was I going to do with a quarter anyway? Help some poor soul whose parking meter had expired?
I next put my hand right through a tree trunk and a car window. I used a karate chop on a bus bench and shoved a hand through a newspaper rack. For fun, I socked the stucco wall of a church on Mariposa Street. The church was for saleâJesus, I suppose, had moved from that part of downtown Fresno, having had his fill of the poor, who were only half listening on how to get out of the gutter and get on with life.
This much I grasped: I could slip through walls or doors, but none of what I found on the other side could be mine. Figure this: I could step right through a steel-reinforced vault and sniff all the hundred-dollar bills I wanted, but I couldn't walk away with any of that
feria.
The second thing I learned was that it was hard to control where I was going. Wind could boss me around, or the breeze of a car or truck could slap me down. I was like a balloon. Sure, I could command myself, "Go there," and I would move in that direction. But I traveled where the slightest wind blew, kicking along with little control. I got pushed to Van Ness Avenue toward the west sideâChinatown, as we call it. But the Chinese had moved out, the Japanese, too, and the blacks with ambition. Now there were only boarded-up stores. Winos, crazies, and the truly poor lingered, their eyes bloodshot from drink and illness. Stray cats lived on Dumpster meals. Pigeons feasted on what people tossed from cars, and they must have tossed a lot, because litter scuttled in the wind. Now and then a family of mice would scale up drainpipes and tumble down with their bellies full from drinking rainwater that gathered on roofs.
Mi familia,
I thought. I should kick over to my house and kneel in front of my mother and father. I would tell them, "Mom, it's okay to cry, but it don't hurt no more. And, Mom, I'm sorry for sometimes being stupid and not listening to you about good grades." I would tell my dad, "I'm sorry about the fender on the carâyeah, it was my fault and not the other dude's. I shouldn't have messed up so much."
I loved my parents and wanted to see them. But the wind blew in the direction of the west side! I didn't want to go there!
The morning wind nudged me westward three blocks from Longs Drugs, five from where I was stabbed, and six from the abandoned church on Mariposa Street. Then the wind stopped. I anchored myself in front of Cuca's Restaurant, closed up with a sign that read ON VACATION . I peered in. The kitchen was all shadows, and the booths where
Mexicanos
usually hunkered were empty. A single light in a hallway was on, casting a yellowish glare. The clock on the wall read 9:17. Time was still speeding along in that restaurant, but no one was there to care.
I turned from the window and spied a husky cop across the street frisking a
cholo,
who had his arms raised as if he were praising the pagan god of Don't Move Or Else. I walked over in four long strides, looking neither left nor right for there was no traffic to speak of, except for a dog who was in the middle of the street sniffing a flattened milk carton. I approached the cop and stood so close to him that I could smell the breakfast burrito on his breath. And was that Old Spice cologne, the kind my dad uses? The cop wheeled around and looked directly at me. This spooked me a little, a guy so close I was seeing cross-eyed. He felt something; his sixth sense was in working order. Of course, he couldn't see me. If he whacked me with his nightstick, what harm would result? I had already seen worse.
"Hey," I mouthed.
The cop wrinkled his brow. He could feel my presence.
"Leave the
carnal
alone," I scolded. "Go jump on someone else. Begin with the mayor and work your way down!"
Although I could talk, I couldn't be heard.
The cop licked his lips for moisture. He looked at me, and, like a spear, I plunged a hand right into his chest and felt his heart. It was flabby and
I next put my hand right through a tree trunk and a car window. I used a karate chop on a bus bench and shoved a hand through a newspaper rack. For fun, I socked the stucco wall of a church on Mariposa Street. The church was for saleâJesus, I suppose, had moved from that part of downtown Fresno, having had his fill of the poor, who were only half listening on how to get out of the gutter and get on with life.
This much I grasped: I could slip through walls or doors, but none of what I found on the other side could be mine. Figure this: I could step right through a steel-reinforced vault and sniff all the hundred-dollar bills I wanted, but I couldn't walk away with any of that
feria.
The second thing I learned was that it was hard to control where I was going. Wind could boss me around, or the breeze of a car or truck could slap me down. I was like a balloon. Sure, I could command myself, "Go there," and I would move in that direction. But I traveled where the slightest wind blew, kicking along with little control. I got pushed to Van Ness Avenue toward the west sideâChinatown, as we call it. But the Chinese had moved out, the Japanese, too, and the blacks with ambition. Now there were only boarded-up stores. Winos, crazies, and the truly poor lingered, their eyes bloodshot from drink and illness. Stray cats lived on Dumpster meals. Pigeons feasted on what people tossed from cars, and they must have tossed a lot, because litter scuttled in the wind. Now and then a family of mice would scale up drainpipes and tumble down with their bellies full from drinking rainwater that gathered on roofs.
Mi familia,
I thought. I should kick over to my house and kneel in front of my mother and father. I would tell them, "Mom, it's okay to cry, but it don't hurt no more. And, Mom, I'm sorry for sometimes being stupid and not listening to you about good grades." I would tell my dad, "I'm sorry about the fender on the carâyeah, it was my fault and not the other dude's. I shouldn't have messed up so much."
I loved my parents and wanted to see them. But the wind blew in the direction of the west side! I didn't want to go there!
The morning wind nudged me westward three blocks from Longs Drugs, five from where I was stabbed, and six from the abandoned church on Mariposa Street. Then the wind stopped. I anchored myself in front of Cuca's Restaurant, closed up with a sign that read ON VACATION . I peered in. The kitchen was all shadows, and the booths where
Mexicanos
usually hunkered were empty. A single light in a hallway was on, casting a yellowish glare. The clock on the wall read 9:17. Time was still speeding along in that restaurant, but no one was there to care.
I turned from the window and spied a husky cop across the street frisking a
cholo,
who had his arms raised as if he were praising the pagan god of Don't Move Or Else. I walked over in four long strides, looking neither left nor right for there was no traffic to speak of, except for a dog who was in the middle of the street sniffing a flattened milk carton. I approached the cop and stood so close to him that I could smell the breakfast burrito on his breath. And was that Old Spice cologne, the kind my dad uses? The cop wheeled around and looked directly at me. This spooked me a little, a guy so close I was seeing cross-eyed. He felt something; his sixth sense was in working order. Of course, he couldn't see me. If he whacked me with his nightstick, what harm would result? I had already seen worse.
"Hey," I mouthed.
The cop wrinkled his brow. He could feel my presence.
"Leave the
carnal
alone," I scolded. "Go jump on someone else. Begin with the mayor and work your way down!"
Although I could talk, I couldn't be heard.
The cop licked his lips for moisture. He looked at me, and, like a spear, I plunged a hand right into his chest and felt his heart. It was flabby and
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