THE BEAST

Since you can remember your T-shirts from last year's political candidate would hang from a nylon string on your rooftop. You would climb the staircase, eager to watch the handsome boy play soccer with his friends on the street. He is your neighbourhood Chicharito, light eyes and soft hair. But before you could witness such athletic feat, such spartanesque dance, there was a jungle of jeans, dresses, underwear, and pillow cases you had to face. Sometimes, in your excitement, you would rush through the woven foliage to the edge of the rooftop and in your way would drop one or two pieces of clothing. Later that night, when your mom would climb up and take down the laundry, you could hear her scream all the way from your room “Ana! Te dije que tuvieras cuidado con la ropa cabrona!”

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She always calls you cabrona, wether she is mad or as a term of endearment, she makes no discrimination and this word seems to be boundless to her. You think about how beautiful it is that a single word, an insult, could be both affectionate and offensive; how insults are proof that meaning is vast and complex. And all of the sudden all the absolute truths spoken on TV and printed in cheap ink seem less depressing. You rush upstairs as fast as you can since you've learned that the second “Ana!” is way more violent, and you blame the wind, you blame the elements. “Mom, it was reeeeally windy today, no fui yo, lo juro por Dios” You often swear to god in vain, Mom believes it and you dont think god would truly mind. He must have more important things to worry about, like that time you overheard your mom talking to your aunt about your neighbour Roberto and how he hits his wife, and how she thinks his restaurant a few blocks away is laundering money. “They don't even know how to cook rice, it's mushy Sofia, mushy rice!” Anyways, you think god is probably more mad at Roberto for beating his wife, and serving mushy rice, than he is with you for lying about the wind or about throwing away the beef liver and telling your mom it was delicious.

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The handsome boy saw you gawking from the rooftop the summer your waist went from 28 to 32. “Quieres jugar?” he yelled while his friends quietly complained about this invitation, kicking rocks and looking down at the asphalt, wishing it would turn liquid and eat them whole. They must have thought you didn't know how to play, how macho of them, how ridiculous. You didn't know how to play, but how hard could it be? The ball is like 8 times bigger than a golf ball and people who play golf don't look particularly athletic. You can do this you think to yourself while you try to hide the fire in your cheeks and nod yes before heading towards the staircase.

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It turns oUt that yes, the ball is big, but it is also moving and it is hard to reach an object in motion. This was the first time you had to chase something and it wasn't pleasant. You get hit on the face (BAAM), you suspect on purpose. Red, red on black, laughs in the back and that small golf ball in your throat. It suddenly doesn't feel as small. You should’ve cried, you think to yourself while your mom heals the red and you smell her chicken soup. You hate that golf ball, that pride knot, that shame pendulum. You should’ve cried, let the boys laugh and the handsome one feel uneasy.

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Your jeans don't fit anymore, and neighbourhood Chicharito has a beard now. His soccer ball has been stuck in a tree for four years and you wonder if he can see you folding your sweaters from his window. It is colder where you are going. There will be no sandal wearing, no soccer t-shirt tearing.

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Your mom is such an ugly crier, and your taxi is turning more yellow by the minute. It has hepatitis, you think to yourself while she points at the sidewalk before hugging you one last time. It is your name; the pavement was wet a few winters back, and you had to do what one does when forever hard is seldom gentle. She is pointing at your name, but you see something you’d never noticed before, a small circular indent. You remember it now, you were sitting on the street, signing the pavement with the gesture of a great poet, when you heard “Aguas!”. It hits you in the stomach and bounces to the ground. You can barely catch your breath to cuss. As you look down at your very own Mexican Walk of fame, you realize that Chicharito’s bad aim will forever be beside your name. You tear up a bit, turn to his window and the blinds are shut; he didn't see you fold sweaters, he didn't see you writing your name as a poet, and he didn't see you leave in a hepatic taxi.

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It is all too windy here, and someone offered you an apple on the street. People are nice here but you of course, did not bite into the apple, you’re smarter than that silly Snow white. The lack of sun in this tall city will give you a shade that blends in public transit, and you think about how you can outsmart Snow white but you dread the idea that you might start to look like her pretty soon. Should I turn around, just to visit the sun?

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You have been speaking to the floor every time you feel homesick. In your mind, it makes sense; Mexico is south from here, and your head is north. You were talking to the floor on Kingsway and 13th, when you heard a man screaming something about Jesus and The Lord our Saviour and Sinners paying for their Sins. What a looney you think to yourself, and then you notice that you have been addressing the cement every time you want to get in touch with the Motherland. The motherfucking Motherland. The idea that to Jesus' disciple on Kingsway and 13th you might be addressing hell when you tell the floor how much you miss pinto beans is really funny to you. Maybe Mexico and Hell have the same bedding and share an alleyway. You still believe Mexico would have a nicer front door mat, although hell would have a better fireplace and definitely some elegant door knobs. Hell would be negligent with the indoor plants and Mexico wouldn't dare to forget to water the Mammillaria Elongata. That beautiful, unabashed, Mammillaria Elongata.

 

Foreigners were wearing poppy flowers on their chest while you told the pavement how it would be nice if we all wore flowers a month of the year, or maybe a cactus, to make Hollywood happy. As you discussed your ideas for a new national holiday attire with cracks and sidewalks, and said hello to hell as well because your mom raised a polite kid, you bumped into some shoes. At least you thought you did, but maybe no shoes were bumped, no shoe laces were tangled. You both said sorry anyway. Here, in poppy-loving Nation, buses express their regret when they have reached capacity and people apologize for looking a bit too long, coming a bit too close. You look up to meet the north of a south and you felt like asking him if his name was Venus. His name was not Venus but someone once told you that a day in Venus is longer than a year and you both spent many Venus days, months and years forgetting to check the calendar.

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One day you went to his place, and while he showed you around, the repulsion of two celestial bodies was hidden behind a poorly made closet. You were unaware of this, and would remain this way for more spaghetti nights and duck chasing afternoons. Yet, you would come to know that every now and then when that closet door would open, you would start to feel like a cheese grater through which his loving description of a big tree would leak.

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You are out of soap, you tell him and lock the door behind you before a reply can reach you. 

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What are you doing?

I am hanging my clothes, tontito

We have a dryer, you know

You have to be gentle with the embroidery

Well, it has a gentle setting

“A machine is not gentle” you tell him, but he grabs you by the arm and opens the closet door swaying around like a proud owner of cogs and flickering lights. You, and the secret hidden behind pine panels, finally meet. When you think back to that day when you learned that waiting for water to evaporate and freely float through IKEA furniture was considered a fool's game, you think about how incredibly hot the radiator felt. About how hot the radiator felt, and how hot his forehead would get when you hung your clothes to dry above it.

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Just like a pile of wet wool, Venus was all of the sudden damp and heavy.

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This is a bike rack, it is called a bike rack because? 

Because it is for bikes?

Yes, exactly darling, it is not called a rag rack is it now?

These are not rags

You know what I mean

You do know, but you also know that that bike rack is a great place to hang wet to dry, including rags. He doesn't have access to the rooftop, and people don't play soccer in the street here, and where would you even buy the blue and yellow nylon string your mom proudly tied around the TV antenna and the water tank?

How many times do I have to tell you that I have a dryer?

I don't like how my sweaters smell when they come out of The Beast

Im begging you to stop calling the dryer the beast, you sound so dumb

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But you’re not being dumb, what that thing does is beastly, hence The Beast. It makes an awful lot of noise, it moves side to side as if it were to unplug from the wall and chase you down the stairs, it gets scarily hot and you swear you can see dark smoke coming out of The Beast but he doesn't believe you.

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You’re being stupid

No, you’re not being stupid. You swear there’s smoke. You can see it behind the white outline and you can smell its mocking laugh woven through the fibers of your jeans.

 

You run to his bed. Our bed. You run to our his bed and you ask him to quickly smell the clothes. Quick! The Beast doesn't want him to know about the smoke, the smell will leave any second now. He doesn't smell anything. You took too long at the door thinking about whether or not it was his bed or if it was ours, and you gave smoke time to flee.

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See, I used The Beast and my clothes caught on fire

No the didn’t, you silly kid

I promise you, look, everything is red now

Well that’s because you put something red with the whites

No, its because there was a fire inside The Beast and the shadow of a fire is red

Fires don’t have shadows

Of course they do

No, and The Dryer did not have a fire and you’re acting crazy

Fires have a shadow

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You know fires have a shadow. Fires have a shadow in Mexico, and in Hell, and on Kingsway and 13th.  It was bad enough that he didn’t believe light to be able to find closeness in shadow, but it was ultimately the stench that would lather the textured walls and the cold kitchen tiles, what made drifting out of orbit so seducing. You would come into his room and he smelled like The Beast. The bedsheets in the room that he called ours were forever carrying the wight of dark smoke. You found great comfort in the corner of the bed, far from his overcast silk pyjama set. You left a half eaten orange under your side of the bed a while back, wether this was a mistake or a witty premonition is unclear, but the smell of rotten sugar was the only thing that would get you through the night.

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Something smells

It's the sheets, and your clothes, and this apartment. Its all because of The Beast

Nope, I found it. There was an orange under your side of the bed

But that smell is good

It is rotten

It is rotten because it is alive

Okay, well fuck me, just invite the maggots into the bed then

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And suddenly it was all ashes in the bed and the little line between each kitchen tile was dark grey and you could barely see the clouds through the windows and there was fog in the ceiling and his famous marinara sauce was turning black. And he couldn’t smell it and he wouldn’t name it. And he refused to hang fabric to dry on the bike rack and his chest was as hot as the radiator but he also refused to hang your embroidery over it. And he was greedy with his heat. And a day being longer than a year was a terrifying omen and he took your orange and with it the smell of rotten sugar and with it your ability to sleep. And you wished he didn’t open the closet door and introduced you to that bright silhouette and you wished he asked the janitor for the keys to the roof and you wished he played some soccer and that he knew just the right place to buy the nylon string your mom told you was sturdy. And you are now pale like Snow White and the Motherland won’t take your calls and you wonder if Chicharito’s ball is still on that tree. And you think about how pavement is never wet here because they work at night and you think about the apple you didn’t bite and wether or not it was sugar bee or granny smith. And you don’t understand why the door knob is always cold and why you forget to water your Mammillaria Elongata when Mexico wont. And you simply can’t understand, why he won’t smell the smoke.