OUaTiM: Back to Broadway
Listening to Broadway by the Goo Goo Dolls, my train of thought immediately pulled up at the OUaTiM station where bare-foot boys (who may or may not have been selling Chiclet gum) promptly riffled through passengers' luggage.
"Eh, ¡mira esto, guey!". All the other boys huddled around the suitcase, dirty hands snaking in, amidst cries of "¡Qué chido!" and "¡Está padrísimo!"
In the suitcase was a small, shiny little thing. It looked like a stone, but was soft to the touch, quivering slightly when a finger poked too hard. The boy who first found the stone open the bag wider and took it out carefully. The other boys jostled him, trying to get a closer look or take it form him entirely, when they heard a soft noise.
The stone had chirped. The boys were silent. It chirped again, then faster, hitting different notes. As it picked up speed in the warm afternoon sun, the chirping shifted. The noise was still the same, strident like a newly-hatched chick, but one by one the boys began to understand the notes as words.
And what it chirped was this: "Take me to the blind gringo."
One of the boys moved closer to the one with the stone and held out his hand. The other boys eyed him warily. They'd heard stories about him, about what he'd done El Día de los Muertos, about money he'd been given, by a tourist or hitman, the facts were never clear. Mostly, though, the stories were about the money.
The chirping stone interchanged hands and was pocketed carefully. The boy patted it softly as he walked to his bike. The stone chirped all the way to La Vaca Volando, a slow steady chirp like a heart-beat.
As the boy skampered into the Vaca, the chirping stopped. He waited behind a table as the waitress as took a tequila and lime to a table. When she'd gone, the boy walked up to the table and eyed the man as he sipped his tequila. He still wore the same sort of gun-sliging outfit he'd worn El Día de los Muertos, minus the gloves. A black cowboy hat rested on the empty chair next to him. The man put down his glass and turned to the boy, his dark sunglasses showing only a reflection of the near-empty cantina.
"Señor," he said, reaching into his pocket, "para Usted." He hardly ever called anyone "Usted" anymore, but it felt right this time.
"Ah, Chiclet-boy," said the man in recognition. "Let's have it, then."
At the touch of the warm pliant orb, the man frowned. "What--" he began, but the object in his hand shuddered. Then it began to chirp.
"Lo...encontré," mumbled the boy.
"Found it?" The man gave an absent-minded smile, still touching the stone. "In someone's pocket, no doubt." Then his expression began to change as he recognized the tune.
"Eh, ¡mira esto, guey!". All the other boys huddled around the suitcase, dirty hands snaking in, amidst cries of "¡Qué chido!" and "¡Está padrísimo!"
In the suitcase was a small, shiny little thing. It looked like a stone, but was soft to the touch, quivering slightly when a finger poked too hard. The boy who first found the stone open the bag wider and took it out carefully. The other boys jostled him, trying to get a closer look or take it form him entirely, when they heard a soft noise.
The stone had chirped. The boys were silent. It chirped again, then faster, hitting different notes. As it picked up speed in the warm afternoon sun, the chirping shifted. The noise was still the same, strident like a newly-hatched chick, but one by one the boys began to understand the notes as words.
And what it chirped was this: "Take me to the blind gringo."
One of the boys moved closer to the one with the stone and held out his hand. The other boys eyed him warily. They'd heard stories about him, about what he'd done El Día de los Muertos, about money he'd been given, by a tourist or hitman, the facts were never clear. Mostly, though, the stories were about the money.
The chirping stone interchanged hands and was pocketed carefully. The boy patted it softly as he walked to his bike. The stone chirped all the way to La Vaca Volando, a slow steady chirp like a heart-beat.
As the boy skampered into the Vaca, the chirping stopped. He waited behind a table as the waitress as took a tequila and lime to a table. When she'd gone, the boy walked up to the table and eyed the man as he sipped his tequila. He still wore the same sort of gun-sliging outfit he'd worn El Día de los Muertos, minus the gloves. A black cowboy hat rested on the empty chair next to him. The man put down his glass and turned to the boy, his dark sunglasses showing only a reflection of the near-empty cantina.
"Señor," he said, reaching into his pocket, "para Usted." He hardly ever called anyone "Usted" anymore, but it felt right this time.
"Ah, Chiclet-boy," said the man in recognition. "Let's have it, then."
At the touch of the warm pliant orb, the man frowned. "What--" he began, but the object in his hand shuddered. Then it began to chirp.
"Lo...encontré," mumbled the boy.
"Found it?" The man gave an absent-minded smile, still touching the stone. "In someone's pocket, no doubt." Then his expression began to change as he recognized the tune.