by Geoff Gouveia
Every Tuesday Mario received an envelope addressed to him and his grandfather in scrawled cursive writing. The upper right portion of the envelope had STATE stamped red in large capital letters onto the crème paper. His grandfather said the return address was up north, somewhere near the Bay.
“What’s penatanory?”
“Penitentiary. It’s the place they’re holding him.” His grandfather said with tired eyes.
Mario received the first drawing six weeks after his grandfather held his hand in court. Prompted by the lawyer, tiny Mario pointed to the cut under his eye. His father sat with both hands near one another at a table on the opposite side of the courtroom. Under the eyes that stared with resolve at his son, a long dark mole lined his left eyelid. He did not blink nor squint nor give any sign of struggle when the bailiff took him back behind where Mario lost sight of him.
A rose with pointed petals was the first drawing Mario received. The words I'm sorrry, Mario garnished the top of the page. Mario held the drawing in one hand and with the other picked at the cut under his eye until it bled and the rust smelled thick on his red-orange stained finger. The facial gift from his father scarred by the time he had received three more drawings.
The drawings became the catalyst for his exploration into the world of art. He took the drawings to class and traced the flowers on lined paper, careful to add his own embellishments as his skill could allow. Each Tuesday the drawings came and each Tuesday they spurred him towards the creation of another drawing. At first it was to copy the image exactly as it was by tracing. When he found that he could replicate it without much trouble, he moved onto looking at the image and then drawing it, side by side. This kept his attention for the years that his grandfather took him to school. By the time he was riding there on his own bicycle, he was able to draw the image by looking at it. He consumed himself in his work. If it weren’t for the outside neighborhood, he wouldn’t have even considered it odd his father existed through sheets of paper.
His father had run the local gang, making sure the drug money flowed even through times of economic trouble. He had a son with one of the women who overdosed on his product a few months after birthing the baby. Mario grew up near the fiends that shook their withering bodies but paid in full. The neighborhood turned a blind eye to the activity as it fueled their growth as well as protected them from rival gangs. When Papa was put away, the local economy collapsed and the neighborhood kids blamed Mario for this loss of fiscal opportunity.
The local kids made extra money by running packages for the older members of the neighborhood gang. Mario’s grandfather made enough working as a janitor to keep the lights on in the house but little else. When grandfather’s medicine took the majority of the meager check three years after the first Tuesday drawing arrived, Mario approached the boys that gathered in circles on the street corner. They took his bike and slapped the back of his head as he walked towards the new leader, Hector.
“Ca-Can can I-”
“Can you what, pendejo?” The group laughed and pushed Mario from behind. He hit the ground and a bruise formed on his face. His hand covered his scar.
“This thing’s gonna look just like Daddy with that nasty scar.” Hector said.
Mario stood up to ask again.
“Do you need someone to run packages?”
“Yes we do.” Hector patted his hand on Mario’s shoulder, bringing him near to his side. Mario smiled up at him.
“We do, don’t we boys?” Hector said to the group and the group clicked their tongues and raised their voices. Hector held his hand up.
“There is one thing you should know, Mario.”
“What is it?”
“The packages-” Hector bent close to Mario’s face, “-don’t have cheese inside for little rats like you.” He grabbed Mario’s nose and pinched it until Mario cried. Hector held Mario by the shoulder with his left hand and then shotgunned his fist into the boy’s stomach. The group laughed very loud and shoved the gasping Mario out of the circle. He walked until he could run and then he ran home without his bicycle, straight into his room and clawed at the drawings on the wall. Each drawing became pulled meat under his writhing hands, the roses ripping and ripping until they were indiscernible piles of trash.
When the other boys rode by on their ape-hanger bicycles, they laughed at Mario carrying bottles and cans on his back. When the police turned on their sirens, Mario kept his pace while the boys ditched their bicycles into the grass to hop nearby fences. Thus he progressed through high school, alone and dirty and resourceful and his own.
Six years into the weekly Tuesday drawings he graduated. Instead of going to college he opted to work at Rio Seco, the bar right near Red Bench coffee shop. It was at this time his grandfather passed the torch of responsibility. Too frail to continue in life, he withered away in their small apartment. Mario kept his drawing habit instead of picking up another to cope with the stress. Before his shifts in the kitchen at Rio Seco, he drew the customers in line at Red Bench Coffee. In this way he did go to college – he studied the way light hit the customers, how it shaded their cheekbones and creased their dresses, how silk glided and how wool seemed to stand on its own. He noted the ruffles on the edges of sweaters and how skin shifted with every movement. Four years passed this way and his ability increased along with his small savings. His grandfather died the week after he stopped receiving the Tuesday drawings. Mario had packed his bag the month prior in anticipation of the day.
His last night on shift Mario parked his car out behind Rio Seco near the beige wall. The backseat held his belongings tucked neat into a black duffle bag. He walked into work with a smile and the resolve to collect his final paycheck. The night progressed like any other night on the shift except much slower and much happier. He made the customers drinks with precision and ease, chatting them up as he poured the alcohol together and shook the ingredients.
A man walked near the doorframe with a white shirt and khaki pants that were a little too large for his frame. He looked around outside the doorway and walked into the bar to take a seat near the far corner, outside of the light in the shadows. He raised his hand and Mario acknowledged him.
“What can I get you?”
“A beer, thanks.”
Mario held the bottle for a moment before he snapped the top off with a swift snake strike of his wrist. The hops hit his nostril when he gave it to the man.
“Thanks. You’re a smiley cat, aren’t you?” The man said before he took a swig.
“Sorry, I can’t help it tonight. It’s my last shift. Right after this I’m headed east. An agency accepted my portfolio about a month ago.”
“Congrats, hombre.”
The man’s arms were olive but looked like they’d be tan if they had seen sunlight. The tattoos on them were familiar to Mario, like he’d seen them in a different medium before.
“Nice work. Where’d you get it done?”
The man folded his arms and bit his lip, looking around the bar while answering him.
“I just got out. Did ten years up north.” Mario turned his head and touched his cheek right under his peach scar. He glanced back at the man who dipped his head into the light. A flattened mole lined his left eye.
Ten years can change a mustache or gray a hair but it won’t loose a likening, unless the likening is from a young boy to a man. Mario gave him a satisfactory nod and then tapped the other bartender on the shoulder, signaling a break.
The cool air outside the bar conditioned his hideout, an area right in between the dumpster and the beige wall. Nearby four men smoked cheap cigarettes and marijuana, the skunk mixing with the grape Swishers as it wafted down towards the bar. His presence stilted their conversation. They looked at him one by one until the last man, the bandana clad one, spit on the ground in his direction. Mario escaped their gaze into his hideout and opened a bottle of beer on the edge of the cinderblock wall. He drank the amber liquid in gulps. Papa? No one forgets a face. He shook his head. He never knew my face. He drained the bottle and left it on the curb.
The bar had slowed its pace for the night, the late hours dwindling the customers as they left to sleep or live or both. Mario asked Papa if he needed another drink. Papa nodded.
“Tequila.”
Papa slammed it. “Another.” The wood surface clanked when the empty glass hit it.
“You’re an artist then.”
“What?” Mario said with a turned eye.
“An artist. You said something about your portfolio.” He scratched his arm right above the wrist on the dark inked pointed rose petals. “Inside I sent my kid drawings every single week. You know that? Never got a single response. I imagine he’s old enough to drink now and I’m not even sure where he’s livin’. My old place was empty when I went by. Hope he’s found a life for himself.”
Mario began wiping down the bar, careful to shield his scar away from him.
“People like to bet on a winning dog. I wasn’t no winner and neither was my boy. We never had a chance. I fought like hell in this life and I hope he’s alright.”
He held up the empty shot glass, the light splintering through it.
“I hope he didn’t become what I am.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
Papa looked up, his eyes sadder than most fathers are when they look at their children. Except he wasn’t looking at his son, he was looking at a poor man’s therapist. They ached with the kind of hurt that has no fix unless they’re replaced with new ones that had never seen the original wrongs. Mario poured him one final shot. Papa stared it straight down the barrel before his head threw back.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen.” The number sounded small to Mario.
Papa left a crumpled twenty on the bar.
“You look kind of like my boy, in a way. Or how I picture him.”
He walked back out the doorway and turned right.
Mario resumed cleaning the bar, rinsing down the surface and washing out the various canisters used to mix the drinks. He gathered the trash into one large black bag and carried it through the back door into the night. He opened the lid and tossed the bag inside. Voices broke over the soft crash of plastic on metal.
“It’s not going to happen that way, Miguel. 300 Block is mine now.” The bandana man said to another with tattooed arms. The tattooed man turned into light and it illuminated a thin mole under his right eye.
“Escuchame, mijo. That’s my block. You know what I did for your father, Hector?”
“No me importa. You know what we did for your son? Or didn’t do - that fuckin’ rat.”
“Leave him out of this.” Papa’s fist clenched.
“We got your note – we did leave him out. You really think we woulda let him run packages? You’re lucky we didn’t kill him. What kind of man are you? Soft. You’re soft, that’s what you are. You can’t even take care of the snitches in your own family…how can you run the block?” Hector nodded towards the beige wall.
Three men crept from around the corner and surrounded Papa. Hector’s smile shone yellow in the street lamp and Papa’s mole was dark against his lit face.
The four men made a square around Papa and inched in. Their voices dropped but Papa held his gaze against Hector’s. One of the men flicked a knife. The bottle on the curb near the dumpster glinted off the streetlight. Mario gripped it by the neck and the glass became an extension of him as ran towards the group, swinging the bottle hard against the knife-man closest to him. The bottle shattered its last half and the man dropped to the floor. Papa kicked Hector in the groin and then punched the man next to him. Mario tackled the remaining thug and began pummeling his face.
Mario’s hands moved liked they did when they drew – an intuitive conductor moving the orchestra inside of him and he increased his pace until the sweat dropped down from his brow and over his scar and onto the man’s nose he flattened again and again.
Hector got to his feet with the knife that had sprawled across the ground. Papa exchanged punches with his opponent unaware of the creeping Hector behind him. The man beneath Mario ceased fighting. The broken bottle lay near his hand when Mario saw Hector moving in on his father. Mario intercepted Hector with a thrust into his side, retracting the jagged bottle on instinct before letting it find the mark again. The man who fought Papa ran off, dragging the conscious one with him. The bottled man remained still and Hector held his side as the laces of Mario’s shoe swiped hard into an unprotected face. Mario stood above him panting.
The streetlight combined with the moonlight and Papa saw his own face reflected in Mario’s. Fear made him older and Papa touched his mole while looking at the peach scar that lined under Mario’s right eye from a ring he used to wear. Mario threw up, adrenaline and all, at the sight of his blood-dipped hands and the street filling with more of it. He shook while Papa pried the bottle from Mario’s hand and then wiped the blood onto his own shirt.
“Go. This is mine.” Papa said.
Mario ran off to his car. In the rear view mirror his father’s tattooed arms hovered over the two men. He drove past the oncoming red and blue sirens and kept driving until he made it onto the freeway. He stopped for gas and to wash his hands. He stuffed his clothes in the trash and threw up once more. He drove clear past Phoenix and then east on empty desert roads, the sides of which combined out the window in a moonlit blue-gray blur.
**
“You’ve got another one, Miguel. Every week, huh?” The man said from the lower bunk.
Papa leaned over the side and stared out of the small window above the toilet.
“What’s in the letters?”
Papa took the week’s note out of the envelope and looked at the drawing of a rose. The petals looked real but smelled of the fixative that held it down. He hung it with tape along his wall near the bottom of the pictures stuck in chronological order with the very top holding the first one he had received.
I forgive you, it read, and the ‘I’ was not as ornate as the ‘you’.
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