LAST PRIMER: STORIES THESIS Presented to the Graduate Council

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LAST PRIMER: STORIES THESIS Presented to the Graduate Council LAST PRIMER: STORIES THESIS Presented to the Graduate Council of Texas State University-San Marcos in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Master of FINE ARTS by Rene S. Perez II, B.A. San Marcos, TX May 2009 LAST PRIMER: STORIES Committee Members Approved: _______________________ Dagoberto Gilb, Chair _______________________ Nelly Rosario _______________________ Jaime Mejia Approved: _______________________________ J. Michael Willoughby Dean of the Graduate College COPYRIGHT by Rene S Perez II 2009 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks to the gatekeepers of this university and this program for letting me in. Thank you to Tom and your rag-tag group of writers and teachers for being the wisdom and half the soul of this program. Thank you Denis for calling me a fellow writer. Thank you Nelly for caring and believing and taking my back. Thank you Dagoberto for doing what the other two did, but also for being a friend and a mentor whose work and characters inspired me to do what I do before I started doing it. Thank you San Marcos, Austin, and Round Rock, for as uninspiring as some of you may seem, I was able to produce within your bounds. Thank you Jardine’s and Wag- a-Bag and CTC@RRHEC and La Jolla Village Mobil for keeping me paid, fed, and grounded in my time as a student. Thank you Bessie Blue the Bronco II, my faithful steed, for never quitting on me even when I wanted to quit on you. Thank you Adam, Ben, John, and Danny for having taken this ride with me—the horror on your faces at times let me know I wasn’t the only one afraid of some heights. Thank you Mom, Dad, Vicki, and Angie for your undying support and for being the first people to pretend what I was writing was good. Finally, and most importantly, thank you to Ulyana for being a friend, a reader, a wife, and a cheerleader. Your love, inspiration, and faith allowed me to pursue this path. If it takes a lifetime of sore muscles and tired bones and 70-80 hour work weeks, I’ll do all it takes to allow you to pursue whatsoever makes you happy in life. This manuscript was submitted on April 14, 2009. iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...................................................................................................iv Last Primer .............................................................................................................................1 Closeness to Taste ..................................................................................................................16 One Last Drive North.............................................................................................................38 Letting go a Dream ................................................................................................................50 Curses by Numbers ................................................................................................................60 Ridin Like a Balla ..................................................................................................................69 Lost Days ...............................................................................................................................73 Random Punchlines ...............................................................................................................81 Remember, Before You Go ...................................................................................................102 The Art of Making Something out of Nothing ......................................................................120 AGROSOMAS ......................................................................................................................144 v Last Primer John David Gomez sits waiting for me in his 1986 LTD Crown Victoria, the same one his mother used to drive, though he has touched up the car’s paint and tinted its windows in the many years since she left him and the car, at her mother’s house so that she could pursue a future with an amateur boxer she’d only known for 2 days. He’s parked at the end of my block, so I jog-step to his car so we can drive off before anyone sees us, though I don’t know that any of my neighbors would be up at this hour. The sight of him behind the wheel of that car reminds me of his mother and those rare times when she was waiting for him after school, times I would have to kick JD and his friends out of my classroom so I could go home to my wife and daughter. He’s even smoking like she always was when she waited, though he’s smoking a Black and Mild rather than the Doral 100s she used to smoke, the kind my mother had switched to towards the end of her life. I get in the car and JD turns down the radio to greet me. “Hey sir,” JD says as he turns the car on and puts it into gear, “You don’t mind the smoke do you?” He is wearing his work clothes. He must have just gotten off; I don’t think he would go in after what we’re about to do. “JD, it’s been ten years since I was your teacher. You can call me Frank.” Neither of us speak and, for a while, the thumps of the wheels passing over the freeway section splits mark time. JD turns the radio back up. “I don’t mind the smoke,” I tell him. “My 1 2 wife doesn’t know I’m out and if she wakes up when I get home I’ll tell her I went to a bar.” “How’s she doing with everything?” He doesn’t look over at me. “I don’t know. She was so strong after it happened. She stayed day and night with Sara in the hospital. But now that Sara’s home and, for the most part, physically better, it’s really hit Imelda. She sleeps a lot, so does Sara, she’s taken to sharing Sara’s pain pills. So, I just don’t know.” It’s strange being this honest with someone who sat in my classroom before his voice changed. I look at JD driving; his cigarillo, the speedometer, and the radio the only lights in the car. It’s just so unreal—looking at him from the passenger seat, sitting in a car that I’ve never sat in but seen so many times. I feel as small as he must have felt all those times I drove him home after school, those numerous times when his mother was elsewhere after Lexington Middle School closed down for the day. “And you?” JD looks at me. Now, I need to lie. “I’m fine. I think it hurts less, but with this investigation bullshit I’m so angry all the time.” “Yeah. I would be too.” JD shakes his head empathetically. “There’s a flask in the glove box. You can smell like that bar your wife thinks you’re going to. Or, you know, just numb it all a bit.” I open the glove box and sitting on the flask of Tanqeurey is a .38 revolver. The light of the moon shining through the window reflects blue off of the gun’s nickel plating. I push off the gun lightly with the back of my hand and reach for the flask. 3 The mouthful of gin I throw back is burning in my belly when I pull the gun out of the glove box. “Is this the one I’m going to use?” He glances over briefly and then looks back to the road in front of us. “Yeah. It’s a .38 like you asked for, like the one that he--” JD stops short of saying it, but the idea pronounces itself. The gun he shot your daughter with. The pain of it all mixes with the gin in my stomach. My daughter—raped and beaten, shot and left for dead—and my comatose wife are riding in the car with us now. I drink more gin, put the flask and gun back in the glove box, and try to make out stars over streetlights in the night sky. “It’s going to be fine, sir. I mean, Mr. Rodriguez. We’ll do this thing now and you can go back home knowing I’ll take care of everything that needs taking care of.” Looking at JD in the dark, I can barely make out the traces of the “ABC” tattoo on his neck. I was so mad, so disappointed, when I saw him just a year out of middle school with the gang marking on his neck. The audacity it took for him to visit me at school for the first time with that ink on his neck shook me. I initially thought he was parading in a defiant show of freedom, telling me that he didn’t need me or my respect. But when he kept coming back, after dropping out at sixteen, after getting out of prison at nineteen, to tell me he was going to be a father at 20, I realized he was seeking proof of my respect and love unconditional. The tattoo is fading. He has others, the names of his son and wife on his forearms and the Virgen de Guadalupe on his right bicep, but now I have to squint hard to make out that first one. “Thank you for doing this for me. This has been killing me and I need to know I can make things right, as right as they’ll get. Like I’m not just watching someone get away with doing this to my daughter. Like I can protect my family.” 4 “I think I know what you mean.” “Thinking of how to do this, all I could come up with was you. I couldn’t do this by myself. I wouldn’t know how.” I look over at JD thankful, rationalizing. “Me either.” I know he’s telling the truth. “But thank God for family and long-lost friends.” I drink a little more gin. What I am about to do and what’s happened and the fact that I’m in this car right now are making me lightheaded. I try to think of my family as we were before and it gives me clarity; it heats my blood and I focus on what’s about to happen. We’ve gotten onto the interstate and are heading north. The city is almost entirely behind us.
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