Drown Read Free

up yesterday’s El Nacional. When he put fresh Cokes next to the empties, I said, We want the refund.
    Chicho put his elbows on the counter and looked me over. Are you supposed to be doing that?
    Yes, I said.
    You better be giving this money back to your tío, he said. I stared at the pastelitos and chicharrón he kept under a flyspecked glass. He slapped the coins onto the counter. I’m going to stay out of this, he said. What you do with this money is your own concern. I’m just a businessman.
    How much of this do we need? I asked Rafa.
    All of it.
    Can’t we buy something to eat?
    Save it for a drink. You’ll be real thirsty later.
    Maybe we should eat.
    Don’t be stupid.
    How about if I just bought us some gum?
    Give me that money, he said.
    OK, I said. I was just asking.
    Then stop. Rafa was looking up the road, distracted; I knew that expression better than anyone. He was scheming. Every now and then he glanced over at the two women, who were conversing loudly, their arms crossed over their big chests. When the first autobus trundled to a stop and the women got on, Rafa watched their asses bucking under their dresses. The cobrador leaned out from the passenger door and said, Well? And Rafa said, Beat it, baldy.
    What are we waiting for? I said. That one had air-conditioning.
    I want a younger cobrador, Rafa said, still looking down the road. I went to the counter and tapped my finger on the glass case. Chicho handed me a pastelito and after putting it in my pocket, I slid him a coin. Business is business, Chicho announced but my brother didn’t bother to look. He was flagging down the next autobus.
    Get to the back, Rafa said. He framed himself in the main door, his toes out in the air, his hands curled up on the top lip of the door. He stood next to the cobrador, who was a year or two younger than he was. This boy tried to get Rafa to sit down but Rafa shook his head with that not-a-chance grin of his and before there could be an argument the driver shifted into gear, blasting the radio. La chica de la novela was still on the charts. Can you believe that? the man next to me said. They play that vaina a hundred times a day.
    I lowered myself stiffly into my seat but the pastelito had already put a grease stain on my pants. Coño, I said and took out the pastelito and finished it in four bites. Rafa wasn’t watching. Each time the autobus stopped he was hopping down and helping people bring on their packages. When a row filled he lowered the swing-down center seat for whoever was next. The cobrador, a thin boy with an Afro, was trying to keep up with him and the driver was too busy with his radio to notice what was happening. Two people paid Rafa—all of which Rafa gave to the cobrador, who was himself busy making change.
    You have to watch out for stains like that, the man next to me said. He had big teeth and wore a clean fedora. His arms were ropy with muscles.
    These things are too greasy, I said.
    Let me help. He spit in his fingers and started to rub at the stain but then he was pinching at the tip of my pinga through the fabric of my shorts. He was smiling. I shoved him against his seat. He looked to see if anybody had noticed.
    You pato, I said.
    The man kept smiling.
    You low-down pinga-sucking pato, I said. The man squeezed my bicep, quietly, hard, the way my friends would sneak me in church. I whimpered.
    You should watch your mouth, he said.
    I got up and went over to the door. Rafa slapped the roof and as the driver slowed the cobrador said, You two haven’t paid.
    Sure we did, Rafa said, pushing me down into the dusty street. I gave you the money for those two people there and I gave you our fare too. His voice was tired, as if he got into these discussions all the time.
    No you didn’t.
    Fuck you I did. You got the fares. Why don’t you count and see?
    Don’t even try it. The cobrador put his hand on Rafa but Rafa wasn’t having it. He yelled up to the driver, Tell your boy to learn how to