Agujero

Agujero 

“Cuida’o por ahí, que los tiempos son malos,” she said simply to her grandson. Her hand rated over her Bible, a Reina Valera 1960 edition. Her skin was almost translucent, and they were so tiny one could see ISAÍAS 5:20 on the top left.“You always say that,” he replied, a small snicker coming out of his nose. “Everything will be fine. No need to worry.” “Okei,” she replied, her head tilting to one side and her lips folding over each other. Her voice was coated in an accent, thick with the heavy, humid air of the Caribbean. “Pero regrese antes de que se baje el sol,” she added, her skinny, bony-white finger wagging sternly. It was among the last strength she had left. “Oye, asegúrate que estés comiendo bien, que solo te falta hueso’,” she chuckled. Lázaro chuckled lightly. 

Lázaro picked his things up and gave his grandmother a kiss on the forehead. He could see time in her wrinkles when she smiled, and every moment was recorded in her hair, which was both the color and texture of cotton and light enough to see her pale scalp underneath. She wore a small pink hairclip, which had accumulated a little bit of rust and dirt on it from when her mother had given it to her back in Cuba. Her mother had died there, and as Atabey had defected the island and settled in New York City, she could not bury her. So the memory of her mother became wrapped up in ponytails and long waterfalls of crystal gray hair,held in between the teeth of clips and the wrinkles of ninety-nine years. 

The moon began to wane, and about a third of its face hid in the sky where stars grew dim. But its eye was watchful and began to look over Lázaro, even through the fainting light blue. The clouds began to separate, looking like little archipelagoes, and dispersed across the sky. It began to turn purple, as though stripped of air.

Lázaro met his friend Álvaro at the Lexington Avenue-59th Street station. Álvaro waited for him in the station, and watched the jungle-green bullet of the 6 train blaze him by. The grumble of the train could be heard from the darkness it emerged from as the miner-like headlight dug its way through the shadows of night. Its steel talons, sharp from use, yet dull from ages of withering, screeched up against the metal ribs lying on the floor, wailing like a tired child until it came to a stop. 

The centipede with the silver-rain’s sheen exoskeleton crawled incrementally towards the darkness and blood-red light on the other end. Its horizontal jaws of the same dull glint opened, vomiting many out of it at once, and then taking some in. Around 159 in total.

“What’s up pá’?” Álvaro said to Lázaro, greeting him warmly with a handshake and a hug. “To’ bien,” Lázaro replied, glee filling his eyes and smile, “q’hubo?” “Eh, tu sabe’, lo mismo de siempre… Dímelo, pá, ¿qué hay contigo?” 

“Work,” Lázaro replied. “Work 9-5, then right after that go to another job from 6-12.” “Jesus, bro. So you sleep, eat and go right to work?” 

“Pretty much.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Finally decided to take a day off; so let’s stop waiting around and let’s get going!” Lázaro laughed, hitting Álvaro lightly on the ribs. They continued joking and laughing as they walked out of the station. The steps were dark gray, not dark enough to be like midnight, but had a color like the veiled moon. 

The city had wrapped itself in shadow-black and chrome, and the windows were filled with starlight-white splendor. The sea reflected the artificial gleam off of its inky crests, and laughter seemed to crash with the ripples and waves. Every other moment there was some silence, and then it would be buried again under the sound of horns. 

Álvaro and Lázaro walked together until they reached a bar. The canopy by it was exposed, and so its metal ribs hung out as the clouds began to gather above it. The eyes of cars opened and let light out of them, flashing their headlights to urge people to move. 

An airplane blinked red and green overhead as the two friends walked inside. They sat at the bar and started watching the television which was playing the Boston-Yankees game on it. “Goddamn Pedro Martinez,” Álvaro began. “He’s good,” Lázaro said. “¡Trigueño!” he called out to the bartender, who was a good mutual friend of both him and Álvaro. “What’s up? Trigueño replied, whom they called such because his hair was the color of wheat. He leaned over the bar slightly, greeted both Lázaro and Álvaro and took a peek over at the game. 

“What can I get you guys?” he asked them. “I hear your guys’ bitters are good,” Álvaro said. “Let me get one of those.” Trigueño nodded. “Is a Manhattan fine?”

“Yeah, ni modo,” Álvaro replied.

He looked at Lázaro and gave him a subtle nod. “Aunt Roberta,” Lázaro replied. 

“Woah,” Trigueño said. “You sure? Might not be able to make it to work tomorrow.” 

“Dios mío, just give me the drink, Trigue,” Lázaro said, playfully blowing air and swatting his hand at Trigueño. 

“Okay. But I’m not calling your job for you. And make sure you don’t drive back. Take the train at least. Or I’ll go with you.” 

“Yeah, we took the train here. Appreciate it, broki.” 

The sky filled with darkness and the clouds absorbed it. Thunder troubled the gray vapor and dispersed the clouds like sheep in wolves’ clothing. But no rain fell. 

Inside, the windows grew black and the light from the televisions and orange-yellow lights from the chandelier filled the bar with a faraway autumnal hue. It was only May, and the yearning air had not yet known the name of its lover, the frost. The air grew thick with familiar Caribbean drops and dew, so much so that one would sweat upon stepping outside. 

“Here we are,” Trigueño said with a sigh, almost one of pain. He wiped his brow with the handkerchief tied around his belt. It had a number of colored seashells, mostly tan, pink, and springtime green, that he and his daughter had collected along the shores of Montauk. It also had a little doll that represented his daughter and a bigger doll which represented him. “Thanks,” Álvaro and Lázaro said, almost in unison. “Hey, get yourself something too, pana,” Álvaro said. “Mira e’te bobo,” Lázaro said, hitting his friend on the head like a coconut. It let out a low sound of hollowness. “How’s he going to drink on the job?” Lázaro continued, looking directly at Álvaro. Trigueño covered his mouth with his handkerchief, but his grin pushed his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. 

“What?” Álvaro said. “I’se just trying to get him in on the fun.” Lázaro rolled his eyes. “Obviously he can’t drink on the job. Use some common sense. “Use some common sense,” Álvaro mocked, smacking his lips together rapidly. 

“I get off soon, if you guys just want to wait,” Trigueño said. “Yeah, we can wait here ‘till the game ends,” Lázaro said, watching it. 

Lázaro took a sip from the drink. As it hit him, his face contorted and twisted in all sorts of shapes, tasting bitterness, funk, and sweetness all at once. 

“He might puke,” Trigueño said. “It’s normal.” 

“I never do,” Lázaro replied. “And I never get a hangover.”

Trigueño rolled his eyes, as did Álvaro. 

***

The clouds, dark with fury, became indistinguishable from the night as it swallowed up the last gleams of mango’s orange blaze. The bands of gold and scarlet were extinguished, and laughter filled the encroaching and approaching darkness. 

One Aunt Roberta was good enough for Lázaro, who had rested his head on the counter as he laughed to himself. Álvaro was on his seventh Manhattan, and Trigueño stared at him. “Mira, ‘tá borracho, Lázaro,” he said. Lázaro laughed at him. “Hey, Álvaro, how many fingers am I holding up?” he said to him, so comically that his eyes were filled with laughter. “Sixteen,” Álvaro replied. Trigueño and Lázaro laughed to each other, big gales of air tipped with glee leaving like giant boats on uncharted seas. 

“What’s so funny?” Álvaro said. “Look, he has one finger pointing straight up, then he has three up and his fingers are curved at the front. It’s sixteen! ¿Qué tú dices?” And Lázaro and Trigueño kept laughing to each other until they began to notice the other guests staring at them, puzzled. 

After the gales of laughter had subsided, the black clouds erupted into silver, sideways-falling rain. The game had finished. “Perdieron lo’ Yanqui’,” Álvaro said. “He’s alive!” Trigueño mocked. Lázaro began to laugh. 

“It’s raining bad,” Lázaro said, the smile fading from his face and voice. “Vamo’ a esperar hasta que pase el aguacero.” “A lo mejor,” Trigueño replied, “see if it subsides between now and then. I’m going to go check out and leave my gear.” “Sounds good,” Lázaro said. Álvaro was practically folded over himself, fighting back the darkness of night and sleep as he looked at the amber gleam of his cups. 

Trigueño returned and wiped his hands on his shirt. He took Álvaro’s cups and gave him a little tap on the shoulder. “We’re going to have to carry him,” Trigueño said. “Maybe,” Lázaro replied. “Won’t be easy though. “Tá llenito.” Trigueño snickered. 

“Hey, Álvaro,” Lázaro began. He tapped him on the shoulder first, and though his eyes were open, he did not respond. Then he began to shake the same shoulder, and Álvaros opened from a small ravine into a wide opened chasm. His eyes were dark like mahogany or ebony, and he looked directly at Lázaro and belched. “Wha–” he said, before his head slumped down again. “We’re gonna leave now; come on,” Lázaro said. 

Álvaro groaned. But Lázaro and Trigueño helped him up to his feet. He walked as though he was on stilts and ice at the same time. The subtle ochre sheen of Lázaro’s keys glimmered under the amber light. 

The walk to the train station was not very long, but given that the sidewalk was thoroughly soaked by the downpour, it made all three of them more cautious as they walked, and they were already moving much slower than usual as Álvaro stumbled between them. 

“Carajo,” Lázaro said. “I left my keys.” He patted his pants’ pockets furiously, expecting them to appear miraculously in the forgetfulness. The only metal he felt was the button of his jeans. “Go back and get them,” Trigeuño said. 

“Do you know where you left them?” 

“They’re probably just sitting on the chair. Can you take Álvaro from here?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got him.”

Feeling the earth slip from underneath him as he ran through the soaked sidewalk, Lázaro rushed to the bar, the wind pushing his hair back and the alcohol right back into his face. His eyes winced from the sting and began to fill with rain. The familiar amber glow emanated from the bar, and he walked inside, flinging the door open, checking frantically and aggressively in both directions as though he was crossing the street. He walked back over to his seat and found his keys laying there in an uninspired lump. “Thank God,” he said to himself, exiting just as fast as he came in. 

***

“Train’s still not here yet?” Lázaro said as he entered the station, seeing Álvaro and Trigueño leaning up against the bone-white tile stained by the dripping stormwater above. “No,” Trigueño replied. “Feels like it’s been ten minutes and it still hasn’t come.” “Six should be here soon,” Lázaro said, letting out a small sigh. 

Trigueño went over to check if the train was coming soon, but his belt got stuck on a small piece of the pipe behind the tile. It snapped the seashells off, and, seeing the bright gleam of the pink and green ones, Álvaro went to chase after them. “Álvaro, no!” Trigueño called, holding onto his shirt to try to slow him down. But he was unstoppable, even as Lázaro tried to slow him down, like a bull running towards its target. And as he ran, the floor, slick with stormwater, hiding the missing tile and hole beneath the moonlit puddle, he tripped directly onto the tracks. The miner’s headlight emerged from the green and red light in the darkness, and Lázaro jumped down.

“What are you doing!” Trigueño cried out, the sound of screeching steel masking his wailing. “Come on, help me get him out,” Lázaro cried back. He looked at the miner’s light, seeing how it overcame his eyes and left a faint white glow as he closed them, and attempted to push Álvaro up as Trigueño pulled him from the top. And as they did so, Lázaro could see a small dot of jungle green, then an entire island, and Lázaro jumped up, banging his mouth and nose on the ledge. He struggled his way up, Trigueño helping him up, holding one of Álvaro’s hands. Trigueño did the other, but the steel-coated centipede rolled in and blasted Álvaro out of the two friends’ grasp. Trigueño held onto Lázaro’s waist as crimson stained both their shirts and faces, and the train threw an elastic body across ash-black tracks. 

“Dios, Dios, mí—,” Lázaro said, his vision blurring under a lens of silver, his hands shaking uncontrollably. Trigueño stared without saying anything. The doors vomited out another hundred passengers and the people went in almost pair by pair. It stormed furiously outside, thunder and lightning powerless to shroud screams and shrieks and wails; and stormwater was too fearful to wash the stains of crimson off the two friend’s shirts. And so they stood there, the train staring back at them, unstoppable as time, its metal hips and joints halting their movement for just a moment, until it moved a few feet forward. There lay their friend, mangled like a doll after many years of use, thirty-two to be exact. And the pearls of his mouth sat on the ash-black tracks and shone like moonlight until paramedics arrived, and they took him away. 

***

The next morning, Atabey met Lázaro and Trigueño at the hospital. Crescent moons filled their faces, but no tears fell from their frowns. They stood there, shirts encrusted with deep vermillion, staring at their friend, arms crossed, with the only strength left in them being to carry a casket of the same mahogany as his eyes. 

Atabey walked over, leaving her Bible on the cabinet next to the bed. He was bruised, badly, purple and red all over, lacerated and cut as though he had walked through thorns. 

Enough strength entered Lázaro to walk over to the Bible. The mirror above it was clearer than daylight, and as he lifted the page to where the white-pink floral bookmark held in place, the top left corner said: DEUTERONOMIO 19:21. Lázaro could see both the page and his bruised face in the mirror at once. He lifted up his lips, checking for cuts and winced. He opened his mouth, his cheeks still shaking as the muscles of his face ached, the pain compounding under not having slept and the hangover, and darkness filled the shape of one tooth. 

“Ay, bendito,” Atabey said, “they said they’re going to bury him at the graveyard down the block.” It was true. It was the graveyard right outside the church where he had been priest for five years.