“Heat”

The tourists always wonder why Guadalajara is deserted in the mornings. They think it is because of the gangs. Gangs come out when it’s dark. Sometimes it’s still dark at 6 A.M. 7 A.M. So they tell their tourist friends the gangs are why no one is the cafetinas frying eggs and serving coffee or setting up their stalls and hawking mangos and oranges when there’s barely enough light to walk down the streets without tripping on a gato sleeping on the sidewalk. They think everything happens because of the gangs. They like to talk about what they see on the news in other countries and their TV shows with the shootouts and the blood on the bodies. They assume I’m not one of them. I don’t blame them for thinking it’s all about the gangs. But we’re used to it. Everyone is worried about us. The gangs are going to get you in the light or in the dark, they don’t really care. If the day gets too bright too early they’ll just wait until it’s dark again. It gets dark at night in Mexico just like everywhere else. If it’s too windy at night they’ll take care of you during lunch. Guns and knives and blindfolds and white vans work at night and in the afternoon. Maybe it’s 5:30 AM. Some pandillero who just spent all night guarding a cookhouse or driving eight suitcases of cash through six checkpoints doesn’t want to be up shooting at anyone before he can see the sun. He’s asleep just like you and I want to be, but probably in a softer bed with a better A/C unit stuck in his bedroom window and a girlfriend with a bigger ass sleeping on the only pillow in the house that’s not covering a gun. But really, it’s not all about the gangs. We’re not that bad. They’re not that bad.

Really.

En verdad.

En serio.

—–

 

Sometimes in the mornings I thought about what Mama used to tell me. We always talked during breakfast, sometimes before I went to school and sometimes before I went to work with Papa.

“Mama, Mama. Yo quiero leche, no jugo de manzana.”

“How do you ask?”

“Por favor.”

“No.”

“Por favor, senorita.”

“No. En Ingles,” said Mama.

“Mama, can I have milk instead, please?” asked Dolores

“Of course, Dolé,” said Mama.

“No quiero hablar Ingles, Mama.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“I don’t want to speak English, Mama.”

“You have to. What does Papa always say?”

“Ingles esta la via el la cima.”

“Excuse me?”

“English is the way to the top,” said Dolores.

“He’s right,” said Mama.

“But los gringos speak English and they yell so much.”

“Where do you hear the gringos yelling?”

“They yell at all the other girls. At the prostitublo.”

“DOLORES! You do not go down there!”

“Papa took me down there.”

“When did he do that?”

“When we visited tía el sabado.”

“Which day?”

“Saturday. Papa taught me some new English, too,” said Dolores.

“Like what?” asked Mama.

“Hijos de putas. Sons of bitches.”

“DOLÉ!”

“And cocksuckers. Mamon. That’s what he calls la policia.”

“DOLORES! You do not speak like that!”

“I know English, Mama.”

—–

Hace calor.

Siempre.

Always.

Really, it’s the heat.

Guadalajara is hot, and it doesn’t cool off at night like it does in Acapulco or Puerto Vallarta. By February, it’s too hot for the kids to come outside and play before school. When it’s too hot for the next Chicharitos and Guardados and Messis to bicker over who gets to play striker first and kick each other in the dust until they’re so late they forget their backpacks in their rush to grab the ball and sprint towards the bell. It’s too hot for anyone to wake up early to frying fifty cent churros for the pasty Euros who can’t wait to get back to the tequila and las tetas. The heat in Guadalajara sits and stinks. I’ve seen pictures of Acapulco and Caracas and Rio. They like to make their heat tropical and pretty and paint their building all different colors. It’s all greens and oranges and reds and blues bumping against each other at sharp angles. A mezcla that looks like one of those blankets they sell in our square as productos tradicionales, all bright yarn and clashing patterns and no anything someone would use in their house. Walk three blocks there and all those colors are whirring and simmering and you might break a sweat. It’s hotter than that here. It’s the kind of heat that slaps you in the back of the head when before you can open your door and then seeps into your chest and down your back and into your feet before you can even decide which way you want to walk. Nothing is green or blue. The buildings are brown and the street dogs that started off grey have brown fur that’s never going back to grey no matter how much they beg for water outside the cafes. The dust and the brown sucks in the sun and spits it back out at your face.

The tourists love to imagine they are in danger. The love to blame the gangs. They forget to blame the heat.

Think of your favorite movie gangster.

Your favorite jefe de las drogas.

Does he seem like the wake up at 5 AM to be on the street by 6 AM type?

I’m probably not your favorite gangster.

We don’t do things like they do in the movies the tourists watch.

I still don’t want to leave my pillow before sunrise.

I think I’ll stay inside until someone calls me.

Where it’s cool and I can rest.

Tiempo es dinero.

Horas de sueno.

—–

Sometimes I think about Mama while I’m at work.

“Mama, por qué todos mis amigos tienen que trabajar?” asked Dolores

“You know that I will not answer that,” said Mama.

“Why do all of my friends have to work?”

“You know that I will not answer that.”

“Do we have more money than them?”

“Look at my dress, Dolé.”

“You look fine.”

“Look at these windows. Do you think we have more money than them?”

“No. It looks like we have a lot of broken windows.”

“Exactly, Dolores.”

“It looks like we have a lot less money than them.”

“You’re right,” said Mama.

“Claro. So porque are all the other girls working?” asked Dolores.

“What?”

“So why are all the other girls working?”

“Do you want to work?”

“I already work, Mama.”

“You work for people who protect you.”

“They don’t protect me.”

“Didn’t they teach you how to shoot a gun?”

“Si, pero the girls who have to work are protected.”

“Not as protected as you are.”

“Why?” asked Dolores

“The other girls don’t have your father,” said Mama.

“So what?”

“What did Papa teach you today?”

“He showed me how to stab.”

“Was that all?”

“He took me on a drive.”

“And he told you what he was doing?”

“Si, claro. And he told me what all the drivers do.”

“Do you think the other girls learn those things.”

“I don’t know, Mama.”

“They don,t, Dolores. They don’t”

“But what am I protected from?”

“Do you like the tourists? The gringos.”

“No.”

“Neither do the other girls. Trust me. They them. You should thank your father.”

“Why?”

“You will not ask questions about this.”

—–

Amarillo.

“Juevos con frijoles.”

“Agua fría. Dos pesos.” Cold water.

When the morning is over and the sun is full everyone wants cold water.

They stock the cars with plenty of cold water. When I’m driving there are usually two barrels of it in the passenger’s seat and five or six in the back seat. The border patrol officers see the barrels and all they can think of is cold water and air coniddioning and a cold shower and a dark rrom away from the sun. When I pass a checkpoint it looks like the busted Impala is sinking onto its back axle because of all the water I am carrying para mi familia. That’s what I always say. Just water for my family. They suspect nothing. Work is easy for me. Only the heat and the repetition get in the way. Every morning is the same. Nubes, por favor. Clouds, please. Dios mio, lluvia, por favor. Give us some rain. By nine the sun is up and I can see the orange ring around its sharp yellow core. There will be no clouds or rain. I can smell the grease cooking from downstairs and I can hear the vendedores shouting. I hear American English and I roll over and sneer and spit. I have eight stops to make. It will be an easy day. No one will give me trouble.

For some of the other drivers it is harder. La policia know most of the members in Guadalajara. All of them have been arrested a few times. Most of the officers probably recognize which banditos they have arrested. It’s hard to avoid double takes and closer looks when your both sides of your head are shaved clean and scarred from what was once a fresh tattoo but has now rotted and twisted and knotted and turned your scalp red. The bandanas can cover the markings on the nose and chin but the letters on the forehead give the rest away. For those guys, work is hard. A constant scramble of bribes, smiles, winks, threats, scowls, gestures, nods, and the occasional shot. Every stop a little dance, ritualized but lethal. No one would believe them if they said they were crossing the border with water for their families. They don’t look like family men. They always want me assigned to more dangerous duty. La nina, they call me. “Send the girl. No one will notice her.” They never do. I act like I don’t hear them. Lately they say it more often and they say it louder to let me know they want me to hear. I don’t think I will be protected for much longer.

I wonder if his protection is running out.

Dios mio.

Mi padre.

Seguridad.

—

Bruja.

Puta.

Cabrona.

Preguntas. Questions.

I am so full of questions, but I do not think they are good. All they care about are the questions as they drag me away. “Why are you talking to the other girls? You are a stupid girl. What do you want to know? What more do you want? Do you think you are that special? You don’t have to work. Stay away from them. Who do you think you are? Do you think your father can still protect you? Protect you from your stupidity? What did you think would happen?”

“We should make her work now.”

“She is too old to work. An old woman. Take her bandana.”

“Get her gun, boludo. No, no, no, hombres. Don’t touch her. Estupido. Think of her father. Her father hasn’t been here for ten years. What can he do?”

“We’ll make her work for one night.”

“She speaks English.”

“Her mama taught her.”

“She would have been our best girl.”

“Her old lady was always smarter than that old bastard.”

Mama would have had questions.

Puta.

Bruja.

No mas preguntas, chica.

—–

“Bow your head, Dolores,” said Mama.

“Porque?” asked Dolores.

“Dolores,” said Mama.

“Why?” asked Dolores.

“Because that is how we pray.”

“I don’t think these statues are going to help us.”

“They’re not statues.”

“They’re statues. Look at them.”

“That is Jesus and that is Mother Mary. They will save you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then pray to your father.”

“I thought we didn’t pray to people.”

“Well, you won’t pray to God.”

“Why should I pray to Papa?” asked Dolores

“You should believe in him,” said Mama.

“Why?”

“He can actually protect you.”

“Why doesn’t he have a statue?”

“People don’t put scary statues in churches.”

“Why is he scary if he can protect me?”

“He will protect you. He scares other people.”

“Dios te salve, Papa, llena eres de gracia…”

“Dolores. English.”

“Hail Papa, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

—–

Arbol con sangre.

Tarde.

Marron. It is evening and everything is brown and still.

Now I know why Papa taught me how to stab and how to drive and how to protect myself and gave me his protection.

Now I know why Mama always reminded me to pray to Papa and be grateful for his protection and remember that I was not like the other girls and appreciate what my father did for me and what he taught me.

He had taught me so much and I had seen so much.

Sometimes when he took me to work I thought that I wasn’t supposed to see what I saw.

That he would be upset if he found out how man bodies I had seen and that I had seen them hanging from trees and bridges and statues in squares and intersections all over the city.

Maybe he drove me through those places on purpose. So I could see.

—–

 

The tree had never held one of the gang members for very long before. Some of them used to climb it one at a time to tie a rope around its thickest branch and then again a week later, when even the two red bandanas tied over their mouths and noses could not block the smell. It’s leaves were always falling off, crumpling to the ground. The soil was too dry and the air too hot for growth. The leaves grew green for a week or two in the spring and then died, their color indistinguishable from the bark and from the dirt that barely covered the roots. The branches were strong, though. Guadalajara has a dozen trees. Half of them are in the jefe’s backyard. The rest persist around Muchachita, Little Girl Pond, in one of the squares in another neighborhood. Not a neighborhood where the tourists can go. It was once a fertile pond, they say. The water is dark, but it is murky. It is brown near the bank where it is shallowest and the light can touch the mud at the bottom. The light that reaches the trees is marred and broken, peeking through the most cramped apartment towers the city offers. The day is fading, stuck somewhere between the afternoon that has been baked into the ground and the hotter evening that is rising up from it. Nothing is clear: the water, the day, the light. It is an unfamiliar part of the day in Mexico. The day has its heat and its work and the night has its dark and its time to hide away. I just want to get through this in between time. The tourists call it twilight. Ocaso is what I call it. I can hear Mama. “Dolores.” “Twilight, Mama.” Twilight is a nice word for an ugly time. I don’t know what Papa would have said. I won’t be up at 6 mañana. No one will say we should send la niña. I still hurt between my legs and my lip was swollen and my back was bruised. I had watched them climb the tree before so I could still manage. Papa had brought me to this tree to see what happens to the disloyal ones. The ones who talk to la policía or take a cut off the top or want to stop working. Sometimes their whole bodies would hang from the tree, sometimes it was just the head. I tie the three ropes on the big branch and I hope it holds. It has held a body and a half before but never two and a half. It’s really three quarters of two bodies so I guess two and a quarter. One didn’t have arms and I took a leg of the other. The last one doesn’t have a whole head and I start sweating as I tie the rope around an ankle. The rope is a little too thick and I have to pull tight tow secure it. It didn’t have to look nice. The tourists wouldn’t see these. It is dark and I pull the ropes tight over the branch. It is evening and the pond is black.

Hace calor.

 

Still. Tranquilo. Todavia.