The Storytellers

He tried to remember. He pushed his hands deep into the darkness that was memory and tried to grab something, anything, and bring it to the surface. His hands groped in that black space, a blind boy walking in an empty house. He concentrated as hard as he could but the results were always the same.

A white chicken ran loose in the back yard while his mother and his cousin Hector tried to catch it. Plastic colored bowls danced on the kitchen floor next to his mother’s feet.  His mother’s hand gently rubbed the space in the middle of his forehead while she sang to him… Duérmete mi niño…Duérmete solito.

And then there was just darkness.

                                                                       ***

Juan Pablo ran along Canal Street. It was noon and the street was twisting and turning awake. Not that Canal Street ever slept, but at midday there were few shadows where secrets could hide. Juan Pablo’s sandals kicked up dust as he ran down the middle of the dirt road. His quick eyes caught the old man to his right flinging a bucket of dirty mop water; he cut to the left and avoided the splash. He hurdled a pile of vomit, a solitary black shoe, and a fresh pile of dog crap. His heavy bag at his side tried to break free at every twist of his hip, but he held it close to his waist as he bounced over the train tracks. He was late.

He slipped down an alley, burst through a rusted metal gate and ran onto Calle Elias.  He looked to the north and he deflated. He immediately slowed his pace. There was no use in running, now. His two best friends, Hector and Ramon, were already at work, chattering at the tourists walking in and out of the Caverns restaurant. Hector had his box of penny candies. Ramon, the shoeshine kit he had inherited from his older brother. While Hector had a variety of different flavored chicles, Ramon had one color of polish, a murky, brackish brown that he could pass off as either brown or black.

Juan Pablo joined his two friends. The three young boys looked at each but offered up no greetings. Hector’s cheek bulged from an ever present wad of chewing gum.  Ramon’s dark stained hand fluttered to his face, leaving a brown trace of polish on the side of his nose. But no words passed between them. That was their way. This daily summer routine of meeting in front of the restaurant had evolved into a ritual. Neither boy would speak to the other. Their first words of the day for each of them had to be to a tourist. This act of deference to gringos would ensure a good sales day. The last boy to arrive at the restaurant had to buy each of the other boys a Fanta at the market at the end of the day. Juan Pablo was already down 2 sodas and he hadn’t even unloaded his bag.

Out of that bag, Juan Paulo pulled a small cardboard cigar box. It had a picture of a beautiful woman on the lid, which reminded him of his mother, and the words La Violeta on the top and sides. Out of a brown, grease stained bag he pulled out six small painted clay and wire figures. He held his hand out in front of Hector’s mouth. No words passed between them. They had performed this ritual hundreds of times since they became old enough to sell on the streets of Nogales, Sonora. Hector let the chewed hunk of chicle drop into Juan Pablo’s hand. Juan Pablo, pulled pieces from the wet chunk of gum, used them to stick the figures to the bottom of his cigar box. He placed them as he placed them each day. He put the bull in the center, the matador with red cape in front of the bull. He positioned the two picadors with their horses on either side of the bull, and the two toreros behind the matador. He was ready.

Ramon was hunched over on his knees buffing the boots of Mr. Orosco, the overweight, red-faced owner of the zapteria on Obregon. “Won’t sell any boots if my own boots look like shit!” he’d proclaim everyday as he’d stop by the Caverns to visit Don Beto. Everyday Ramon would slap on some of his polish and everyday Mr. Orosco would flip him a peso. Everyday Mr. Orosco would tell Ramon that, when he grew up, he should come by the shop and that there would be a job waiting for him. Later, when it was permissible to talk Ramon would say that he wouldn’t ever work for Orosco. “He smells like pee,” he’d say, “And I’m not working for anyone who smells like pee!”

At 11, Ramon was the oldest of the three friends. But he was also the outsider. Juan Pablo and Hector were cousins. They were both 10 years old and their mothers were sisters. After Juan Pablo’s mother was killed when he was five, Hector’s mother became his mother, although his father hated her. Ramon was tall and skinny and the fastest runner in 4^th grade. He had the sharply sculpted features of an Apache and his nickname was El Indio. Ramon often bragged that he was Geronimo’s great grandson but whenever he mentioned it in his friends’ presence, they teased him and drowned him out with war cries. Ramon was the best seller of the trio, primarily because he polished the shoes of tourists and locals. He saved his money in a bag that he buried beneath the rock wall behind his house. Only Juan Pablo and Hector knew his hiding place.

While Ramon saved his money, what little money Hector did make went right into his mouth. He woke up and fell asleep chewing gum. The boys teased him about being a chiclero, a field worker who collects raw chicle, when he grew up. He’d ignore their taunts and slam another square of gum into his mouth.

When Juan Pablo greeted a profusely sweating tourist and his thin, nervous wife on their way into the Caverns, the day began in earnest for the three boys. While the tourist sputtered his disinterest and disappeared into the restaurant, the words tumbled from the boys as they did every day. The story telling began.

“He was huge!” Hector mumbled his mouth full of spearmint chicle, “The biggest dog I’d ever seen. He was black, with mangy fur and dark red eyes. I’d seen him before on the streets. He chased us once,” he said to Juan Pablo. “Remember that mean dog that chased us last winter when we were on the other side of Canal Street?”

Juan Pablo remembered and nodded. “We called him El Negro.”

Hector nodded in agreement.

“One of his fangs was broken off and he had scars all over his face,” Pablo added.

He probably lived in the hills.” Hector nodded to the east with his head.  “He was old and looked really mean.”

The boys waited for Hector to chew and rearrange the gum in his mouth so he could continue. This was one of the problems with Hector. He’d rarely tell a story, but when he did, it would take him forever to tell it. This hurt him when the votes came in. Ramon and Juan Pablo waited impatiently.

“This morning when I turned the corner by La Tienda, there, in the middle of the road, was El Negro with his head bashed in. There was blood everywhere. There was a huge gash on the top of his skull and I saw his white brains. I knew it was him because I saw his busted tooth. And a huge blood covered rock, probably bigger than I could lift, right next to his caved in head! It must have just happened because the blood was not completely dry. I stepped in it.” Hector lifted his left foot; the bottom of his sandal was stained a dark brown. The boys nodded. Wild dogs were a problem in the neighborhoods up in the hills. All three boys had been set upon one time or another by a dog who took exception to one of them passing through his territory. Stories of an attack or a chase were frequent topics for the storytellers. Rotting dead dogs by the side of the road or dead dogs in an open field had showed up in their tales, but this was the first time any of the three reported a fresh kill of a dog they knew, El Negro.

Hector embellished his story with his opinions of the killer. “He had to be big and very strong because the rock was bigger than Mr. Gomez’s head.” Hector explained. Mr. Gomez was the policeman who patrolled the area in Nogales where the boys worked. His head was so big, the boys believed, that he had to have his hat specially made in Mexico City.  

Hector fished in his pocket and pulled out a dark stone wrapped in brown paper. He held it out to his friends. They took it and passed it around. It did look like blood, Juan Pablo thought. It smelled sweet like blood ought to smell. But then it could have been dried cherry juice. It could be the dead dog’s blood. Or perhaps not. There was silence. Hector waited for the verdict. After each story the boys would vote. Ramon and Juan Pablo each stuck their fisted hands out in front of them.  Hector counted uno, dos, tres. The boys opened their clenched fists. Thumbs up signified a good story, Thumbs down a bad one.

 “Four thumbs up!” Hector counted. He waited. He savored the moment. As the weakest storyteller of the three, rarely was he in this position.

“Well?” asked Ramon. Juan Pablo echoed his question with his eyes. On occasion the boys would try to sneak a fake story passed each other. This would give the storyteller a good deal of credibility if they could trick their friends into believing them. But Hector wasn’t a good liar; his usual weak stories were always true. Today’s story was a good believable story.

“True story!” proclaimed Hector.

All three boys smiled.

“I’m glad I didn’t lick that stone,” offered Juan Pablo.

Hector smiled. He had told a good story, a good true story, and his friends had liked it. Four thumbs up was a great score.  The morning rolled on. The boys set about their tasks in earnest. Ramon was polishing, Hector was chewing. Juan Pablo waited.

A gray ’55 Chevy drove up and parked a half block from the restaurant. Juan Pablo eyed the sedan. Arizona license plates. Four heads in the car, two of them smaller. He watched the driver, a tall man with white hair, get out of the car and walk toward the liquor store. He saw the man greeted by Olivas, the owner. They shook hands. While they disappeared into the store, the car was quiet. Juan Pablo shot a glance at Hector to let him know he was on the job. “Maybe?” he intoned and walked toward the car.

As he approached he saw a woman sitting in the front passenger seat. A curly haired girl was behind the driver’s seat and a chubby boy, about his age, maybe a little older, sat behind the woman. All four windows were opened in the hot air. The passengers sat in silence. Juan Pablo approached the open window where the gray haired woman sat.

“Buenos Dias!” he offered. “Good day, miss!” he spoke in English. She looked down. Juan Pablo was used to being ignored by tourists. “Bullfight toys for sale! I have a bullfighter, a bull, and horses! Very cheap!” The woman continued to ignore him, but the boy turned his head and looked out the window. Juan Pablo had cast the hook and line. The bait was set. He just had to snag him and pull the fish in. He had enough experience to know that boys his age were the best targets. Fathers or grandfathers with small boys also bought his figures. Pablo addressed the boy, but he was really talking to the mother.

“$5.00” for the whole set. All eight figures for $5.00.” he said. The boy’s head turned toward the mother. His hand went to her shoulder. The woman turned away from Juan Pablo, spoke to the boy. Juan Pablo came back with $4.50. The interaction between the three of them continued for several minutes. At $2.50 no one was buying anything. Juan Pablo shot a glance back to Hector. It was a signal they had used often. Hector pierced the air with a loud, shrill whistle. Juan Pablo, the mother, the son and the daughter all turned their attention in the direction of the whistle.

“I have to go,” explained Juan Pablo. “My brother and I have to go to the hospital. It is my mother.”

Juan Pablo started to walk off. He felt the eyes of the tourists on him. He turned and ran back to the boy’s window.

“$2.00,” he said to the boy. “That is the lowest I can go.”

Then he heard the boy whisper “please” to his mother. She turned and spoke to him. He saw the boy smile and he knew he had a sale. The mother fumbled at something on the seat and handed the money to the boy. The boy handed the money to Juan Pablo, who handed a bag of the figures inside the open window. The shrill whistle rang out again and Juan Pablo ran back to his friends.

He smiled and flashed them the two dollar bills he’d just gotten. Later when the gray sedan pulled away, the car drove right by the boys. No one in the car looked at the three friends as it passed them. Then the chubby boy in the back seat turned and smiled at Juan Pablo as he went by, but Juan Pablo looked right through him.

“Momma’s boy!” grunted Juan Pablo. The three friends laughed as the car turned and disappeared toward the border.

The boys worked the afternoon. They laughed and joked and when one made a sale they would shout bravo, as if they were the spectators at bull fight. Just as they were about to quit for the afternoon, an amazing thing happened. If the two friends hadn’t seen it happen, Juan Pablo surely would have had a four thumbs up story. An old man, a tourist, walked toward the restaurant. Juan Pablo approached.

“Buenas dias, senor!” he greeted the well-dressed man. And then in the best English he could muster, “Good day, sir. Do you have any children or grandchildren? I have a bullfighter and a bull for them. Boys love them.”

The man stopped and listened to Juan Pablo. He seemed interested, but with tourists, thought Juan Pablo, one never knows. Just when he thought the man was not interested, he asked Juan Pablo, “How many sets do you have?”

“Five.” he replied.

“Ah, too bad,” said the old man. “I have six grandsons and if I leave one out, I won’t hear the end of it from his mother!”

Juan Pablo thought for a moment, he then offered, “You can have my display set. That would make six!” By now, Hector and Ramon came up close to watch the transaction. Amazement danced across their faces.

Juan Pablo negotiated hard with the old man for a price. They settled on eighteen dollars for the lot. “All I have is a twenty,” offered the man. “Can you make change?”

Juan Pablo looked at the ground. “No senor,” he said. ‘It has been a very bad day for sales.” His two friends nodded in agreement.

“Well, just keep the twenty,” the man offered. “You’ve earned it!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Juan Pablo as he handed the man the grease-stained bag of figures. “I know your grandsons will enjoy them. Muchas gracias.”

The man turned and disappeared into the restaurant. The three friends huddled together. Juan Pablo let each of his friends hold the twenty dollar bill. And then they started to laugh. They laughed all the way to the market. Juan Pablo bought each friend 2 Fantas, orange for Hector, grape for Ramon, and two strawberry sodas for himself. He even bought his friends pan dulces. They laughed and stuffed themselves and patted their best friend Juan Pablo on his back.

The light fell away and Ramon scurried up the hill to his home. Hector and Juan Pablo walked in the other direction, an arm slung over each other’s shoulder. They were cousins and they were best friends and neither wanted this feeling inside of them to leave.

“You should stay for dinner,” offered Hector. “Mother is making mole. She told me to invite you. It is your favorite!”

Juan Pablo nodded yes, but by the time the boys had walked the mile to Hector’s house, Juan Pablo had grown silent and changed his mind.

Just then a big black dog with a broken fang burst out of the alley in front of them. Two teenagers ran out after him, pelting him with rocks they picked up from the street. Neither the dog nor the boys noticed the two cousins. Juan Pablo watched astonished as the dog sprinted down the alley with the teenagers in pursuit. In a flash all three turned left at the next street and vanished in the half light shadow of dusk.

Juan Pablo’s mouth dropped open. Hector looked at the sky, then at his feet. “I think I’ve just seen a ghost!” Juan Pablo shouted. “It was the ghost of El Negro!”

Hector wasn’t sure how to react. Did Juan Pablo know? He thought about coming clean with his story, but he kept his mouth shut and chewed. The gum was tasteless now and he jammed a fresh piece into his already full mouth.

“Yes, Hector, my cousin and best friend, I have just seen a ghost. You saw El Negro dead this morning, didn’t you? The only explanation for this is that what we just saw was an apparition, a ghost of a dead black dog whose head was caved in. I know it,” Juan Pablo went on in his most serious tone. “I held a bloody rock in my hand. I have seen a ghost!”

And then a smile broke across Juan Pablo’s face, matched only by the smile on Hector.

“Good story?” asked Hector. “Still a four thumbs up story?”

“Six thumbs!” countered Juan Pablo. “Wait till Ramon hears this. Looks like I have tomorrow’s story.” he laughed.

The two cousins fell on each other laughing then shook hands as they parted as if they were important business men.  Juan Pablo turned to leave and Hector called him back. He handed the crumpled brown paper to his cousin. Juan Pablo unwrapped the stone.  He eyed it tentatively. Hector motioned that it was ok to go ahead. Juan Pablo brought the stone to his lips and licked it.

“Strawberry!” shouted Juan Pablo.

Juan Pablo flicked the stone to Hector who chucked it down the alley in the direction of the long since gone dog.  He headed home. Juan Pablo hiked his way to an outcropping of rock at the end of the last street above the houses, from which he could see the two towns of Nogales and the wire fence that separated them. He would come here often when he needed to be alone or think out a problem or to wait for his father to sober up. He dug into his bag and pulled out the empty cigar box with the beautiful woman painted on it that reminded him of his mother. He held the box in his hand and looked at the painting. He looked at the face that could have been his mother’s face. Silently, he began to tell her a story. 

And then there was just darkness.