Night of the Dying Thug
By: Angel Ventura Avelar
Some people come to the US to avoid precisely this.
When the policemen knocked, my mother was expecting him to be at the door. My father always makes the locks useful since el diablo se puede soltar en cualquier hora. She dozed off intermittently throughout the night; he was not answering her calls.
One of the men looked like those naked marble statues, somewhat bland within that striking gaze. Another policeman, whose balled up pale hand resembled a raw chicken breast, spoke to my father. He told him he died.
I was with my friends the day it happened. I had just heard about the story of the young man who was fatally stabbed on Valentine's Day a couple days back. The coverage was fresh, so no one knew the details.
“It is those fucking homeless, they have no respect for people.”
“San Jose is getting really dangerous with all those Norteños running around!”
As someone who cannot stand vitriol against Latinos, I casted away any theory of the boy’s death that involved us in any facet. I was convinced it had to be specific. I mean, the news does not cover every homicide that happens here. The perpetrator had to be a real dirtball or something. Why announce the death? Why? It happened on the Westside.
Lilith’s broken watches. This is what led us into the Westside. My friend’s father sent her a watch all the way from Burma: two gorgeous, gorgeous mini clocks. One of the watches had classy steel straps and a dial that resembled the far side of the moon. The heartbeat of time did not push the minute hand forward.
It was frozen in time; Burmese receptacles from a time of peace. They did not function properly; this was a treasure worth restoring. The map pointed out a couple of viable spots, one of which was in the middle class bougie region of the city. It was a meager half hour bus ride and, still, we arrived late, when the sky was just getting its mouth on the sun and all there was above us was light.
We walked to find the repair shop. I was people-watching. I noticed a woman with bouncy hair with paper bags across her forearms, and, like elekes, they hung with a visual fervor. The woman was accompanied by a small boy a shade or two lighter than her, snacking on a pretzel pizza. I thought of how nice it can be to spoil your kid (if it even was her kid) and still be able to buy all that unnecessary shit. Clothes, we know, go out of fashion quickly and it is the wearer’s responsibility to keep up with the seasonal trends.
The watch shop before us, we noticed the many types of jewels and ornaments on glass displays. Lilith knew it was going to be pricey. No way, we’re getting in. But hey, at least we’re at Westfield!
We walked into the Sephora store and into the perfume section. Lilith’s sister is a fan of scents.
Tom Ford’s “Lost Cherry.” Unisex. I never met the devil before he became profane, but if he was anything like us, his sweat would smell like this. And this was the impression I was getting from smelling it from the atomizer.
“I like this,” I say, “but ¡fooock!”
I raise the flapping tag so Jeremías, my other friend, and Lilith can see: 250 dollars. I bring the scent strips to their noses. They whiff.
The Latino M.O. of crimes “we do” doesn’t fall under shoplifting; the employees surveilled me with devotion as we walked out of the store anyway. We were looking at skin care stuff. I felt their eyes as if I gouged them out myself and placed them near my nape. It could probably be because I had my black Jordan’s backpack, which had a book on Kafka and Classical Allegory. This, and also the fact that I was wearing a hoodie and had an eyebrow slit because that’s what my Argentine friends were doing.
Suspicious. I wondered if the people watching us knew I love Margery Kempe’s biography, or at least that I read.
When we walked into the UNIQLO store, I kept thinking about my backpack. Shit, I thought, why did I not bring my Gucci glasses today, and why does Jeremías lag behind us? This is not a good look. We did have Lilith who rescued us from suspicion with her (North Face-esque) puffer jacket.
“Can I help you with anything?” I am sure the woman who asked us this is supposed to ask this, I kept thinking.
He was walking in the dark cold outside, that period of time when the night sweats and settles in that intangible space in your lungs. I know that he was scared, as any person would be. When he left the “rich-house” blocks, he made it through the busted area where the winos (are they winos or are they brown people hanging out on the sidewalks?) and undocumented (who knows if they are undocumented, right?) hang out.
I do not know why he walked through the unlit path where all the graffiti is. The breasts and profanity etched in the guardrails probably watched it all go down when witnesses reported hearing an altercation. He was in the borderlands, the bridge connecting the nicer neighborhood to the rundown one. Is this even possible in America? What I would have done for him to be home that day.
It was getting dark out. We went to McDonald’s because all that walking made us hungry. I devised to get the six dollar twenty-piece chicken nuggets because I am, indeed, a broke college student, as are they. My scholarship money was not going to run out, not that fast, so I devised to pay with quarters for my meal. Jeremías got nuggets as well. I forgot what Lilith had exactly, but I know it was different.
It was during our meal and talking about work and classes that a man walked inside, in the second bougie part of town, with an abrasive demeanor. He was complaining about something quite loudly, quite rudely. Violence, in its barefaced candor, should not be afforded to the people here.
“Sir, we’re going to ask you to leave,” the employee said.
“Fuck you!”
“Don’t curse at me! I am going to call the police if you do not leave, please leave.”
The worker looked somewhat in shock as if he never had a situation like this happen. The man who spat in every syllable had tired eyes.
Lilith and Jeremías continued the conversation in a muted tone. I left the conversation and looked attentively beside us where this whole situation unraveled.
I put the kibosh on our conversation and ordered a 99-cent iced coffee. (But isn’t iced coffee for yuppies? Latinos do not drink iced coffee unless they let it go cold.) I find it interesting that some things I do are considered unearned. I scurried through my backpack for change. Note: With taxes, the coffee is $1.80.
The sky had digested the sun entirely, all there was had been darkness. Even if it is a nice area, there are no stars.
We walked to the stop. Lilith’s bus came first, so we said our goodbyes. It was me and Jeremías at this point. The Westside air is arid like the back of a bus. As we waited, I thought about how I was supposed to be home that day, finishing my homework on capitalization, punctuation. Which poems from Javier Zamora was I supposed to read? We were filling in the silence of a bustling town gone quiet. A dread settled within me and I felt a pang of homesickness.
We boarded the bus. The driver did not look at us; he simply maneuvered his hand in a c’mon-get-it-movin’ motion and put his hand over the paying machine. Jerimías spoke spasmodically—did we share earbuds?
The bus dropped us off. Jeremías said thank you, so I followed suit. I said tank you. (¡Goddamn you, ELD class!) The driver said nothing. A muffled vroom ensued and the engine smoke coated my cold calves as the vehicle left.
The stop in front of City Hall holds many stories. I almost ate shit on an E-scooter. Saw old-fashioned cars lining the street for Cinco de Mayo. Learned how to ride the bus there to Berkeley, to Half Moon Bay. Some people call it ghetto, I call it home. It doesn’t negate that I had my phone stolen there. I witnessed fights. Urban things. No longer Westside.
People heard him shout, as meek as he is. Then there was a gunshot. Only one.
Someone called the cops, thank God. I don't think it was anyone from the working class side. I know we usually avoid cops.
Around that time, my mom would be fixing herself something to eat. Yes, our home has late, late dinners. My father would be showering. I don’t know what my sister would be doing, but I know my niece would be in her room, watching her TikToks.
Was it a targeted attack? He is an educated young man, doesn't get himself in trouble, and has good grades. What happened?
Weekdays are the worst there because shit gets lonely real quick. Jeremías, the transit king, looked up when the next bus was coming. I switched to Spanish, closing in the space between us: “Cuidadito con eso que te lo pueden arrebatar.” His hand was not gripping the phone.
The bus was not coming until another half hour; however, as experience has it, it’d probably be longer. We both had a fuck-I-wish-I-had-a-car moment. Doesn’t the patriarchy say that us men are undeserving of the joys of life if we do not drive?
There was a smattering of sketchy people. And it would usually be okay if it weren’t for my untimely panic. And it would usually be fine if I had a lighter in my backpack. And did someone around us scream? They were asking for help. And maybe I was imagining things.
We were talking about Lilith, our family, their lives, the legacy people like them are planting in this terrain. I just thought about everything happening recently, Trump was on the horizon, Kamala seemed like a possibility.
I discussed how I missed my graduation date, how I could not tell my parents that I was staying an extra semester because the registrar did not get back to me on time. I wanted to take a Medieval Literature class, I wanted to undertake an independent study on Illegality, I wanted to attend a graduate seminar, I wanted, I wanted. I could not wait to get home already.
The bus came after a hot minute. Nothing else mattered but the prospect of home. Jeremías, in front of me, scanned his clipper card. I could not find my clipper card.
I scoured my wallet. A polaroid of my niece and nephew, the contact information of my academic benefactor written on a business card, a ticket from a date, a twenty-dollar bill, and a two-dollar bill that my mother gave me, for luck. I walk through the world artifacts belonging to my people.
I walked in without paying. Some drivers don’t mind. I was affirming many stereotypes. I averted my gaze from the driver. If my life was literature and if God was a nativist ideologue, this would be a trope, with me as an archetype.
“Excuse me?” I settled down beside Jeremías. The bus did not move. The driver stared into my soul through the mirror. I stayed seated. “Excuse me!,” the driver repeated
“¿Yes?” I said. She stayed stationary, and I had no option but to approach her. And I walked up to her.
“What are you staring at?”
“¡Well you called me, didn’t you!” I felt my face burning up. A nativist author would render the Bandido image here.
I knew exactly why she called me: I did not pay the $2.25 fare. I am called a cabro, a morrillo, a chamo, so maybe I could get away with the $1.25 fee for minors; And yet, I didn’t pay. I could not relinquish my two-dollar bill because, isn't that all we have right now– mere luck? I’ve boarded the bus before without paying. Drivers don't seem to mind. What is different this time?
“I forgot my clipper.”
“I cannot give you a ride.”
“¿Really!” I showed her my phone: it was around ten o’ clock. She probably saw my wallpaper: a close-up of a church spire.
I don’t want to imagine it, but I must.
My parents had always given me flack for not telling them my whereabouts. I never want to have children, ever. Fuck that, I cannot stomach ever having to worry about someone who is an extension of me. Someone who, by the very moment they are born, is set to die.
Why did he not share his location?
Witnessing all this, Jeremías got up from his seat and rummaged through his fanny pack for some coins. All my change had gone to McDonalds. I was only going out to accompany a friend to do something, not to go shopping. I usually have my clipper card, but I reasoned that I must have dropped it somewhere because I could not find it. I am a cash only guy (another stereotype in the making), so there was no means of paying with my phone.
The woman was not moved. She gave me a sharp stare that imparted hostility. And, like a crack of a whip, she winced. “So?,” she said, as if to say, what now? At that moment, I had an inkling that she was going to get up from her seat and order me to get out. I do not want more confrontation, as unbelievable as it sounds.
I got Jeremías’s side of the situation. He said he told the lady something to the effect of fuck off. He later told me that I could have shown her my student ID card because universities and schools have an agreement where their “clients” can ride for free.
She did not see me as a student, I do not think. One of the things my father told me that day was that I looked like a cholo, a thug. Really? But cholos don’t wear skinny jeans.The woman had a long day on the Eastside; this had to be it. People are awful, and I do not blame her.
I look at myself, and all I see is a geek, someone who loves to play video games (or should I say shooters?) and write poetry (or should I say raps?), not a threat. I’m a thug nevertheless.
It was going to be eleven o’ clock.
Some people come to the US to avoid precisely this.
My phone battery was at 15 percent and the cold air engulfed me, and I had to wait until the other bus came. The 22 is the midnight bus because it takes you all the way to Palo Alto and back. Wait until midnight– only until midnight. The streetlights were flickering and one of them gave out. I looked up at the sky and the moon was leering back. Such augury I have never experienced before. No bus was coming. It's only a half hour walk home.
What I would have done to be home that day.
Calmly, I walked through the nice blocks. I notice how the majority of the homes are curtainless. Must be nice, willing to have people know your business. And the sky’s serene sweated and licked my lungs with the beautiful smell Tom Ford wishes he could make. And then the bridge: breasts, penises, some tags. I looked at the other end and looked at the houses there–– some of them had boarded up windows. There was an eeriness subsuming me.
Around that time, my mom would be fixing herself something to eat.
Imagine a cuete went off beside my ear only one time.
Imagine I fell to the ground, jaw and neck warmly damp, not with night’s sweat.
Imagine people heard me shout when the young man with blue underwear hollered “¡puto!” and “¡This is VPLs, motherfucker!.”
And my wallet was still with me, and the moon’s shaft dethroned the streetlights to light the little ones in his polaroid. Will they be seen as thugs one day? I don’t want to imagine it, but I must.
And the ticket seems pointless to have, so I flung it.
And I looked at the back of the business card that is prefaced with “For Angel.”
And I looked at the two-dollar bill, the amount my life is worth. I should have given my luck away to the bus driver; none of this would have unfolded in my head.
Why did I not share my location?
I could have died that day my mother was expecting me at the door.