Chapter One
I Thought You and
Me Were Friends
Mr. Z
The boy rode in the car with his father. It was late afternoon and they were on
their way to buy fireworks. The father had worked a full day and was tired, but
he had promised to drive his son to the stands. This was the Fourth of July.
They had made the short trip to the edge of town for as long as the boy could
remember in his eleven years. He had two older sisters, but they had never
enjoyed doing this with their father. When the boy was little, his father lit
the fireworks on the sidewalk as the boy watched from the porch with his mother.
He would let go of his mother's hand and clap at each small explosion as if he
had forgotten the one that had gone off only a minute earlier. Now that he was
older, he lit the fireworks with other boys from the neighborhood and sometimes
his father stood on the porch to watch.
The fireworks stands were just beyond the city limits sign for Brownsville,
Texas. The long and narrow wooden structures were scattered along the dry edges
of the highway like giant matches that had fallen from the sky. Behind the
stands, the flat sorghum fields stretched for a couple of miles until they
reached the Rio Grande. The father stopped next to a stand with a large sign
that read mr. z's fireworks. The owner of the business introduced himself to the
father and they shook hands. "Juan Zamarripa, para servirle," the owner said.
Then it was the boy's turn to shake hands. "Diego Morales, sir," he said. The
owner was an old man and he wore a red baseball cap with the words mr. z's
fireworks stenciled across the front. His long white sideburns reminded Diego of
cotton strands glued to brown construction paper. On his right forearm the owner
had a faded tattoo of an eagle. The two men spoke in Spanish while Diego picked
out fireworks. A teenage boy who worked behind the counter helped him. After his
father paid for the fireworks, the owner motioned for Diego to come closer.
"I think you forgot something," the old man said as he dropped an extra bottle
rocket inside the bag. "What do you say?" the father was quick to ask. "Thank
you," Diego said.
The old man nodded. "How old are you, son?" "Eleven." "Eleven?" the old man
said. "N'hombre, by the time I was your age I had a job and my own money. Are
you good in math?" "Yes, sir." "Vamos a ver, let's say I buy three dollars and
fifty cents' worth of fireworks and I give you a five-dollar bill. What's my
change?" "One dollar and fifty cents," Diego said.
"Hey, you're faster than some people I know," Mr. Z said and glanced at the boy
behind the counter. "You should come work for me, son. I don't pay a lot, but
you get all your fireworks for fifty percent off." Diego looked up at his
father.
"If you want the job, you can have it," his father said. "Bueno, I have enough
help right now," Mr. Z said. "But I'll call you before New Year's and let's see
what we can do." That night Diego popped his fireworks in the street with the
other neighborhood boys, but he couldn't stop thinking about what had happened
earlier that day. He thought of all the other jobs in the world he could have,
and none of them were as great as working at a fireworks stand. His sisters
didn't even have jobs yet. They were always asking for money to go out with
their friends. And now he would be earning enough to buy his own fireworks. Who
knew how much he could buy if they were only half price? He told his friends,
and some of the older boys wanted to know if they needed more help at the stand.
He told them he couldn't say, but he would let them know. The dark sky flashed
before him in brilliant colors and New Year's seemed as if it would take forever
to get here.
The summer and autumn months passed slowly until Mr. Z phoned Diego the second
week of December. "Are you still interested, son?" "Yes, sir." "And you're
willing to work hard?" "Oh, yes, sir." "That's good, because the boys I hired
last summer were lazy. They started off okay, but they got lazy on me." "I'll
work hard. I'm not lazy." "I didn't think you were. Your father doesn't look
like a lazy man."
"No, sir." "Bueno, we're opening next week, a few days before Christmas, and
going all the way to New Year's. My boys come in at noon and work late. How does
that sound to you?" "It sounds good. All my friends, they wish they could work
at your stand."
"That's good to hear, son," the old man said. "You stop by next Wednesday and
I'll show you how we work at Mr. Z's. Tell your father I can give you a ride
home when we close down." Diego spent the next few days wishing that he could be
at work already. It was a good thing he didn't have to share a room the way his
sisters did. He wanted to be alone. He heard his parents talking the night
before he started. His mother thought he was too young to be working until the
stand closed, but his father said Diego had already promised the man he would
work. His boy was not going to back out now. He wouldn't let her treat him like
a baby. They were quiet after that. Diego fell asleep wondering how different
his life would be if tomorrow ever came.
His father drove home at lunch the next day. He wanted to take his son to his
first day of work. Diego had spent some time getting ready that morning. After
he showered, he brushed his teeth and put on his favorite blue jeans. He used a
few drops of his father's Tres Flores to comb his hair. When they heard the car
horn, Diego's mother kissed him on the cheek and told him to be careful. He said
okay and ran to the car where his father was waiting.
They cracked the windows open at the top to let in the cool air. The sky was ash
gray, as it had been for the past week. On the way to the stands they passed the
cafs along International Boulevard, the panadera and its glorious scent of
fresh sweet bread, the restaurant that sold barbacoa on Sunday mornings, the
service station where the father had worked as a young man.
"You need to pay attention to Mr. Zamarripa," his father said. "Don't be playing
around with the other boys. I want you to be serious. Me entiendes?" "Yes,
sir."
These were the only words they exchanged on the way to the stand, but Diego knew
what his father meant. He wanted Diego to behave and not do anything to
embarrass him in front of Mr. Z. The tone of his father's voice was serious. It
was the same tone he used right before he got angry. Once, his father had told
him to be careful with the orange soda he was drinking in the car and then a
minute later, when the soda spilled on the cloth seats, his father slapped him.
His father had hit him a couple of other times, enough for Diego to know that
tone of voice. When they arrived at the stand, his father stayed in the car and
waved to Mr. Z. "Pay attention," he said. Another boy was inside the stand with
Mr. Z. His name was Ricky and he had also been hired to work. Although they were
about the same age, he was shorter and huskier than Diego. Ricky lived in the
projects near Diego's house, but they had never met.
It was warmer inside the stand and Diego put away the windbreaker his mother had
made him wear. The old man handed each of the boys a red mr. z's fireworks cap.
They thanked him and put them on. Diego was too busy adjusting the size to
notice that his cap was bent and the brim was worn down and dirty.
"Bueno, I'm going to tell you what we got here at Mr. Z's. Black Cats is the
most popular firecracker there is." The old man showed them the black and red
package. "You got no Black Cats, you got no New Year's. It's my all-time
bestseller. Nobody beats El Gato Negro." He raised his hands as if they were
claws. The boys backed up.
"These are the Black Snakes. You light the fuse and it starts smoking and a tiny
snake comes out - these are good for the little kids. Sparklers, too. If a man
comes in alone, he probably has kids at home. And, Diego, what do you offer
him?" "Black Snakes and sparklers." "That's right, son. Now you're using what
God gave you," the old man said and pointed to Diego's head. "Over here are the
smoke bombs, another bestseller. Who doesn't like smoke bombs?"
The boys stared at the old man. "Who?" he said. "Nobody?" Ricky said.
"Good answer," Mr. Z said. "The older kids go for bottle rockets, guaranteed.
Roman candles are Roman candles. If you don't know what those are, you're in the
wrong business. Silver Jets are new. They make a loud sound like a coffeepot
when it's ready. Every pinche perro in the neighborhood barks when they hear it
take off. It's for the big kids." The boys listened to Mr. Z explain how to sell
some of the less-popular fireworks, place the money in a tin box under the
counter, and bag everything the customers bought. He covered the stand from one
end to the other. Diego already knew all the fireworks because he'd been buying
them for years, but he didn't want to tell the old man this and be
disrespectful. When Mr. Z finished, he left the boys in the stand and walked to
his pale yellow truck. He had parked it a few yards beyond the stand, the front
end pointed into the ditch. There was a camper on the bed that looked rustier
than the ancient truck it was attached to. The old man sat in the driver's seat
for a long stretch of time. He finally walked to the front of the stand to watch
the boys help some customers. After the people drove away, he brought Diego and
Ricky together. "Diego, what's the matter? How come you don't smile more? Who
wants to buy fireworks from somebody who's got a serious face?" "I don't know."
"You need to smile, son. Right now you look like you're going to the rest room,
making number two." The old man strained his face and pretended he was sitting
on a toilet. Ricky laughed. So did Diego, but then he remembered what his father
had said and he tried to be serious again. "Y t, Ricky, what are you laughing
at?" Mr. Z said. "Didn't I tell you to sell the Black Snakes to the men who come
in alone?"
"Yes, sir." "Entonces? What happened with that last man with the red shirt?" "I
forgot." "I forgot. You better not forgot next time." The boys did better with
the people who stopped by the rest of that afternoon. Mr. Z kept walking behind
the customers and exaggerating his smile to make Diego remember what he had
said. Ricky sold three packages of sparklers and Black Snakes.
At four o'clock, Mr. Z said it was time for dinner. If they waited until five or
six, there would be too many customers. He asked the boys what they wanted from
Whataburger. "I didn't bring enough money," Diego said. "You don't need no
money. I pay for all the meals my boys eat. You just tell me what you want."
Mr. Z brought back three cheeseburgers, fries, and drinks. They sat on the
tailgate of the truck and looked at the passing cars and trucks. The boys
wouldn't get paid for another week, so the meal was a small reward. Diego liked
working hard. His father worked hard as a mechanic, sometimes taking side jobs
to bring in a little extra. On those weekends, two or three cars would be parked
in the backyard, waiting to be repaired. Diego took another bite. He thought
this had to be the best cheeseburger he ever tasted.
The stand closed at ten o'clock. Mr. Z counted the money while the boys swept
the inside of the stand and locked the doors and windows. Ricky had ridden his
ten-speed bike to work, but Mr. Z told him to put it in the back of the truck
because he was giving them both a ride home.
The old man used his hand to sweep the crumpled newspapers, used bags of
chicharrones, soda cans, and Mexican lottery tickets from the passenger's seat
onto the floor. Diego sat in the middle and Ricky leaned against the door. A
tiny hula girl was glued to the dashboard. The boys watched her grass skirt
swish around each time the truck hit a bump in the road. "You two remind me of
my boys." The old man pulled out a black-and-white photo that was clipped to the
sun visor. "Mira, aqu estn, when they were still in the hospital." He turned
on the cab light to show them the photo of the twin babies. Their faces were
scrunched together and they were both crying.
"What do you think? Do they look like their old man?" "Kind of," Ricky said.
"What do they look like now?" Diego handed back the photo and Mr. Z put it in
his shirt pocket. "You have to ask their mama that question. She left to Chicago
when they were still babies." The old man was quiet for a while, looking at the
truck's headlights on the road. "But if they're my boys, they're probably some
handsome men now," he said and laughed a little.
They were at the Four Corners intersection when the old man opened the glove
box. Some receipts fell out and he grabbed a quart of whiskey. The bottle had a
picture of a fighting cock on the label. Mr. Z took a quick drink and handed the
bottle to Diego.
"Andale, you got to drink to your first day of work. It was a good day, we made
some good money," the old man said. Diego winced as soon as he tasted the
whiskey. He wanted to spit it out, but he drank it instead. "You too, Ricky.
Today you're workingmen, hombres trabajadores." Diego was glad that the old man
held on to the bottle for the rest of the ride.
His mother and father were waiting for him in the living room. His sisters came
out of their room when they heard him walk in the door.
"How was your first day?" his father said. "Are you hungry, mi'jito?" his mother
said. She reheated some tamales, and the family crowded around him at the
kitchen table. "So, Diego, are you going to lend us money now?" his oldest
sister asked and laughed. "You girls leave your brother alone - he's eating,"
his father said.
When Diego finished his meal, he told them about learning how to work inside the
stand and eating cheeseburgers on the tailgate of the truck and selling
fireworks to little kids and going to the rest room behind a mesquite and almost
seeing a wreck between an 18-wheeler and a car that pulled out onto the highway
too fast and cleaning the place after they closed. He told them everything,
except the part about the ride home and the bottle with the rooster on it.
The next day Diego made it to work before Ricky. He took care of the few
customers that came by early. Mr. Z kept looking at his watch and shaking his
head. At one point, the old man wrote something in the little notepad that he
used to record all the sales for the day.
Diego was rearranging the bottle rockets when Ricky finally showed up for work.
His mother had driven him to the stand. Diego noticed she was a lot younger than
most of his friends' moms. She wore large hoop earrings and her dark hair was in
a ponytail. She apologized to Mr. Z for Ricky being an hour late. Someone had
stolen his bike. Ricky's eyes were swollen as though he had been crying.
"It won't happen again," she promised. "No te preocupes por eso," Mr. Z assured
her. "I'm sorry you had to bring Ricky all this way. I would've been happy to
pick him up."
Mr.
Continues...
Excerpted from Brownsville
by Oscar Casares
Copyright © 2003 by Oscar Casares
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Copyright © 2003
Oscar Casares
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