Vernon God Little

Down here, in another space and time, I spend a night among partners with correctly calibrated Mexican genes.

An aneurysm wakes me Friday morning. I'm curled up on the floor behind a table. A brick in my head smashes into the back of my eyes when I look around. I give up, and try to focus instead on a rough, lumpy-looking wooden cross on the wall above my head. My Nikes hang from it.

'Mira que te esta esperando Ledesma,' says the truck driver from the bar.

'Cual Ledesma cabrón,' says the bartender.

'Que le des mamones al nabo, buey.'

The driver drops a big ole load. You hear him spit on the floor. I sit up, and spy the boys at the bar straining to focus on the TV. I turn to the screen just as Lally's image is replaced by my school photo. Machine-gun bursts of Spanish rattle over the top. The boys don't seem concerned.

'¿Que le ves al güero?' says the barman.

'Si el güero eres tu, pendejo.'

'Ni madres.'

'Me cae – tas mas güero que la chingada, tu.'

I know 'chinga' is the fuck word, I learned that at school. There must be a few ways to spin it, but 'chinga' is definitely the mothership of local cussing. Don't even ask me the rest of it. The bartender picks up three shot glasses, wiping each one with the tail of his shirt, and lines them up on the bar. I watch my picture shrink into a corner of the TV screen, while a map of Texas assembles underneath. Photos of strangers scatter across it. Glowing red dots appear, like throbbing pain sites on an aspirin commercial. Places I must've been sighted. Lubbock, Tyler, Austin, San Antonio.

No dot appears at Houston, though. God, I love that girl.

Suddenly, the driver's kid runs out of a back room, and switches channel to some cartoons. I tremble off the floor and make my way to the bar, island-hopping between tables for support. Then I notice something familiar about the bartender. He wears my fucken shirt. And my jeans. I turn to see if it's true about my Nikes, my soul, now hanging from another man's cross. It's fucken true. I stare at the bartender, and he points to my trouser pocket. I look down at myself, past a T-shirt with 'Guchi' printed on it, to some orange pants dangling loose above sandals with ole tires for soles. My body is a fucken shrine. I check the pants pockets. Two hundred pesos in local bills are stuffed inside. Vernon Gates Little, boy. Mexican Fate.

The boys serve up a shot they say will cure me. It stings, and as I drink it, a sunbeam bursts into the room, a blinding shaft that frames the crucifix on the wall, and lights up memories of last night. Pelayo, the truck driver, is driving me south, to his home state of Guerrero. To the mud-flaps.

He lifts his kid into the truck as I stumble to the gas station to buy a phonecard. I check the mud-flaps as I pass. Heaven, boy. Between them are painted the words, 'ME VES Y SUFRES.' My vesty surfers, or something. Wait till I tell Taylor.

She answers after five rings.

Tayla.'

' Tay, hi, it's Vern.'

'What, who? Wait up…' Bumping noises come down the line, a man's voice rumbles, then quiet, like she moved into a closet or something. 'Yeah – who?'

'Vern.'

Dead fucken quiet for around a decade, then she comes back, real close to the receiver. 'Oh my God.'

' Tay, listen…'

'Like, I can't believe I'm talking to a serial killer.'

'Shit, I ain't no killer…'

'Yeah, right – they have bodies mounted up all the way to Victoria!'

'Get outta town,' I say. 'That can't be right.'

'But, like, you killed some people, right? Something happened – right?'

' Tay, please listen…'

'Oh, babe. Poor tortured babe. Where are you?'

' Mexico.'

'God, have you seen back home? It's like Miami Beach, the whole town's wired for cameras, with live web access, twenty-four seven. The company that set it up floated shares and bought Bar-B-Chew Barn – my dad submitted a proposal for a sushi bar, right where the unisex used to be! If it comes off, I'm moving back to manage it – can you believe it?'

I watch credits drip off my card like ketchup off a local fly. ' Tay I'm at a public phone…'

Pulsating music and crowd noises break onto the line. You hear the man's voice, then Taylor yells back: 'It's my friend from outta town – okay?!' The door slams. She takes a deep breath, like a backwards sigh. 'Sorry, I'm, like, real vulnerable right now.'

'Hell, I don't want to…'

'You need cash, right? I have, like, six hundred put away for my vacation.'

'It'd save my fucken life.'

She sniffles, then her voice drops a tone. 'You talkin dirty to me, killer?' I swell in my new polyester pants. 'But, hey – where to wire it? Did you stop somewhere? And what if they, like – you know…'

'Shit, I guess that's right.'

'Vern, call me from wherever, like a city, or a big hotel – I'll check with Western Union.'

Her Fate song rings in my ears as I put down the phone. Six hundred bucks will probably buy a fucken beach-house down here. I'm boosted up. I get smart, and decide to call Pam. The line clicks. I swat flies while she hoists a ton of arm-fat to her head.

'He-llo?'

'Pam, it's Vern…'

'Oh my God – Vernie? We're devastated – where are you?'

I detect Mom in the background. I should've known it, they're probably on their nine-millionth burrito by now. Her sniffle wavers up to the phone, but Pam fends her off. 'Are you eating properly? Don't tell me you're not eating, don't tell me that, oh Lord…'

Mom snatches the receiver. ' Vernon, it's Mommy.' She immediately breaks into a runaway bawl. My eyes soak up with tears, which she feeds off, working up an even raunchier bawl. It's hard, this fucken moment in time.

'Ma – I'm just real sorry.'

'Well Vernon, the detectives say things'll be easier if you just come back.'

'I don't think I can do that.'

'But all this death Vernon, where are you? We know you were sighted near Marshall this morning…'

'Ma, I didn't kill nobody, I ain't running for that. I just have to make good, see? I'll maybe go to Canada, or Surinam or somewhere.' Bad fucken move. Mothers automatically detect the missing word in any multiple choice situation.

'Oh Vernon - Mexico ? Oh my God, baby, Mexico?

'I said Canada or Surinam, Ma.'

'Well but the longer you stay away, the more trouble will be waiting for you, don't you see that? Vernon? Mr Abdini says you have a defense, he's been poking around, he found some clues and all, and when Lalito moves back we can be a real family again, just like before.'

'You ain't still waiting on Lally…'

'Well but that old woman at the home never called back, so why not? Vernon? It's love, a woman knows these things.'

'Mom – when did you last speak to Lally?'

'Well he's very busy, you know that.'

I snort in an ironic kind of way. I guess it's ironic, when somebody passes off total bullshit as reality. Points drip off my phonecard as if they're points in my soul; I feel like I'll expire when they run out. I make a note to try and keep some points, in case they end up being cross-linked to my soul. Another learning about deep shit: you get real fucken superstitious.

'Where are you? Just tell me that – Vernon?'