CHAPTER THREE (6)

“We have always been part of de land,” said Gato. “Before de revolucíon my mama and papa grew las cebollas – what is de eenglesh word for dees?”

“Onions.”

“Ah yes, onyons. I can remember dair farm, in de hills of Chiuaua. Dey always told me, holms, never to forget las cebollas, for dat is were I come from, ju know?”

“My father always told me to get the hell out of this place.”

Gato shot him a squinted glance.

“And den dey were murdered, ju see, and here I be today,” he said with a spark of revolution in his eyes, “nebair forgetteeng from where I came.”

Squirley uninterestedly cocked his beer upward.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Said Gato wagging his finger in front of Squirley’s face, not allowing him to down his beer. “We make a – uh, what d’ju call eet?”

“A toast?”

“Jes! A toast! Arriba,” he held his own Tecate above his head, motioning for Squirley to do the same, “abajo,” Gato firmly thrust the beer down toward his belly, “al centro,” the beer then went flying to his chin, “Al DENTRO!” he sang, and only then did he take a swig.

After finishing his beer, Squirley itched to get out of this place. The trees were beautiful, yes, but their sublimity was overpowering. It was a dangerous place, so he inched towards the door as Gato ranted on about his Motherland. Noticing that Squirley was about to leave, the Mexican said, “It weel be ready in a month or two months. Alaskan Gold, onlee de best, ju know? Don’t forget from where you came, no?” He grinned showing semi-rotten teeth and serious gum decay. Gato kept his eyes menacingly on Squirley while tilting his head up and keeping the last of his Tecate squarely connected to his mouth.

“I know, man. I know.”

He went back up to Granada and went farther south. The next burro was the City District, where business men all walked along the sidewalks beneath towering buildings full of men who looked just the same. There were coffee cool coffee shops to guard these fully suited men from the harsh heat of the day, and the glare of the sun in the afternoon when it flooded through from the west as if parting the Dead Sea. Only in the afternoon would sun explode through the city District, causing big-business clad men and women to pull down their visors in their buffed and waxed Lincolns and Audis and Cadillacs and curse the fact that it happened – of course! – right at five, when they made their journey across town towards home.

But it was not quite 5 p.m. yet as Squirley made his way through the bustling crosswalks and one-way streets. He was almost to the University now, and the only thing on his mind was Collections. Oh, Collections Day, he sighed but with a smile while he stopped at a red light, one of which he would hit about every 300 feet. He peered up from his vehicle, his eyes rolled to the top and his eyebrows partially covered his view. He sat hunched, with his shoulder bones almost painfully close together. He could not see the top of these buildings, and mused over what exactly went on inside them; their goings-on were quite foreign to him, but  the majestic presence was nothing new.