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that he’s going to marry my sister. The guy tells us to talk to him in private.
    We get something to eat. After a while I tell Botella to follow me and we go to the room, the guy’s there and we’re so grateful that we’re already hard, but the guy says what he wants to see is us going at it and we go at it and I stick it up his ass cause that’s what the guy wanted but I came too fast and he kinda wanted more but Botella came in my mouth and the guy changed my ticket and Botella left. He cried, the motherfucker. It wasn’t me, he said, and he left.
    I went off to the beach all worked up and because I’m staring off into space I step in some shit and it’s from some goddamn junkie tecato and I go down to the edge of the water and wash the flip-flop but the smell doesn’t go away and I sit down and wait for the flip-flop to air out in the sun, and I think of Caneca who had his flip-flops on when I threw him into the bathtub and I think of Botella, who’s a fugitive from justice, and my sister who lives alone, and the girl who’s always kicking me out but I know she’ll take me in again.
    I pick up the flip-flop and sniff it and it still smells like shit and I don’t know why but I start crying like that motherfucker Botella.

SO MANY
or How the Wagging Tongue Can
Sometimes Cast a Spell

    Two worried—extremely worried—neighbors meet on opposite sides of the fence separating their respective homes and set to badmouthing everybody. One is a schoolteacher and she’s well off. Her house has window bars, a solar water heater, a satellite antenna, and a two-car garage. The other lady is on her second marriage and this one is a keeper, God willing, and, if not and they break up or if he lets her down, she’s not going to marry again: live with somebody yes, but no more marriages. She doesn’t live as well as the teacher, but she makes an effort to keep up appearances. The two are worried and, looking around constantly, they broadcast their alarm. Very alarmed and super worried, they unbosom themselves as best they can, and, when you think about it, they should be worried.
    Worried Mother:
    I’m sorry to say this, but that kid of Alta’s is turning out to be a fag.
    Worried Mother Too:
    Isn’t he though? I was saying the very same thing to my husband and he told me that we should make sure my Yanielito knows what’s up and if that kid touches him or makes any moves, to give him a good punch and then come and tell us.
    WM:
    No, and they say it’s not contagious! Kids get confused you know. I’m constantly saying “ick” or “fooey,” “how disgusting,” and “that’s not right,” but Alta acts like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t do a thing to straighten him out.
    WMT:
    My husband says the same thing, that he’d grab him right away and give him a good hard smack. One day when we were shopping Yanielito suddenly wanted a stuffed animal and my husband hit him. He gave it to him good but usually he never lays a hand on them. I didn’t say a word because after all he’s the one who raised them and has more right than the sonofabitch real father of my kids who never even comes to see them. Every so often he warns me about it: Honey—he calls me honey—if I see anything weird going on with the kid, I’m going to fix him good.
    WM:
    The other day I was in Alta’s house paying her for some products and the kid started crying because his dad turned off the soap opera on TV. If you could see him, girl, crying like a Magdalene and Alta says to her husband: “Take it easy with the boy, he hasn’t done nothing to you, and if you’re coming home all worked up, don’t go taking it out on him.” . . . and she goes and turns on the TV again. Goodness gracious, I feel sorry for that man. I bet she married him for the green card.
    WMT:
    No, those people are like that