I think about the One & Only and I know that girl-whom I first met when she was just a gaudy, awkward caterpillar, and whom I later witnessed as a butterfly-was whom I truly loved. I say it now because I don’t know if I’ll ever say it again. I remember when I first went to the circus, my aunt’s fiancé-a stocky guy named Reynaldo who was a coyote in Monte de Piedad-told me to keep my eye on the trapeze artist because he might fall and kill himself and it would never happen again, even if I showed up with a fistful of bills and paid a hundred times the ticket price. “Good things only come around once,” said Reynaldo, “and if we aren’t ready to dive in, we risk being left out, forever regretting.” It’s not that Reynaldo was a wise person, because if he were wise he wouldn’t be in prison, but for anybody who depends on hustling to eat, his words make sense.
At fifteen, I was making plans and holding on, barely passing my way through high school, looking to learn more and trying to keep up with Graciela from afar. We weren’t friends anymore. The One & Only despised our little gang from Guatemala, our tricks to get money, the zits that tormented me, and even my skill at beheading rats with a slingshot.
In the gang, it wasn’t a good idea to let on that you were in love; in fact, it was disastrous, because the guys had a cruel laugh reserved for anyone who developed soft feelings more appropriate to old women and fags. Like the men in bars from olden times, the gang didn’t tolerate anybody in uniform, or women. An honorable “Guatemalteco” only concerned himself with those sweet enemies when it came time to steal their panties and their hearts.
Actually, keeping the secret wasn’t that hard in the gang. It was all about taking on an attitude appropriate to a Guatemala hustler. “That chava belongs to me, one way or another. Nobody better touch her cuz she’s mine.” Still, it’s hard to love somebody who looks at you like you’ve got eight legs and can crawl up a wall. But it wasn’t always that way. A lot of time passed from the moment that little girl came to the back patio with her book in hand, to the day the nymph stopped coming, to the time that woman refused to even greet me. There were afternoons when I took to reciting romantic songs and taking her picture when I saw her lower her guard for a moment, revealing a gentle moistness about her eyes and a bloom in her cheeks. An anxious and flattered woman is an open window to anyone who knows how to look into it. I swear I felt like Juan Diego greeting the Virgin of Guadalupe. But each and every time, just when a feeling seemed to be stirring inside the One & Only, just like a chick pecks away at its shell in order to come to life, something would happen, and Graciela would again notice the marks on my skin, and she would wrinkle her nose as if something were rotting and then everything got fucked up again. Furious and desperate, the only thing I could think to do was insult her, bring her down with savage commentary to erase her sense of superiority, twist her rejection of me into fear of the streets. Later, when she was fifteen and I was eighteen, love and scorn were the same thing.
At the plazas in Loreto and La Soledad, I had money to ease things and met adventurers who didn’t faint over smallpox scars. Some became my friends. We ate sweet rolls, drank muscatel, and sometimes waited out the night to see the sun rise. The moment is so magical there in the center of the city that you’re willing to see Aztecs emerge from the ruins; you’re willing to believe the most fantastic legends. “Fuck her good and she’ll be yours forever. You don’t have any other option. Easy or hard, if you’re the first, you have a chance. What’s to lose? Don’t be such a lightweight; women like men who are determined.” They didn’t know Graciela; they were talking about other women.
I pursued Graciela and she rejected me. Like a dog begging for a caress I went after her. I pleaded with her a thousand times in a thousand ways, I robbed a car to take her for a drive, I pressured, I threatened, and, in the end, I hurt her so badly that a hundred years of regret won’t be enough.
If something has to happen, it will. The black hour came when a passing helicopter reminded me of that bird, when my unfulfilled dreams disappeared in its flight, and then there was a knock on the door to the patio and there she was-fruit for the taking in a flowered dress-precisely on a Friday when Clodomira had warned me that she’d be late. In that fatal second, I knew that we had reached a point of no return. Because… could I have done anything differently?… What else could I do, I ask, what else could I do?… Or must the Squirrel call the garbage man, give him some money, and say,“Just stuff me in your truck and toss me in the incinerator”?
What happened that afternoon was unfortunate. First, because it’s unbearable to hurt the woman you love… A crazed and empty-headed bato, a head filled only with tequila and anger and marijuana, so that you can’t think or regret or get it together to disappoint the prostitutes who hope to see you do it and finally stop acting like a fag… obsessed with finding disdain in the face of the beloved… having made the ridiculous decision to make her pay for not loving you… Add it up and none of it makes sense. It was impossible to even hope that the magic of the first time would transform her rejection into love, like what happens in stories and movies we’ve all seen and know: first, the leading lady throws a furious tantrum; then-nobody knows how this happens-passion emerges.
But passion failed to show this time-Graciela didn’t change and that was the first misfortune. Or perhaps, who knows… The second came in terrible words: “You are going to pay. You are going to die for this.” Her eyes were stone cold when she said this, staring right at me so I’d know she was serious.
Truth be told, nobody gets through life keeping promises. If you don’t believe me, just ask the president. Although Graciela is another story. If she says, “It’s gonna rain,” it’s best to take an umbrella. “You are going to die for this,” said the One & Only. I fell to my knees; sick with remorse I swore eternal love, I promised to live to take care of her, I begged. But it was like talking to a wall, like pleading with a statue.
After that, I only searched for her once. I did it because I still had some hope left, and before I gave up the fight I needed to know once and for all if the prostitutes were right. I just looked for her one more time. I saw her coming and I stepped in her path. Graciela saw me and erased all my doubts. Erased my doubts and my will to live as well.
If I didn’t suffer too much it was only because there wasn’t much time. Finding food in this city takes a whole day. Any kind of enterprise requires surveillance and work. Even robbing a gas station means forgetting about Bonnie and Clyde and studying the situation first. Secrets are revealed by going through the details. There might be money at certain times but not at others; the architecture and number of employees will determine how many men are needed to make the assault; depending on the plan, you can pass for a customer or leave in a customer’s car; you have to know the police patrols in the area, find the best route for a getaway, anticipate alternate paths of escape… myriad problems to solve and the man-hours needed to do it. That way, with days and nights turned into work, pain and love are excessive. In other words, romance and regret have a better chance in the movies; on the streets, you have to break your back.