Then, he shook the thought of extracting her teeth and doing other things to her, “Estas loco hombre.”
Everyone had said he was loco y peor, when he left San Juan del Rio, on foot, to cross the U.S. He had not wanted to leave, and really wasn’t as desperate as most, with wives and kids, but the economy was so bad. He hadn’t fixed a car in three months, and he was the best mechanic. So, he left on foot to save money.
It had been a long trek to the Texas border. Many people had been kind to him on the way, many people with family on the other side. Trusting, he had let a slick man with a silk shirt and tinted glasses take him across for $2,000. It was a miserably hot June day, and by that time, he was carrying almost nothing but his toolbox and a jug of water. The fancy man was true to his word; he did take Ismael across the border to a section of the fence far, far away from border guards and automated machine guns. But then, the son of a bitch had dumped him and stolen his water. Just dumped him like an unwanted dog: no, worse.
For four days, he walked disoriented. His feet were strong, but his skin itched terribly and was starting to feel ever so tight. The feeling in his throat was not the most troubling: It was the headache that got worse no matter what he did. It was so agonizing, he would have taken his own life, but he held onto hope. Even in his confusion, he thought he saw that 1969 Mustang from the American magazine. Somewhere there was a 1969 Mustang that needed to be brought to life. That was his American Dream. But, in that vast expanse of shrubbery and steam, he had seen no one. He tried getting water from a cactus, effectively thorning his hands, but did know how. He dug deep and nothing. Instead he ate some raw cactus, but that was not enough. Besides, I was difficult to swallow. The fatter his tongue got, the more confused he became.
At night, it was so bitterly cold he had bitten himself horribly and tried crying, but had no tears. That had caused a deeper headache. On the fifth day, he sat in resignation. In the distance, he saw a snaking dust storm, but knew it was an illusion. Before then, a long rattlesnake had crawled inches from him and looked at him benevolently. That is how he knew he was dying.
Bang! Ismael fell out of his chair right onto this nalgas.
Who was shooting?! It was so close by; he looked out the window, and spied his quiet neighbor, the father of three. They would wave to each other politely, but he had never met the man, properly. Now, the man held a rifle, Ismael could not recognize.
Bang, bang, bang! One shot went through his door.
“¡Cuidado!” Ismael shouted. Then opened the window and shouted again, “¡Oiga! ¡Cuidado!”
The neighbor looked startled. Ismael had done such a good job of being quiet, the neighbor probably thought he was dead. He gave a shy wave, fired one more shot, and disappeared.
“Fuck the beaner,” said a rough voice.
“No Dad,” pleaded a small voice, “We have to wait for the Border Patrol.”
“Ah, he’s dead anyway,” said the old man, “ ‘Sides, Scott is really sick. Shit, I should have waited to bring you boys out here.” The man gave Ismael a hard kick; that woke him some from his stupor.
Ismael saw a blur of blonde hair and light skin; without the other man noticing, the boy dropped things near him and whispered, “I’m awful sorry about my ‘Pa.” Ismael had not understood what the boy said, but he heard compassion. His vision was blurry, as he saw the truck speed off.
The blonde boy had left him a bottle of water and a wrapped bar. An infinity later, Ismael opened the water. He gulped at first and began vomiting, and somewhere in his memory of the long walk to the U.S. he remembered old self-taught lessons, and he forced himself to drink slowly. He had enough reserve to save a bit for later.
At night, he managed to stand up and stumble towards the truck. He figured, there had to be a road up ahead, somewhere.
When he walked what seemed like miles, he tripped over something. Ismael tried to scream, but he was too broken. This was not a hallucination. It was a girl, no more than fifteen with a look of endless pain. Her long black hair floated in the wind. He didn’t need to know someone had brutalized her. Maybe that gringo with the truck.
He looked deep into her eyes and tried hard not to puke. Crawling away, he stopped and looked at the sky. Dawn was coming with its magical array of colors. He loved sunrises, but today, he wanted the night to last forever. He tried not to, but he looked at the girl; she had been wearing a deep red shirt.
In the end, that is what saved him.
With resolve, Ismael took the large tin of coffee and headed towards the neighbor’s house. It was hot and steamy, infused with the smell of cinnamon. There was no point in dying alone; besides, maybe his little ones needed help. For good measure, he took some Mexican candy he had been saving, Calacas with sweet and spicy coating.
He inspected himself in the mirror; he covered just about every inch of his body, like an Arab. He had his hammer at the ready and his tools in loops around his belt.
“Un super heroe,” he chuckled.
The coast seemed clear, but one could not be careful enough. Listening intently, he realized the dead were all rotting. He would have to take care of that later.
Stepping over the dead, Ismael paced towards his neighbor’s trailer. He wasn’t sure what to say because his English was still so limited, so he used the first words he leaned in his Spanish lessons at church, “Hello, my name is Ismael Contreras!”
A small head jutted over the window and scurried off. He thought it was the oldest boy. A few seconds later, the gun poked out the window.
“What do you want?” asked an uncertain, unaccented voice.
“Hello,” he replied stupidly, “my name is Ismael Contreras. Tengo cafe.”
The window closed and the door opened a few inches, and he was welcomed with a laugh, “Shit. You look plain silly.” The door opened wider, and he walked in, handing the gunman the tin of coffee.
“Hey,” said the man, “you forgot to close your front door.”
“¿Como?” the man pointed to his front door.
“¡Puta madre!” said Ismael and ran back to his trailer. A few minutes later, he was back.
The man was laughing desperately and then shut up suddenly. Both listened intently, but there were no other sounds.
Ismael looked around, “Este, woman?”
The man’s face dropped and shook his head. Ismael clapped his hand on his shoulder. The dad passed cups all around, even to the little one.
His father introduced them by age, Michael, Patrick, and Scott. Scott was maybe two years old. Ismael presented the candy and the children were awestruck.
“Save them for later,” commanded the father. He pointed to the empty cupboard, “We were moving.”
Ismael did not understand and the man pantomimed.
“Ah,” said Ismael, “Malo.” Ismael had done the opposite, even before the dead began to rise. He had water, corn, sugar, salt, and more water. After nearly starving to death and dying of thirst, he became a Family Dollar hoarder, even haggling with the clerks in broken English.
“My boys haven’t eaten in days,” said the man.
Ismael saw their dried skin and the white patches on the youngest. This thing had started over a week ago or was it more? He needed no translation and without a word, Ismael stepped out and brought back a box. The father tried to decline, but Ismael understood male pride.
“You pow, pow!” said Ismael matter of factly, pantomiming the gun. That opened the door to a whole new friendship.
The man would not leave his children in the trailer, but Ismael was bold.
Eventually, he ventured off to the Cocopah Corner Store, but there were too many of them there. One turned to head towards him, but instead he sped off taking a circuitous route through the orange groves.
Ismael was no stranger to agriculture; his father had been a small rancher. He picked overripe oranges and young spinach. He knew there was patch of peanuts somewhere but wasn’t sure about that season.
He returned with his bounty, and saw the man sitting outside the trailer. Ismael knew that look of defeat. It was the same one he had on his face when no cars came to his shop.
“My friend?” he asked, carrying an armful of oranges.
The man, Rick, had been crying.
“Scotty. . .” he answered.
Ismael rushed into the trailer. The two boys were in the living room watching a T.V. show. Ismael intruded and walked to the back room. Little Scott looked diminished.
He was shivering, and Ismael knew something was very wrong. The previous day, the boy had been playing on his lap, teaching Ismael words.
“Duck, duck, duck” said Ismael and Scott gave a weak smile. Ismael peeled an orange and fed some to the boy. The boy choked and gagged, but swallowed a bit. Without hesitation, Ismael raced back to his trailer because something else Ismael was never without was aspirin.
He rummaged through his closet and found Tylenol. The Spanish speaking and pharmacist had said it was good for fevers. He heard a shuffling noise and turned horrified. Again, he had neglected to close his fucking door.
There it was; a man in his mid-twenties, with half of his head missing. No, gnawed off. He reeked so awfully, Ismael wasn’t sure how he had missed the stench. He was shirtless, wearing soggy boxers.
Standing still like a hunted animal, Ismael stopped breathing. He looked for Rick and found no one. He carefully put the Tylenol in his pocket and reached for the hammer. Ismael swung the hammer and missed the head, connecting with the shoulder. A sickening crack almost made Ismael lose his nerve.
Estupido he chastised himself. The young man sat confused but instinctively leaned forward. Ismael fell back and was caught by the wall. He swung again nailing the skull and swung again until he heard a satisfying thud. Ismael began crying, but before he could lose his composure, he got up and ran out the door, remembering to close it.
Two days passed, and he had not seen his friends. Ismael wanted to come over and help, but he knew he was not welcome. Sometimes, a man had to deal with hardship on his own. But, the previous day, he had left another box and added some mint leaves. Hopefully, Rick would know what to do.
The next day, Ismael was glad to see the box was gone.
He saw her again. The young girl. But this time she spoke in Betty the Whorse’s voice. Tell my family, she begged. But it was impossible. Ismael awoke screaming. It was late in the day; he checked his own vitals. He was alive and fine. Then he heard Rick, “Come on Scott! Run to daddy.” Ismael’s heart raced. He almost tripped as he made his way to the living room. The old smell of blood was still there no matter how much he scrubbed. He looked out the window and nearly shouted for joy.
Scott was walking around, but he was walking away from Rick. It was a miracle! Rick was crouched as Ismael had seen him so many times before, ready to catch his son and throw him up in the air.
Finally, something good, no something better.
Ismael walked out in his underwear, “Hola amigo.”
That made Scott turn. Ismael froze. Scott jerked when he walked and his mouth was hanging. An endless stream of drool fell out of his mouth.
“No, no,” said Rick, “Come to Daddy!”
Ismael looked at Rick and noticed the gun behind his back. Part of him wanted to hide in his trailer, board up the door, and never come out again. But, he looked towards the window and saw them. He did the only decent thing he could do, he brought the boys their presents and told them to keep playing.
“You play!” he said cheerfully. Ismael had made the boys simple puppets out of wood. He held onto the third one and dangled it behind Rick.
“Ven Escott! Ven mijo,” he said in the same stupid tone of voice Rick used. The boy sped up a bit, reaching up for Ismael. He was three feet away, and Ismael’s heart was hammering in his throat. Ismael was not afraid of the boy, but of something else.
Scott was two feet away. Ismael stared at Rick, and at the last moment, the father swung the gun and ended Scott’s walk. Rick whimpered and tensed up as the held caressed the trigger.
“Don’t my friend,” he wanted to say, but his tongue was stuck in his throat. Rick relaxed his grip, put the gun to the side, and picked up his boy. Rick gently closed his eyes and his mouth. Besides the blood that pooled and thickened, the boy looked fast asleep. Rick held him for a long time, and Ismael worried that Rick would hold his son forever. The boys were still entertained when Ismael came out with the shovel.
“My friend,” he whispered, and Rick gave him a piercing look.
Two weeks later, Ismael had them all over to his trailer, for the first time. Rick was bearing the loss better than Ismael thought, but he had the other boys. Even so, he would check on them often, bringing some peaches or cauliflower. A little whittled toy. Ismael found that that he could go into nearby towns and frequented the library, something he could not do without papers before. Ismael’s new task was learning to can goods, but the cookbooks in Spanish were limited.
The boys sat around him with their puppets.
“I ever tell you,” said Ismael, “how I come here? To America?”
“Came,” said the second oldest, grinning at him. Their task was to teach him English.
He smiled warmly trying to remember all the new words he knew.
