Manuel Paul López

AND I HOOT TOO

Mauricio says:

Check it out, Carlos, this morning I found a Jack in the Box bag slipped underneath my sister’s windshield wiper after I finished dropping some postcards off at the Postal Annex at the strip mall on 4th Ave.

She let you borrow her car, I ask.

She did. She always does. Anyway, someone wrote on the bag, Park right asshole!!! The lines are there for a reason. Foo, my tires were barely touching the line. And my car wasn’t there for longer than six Selena songs, bro. I know that because I had Amor Prohibido on the playlist, had the Beat Studios up at dangerous volumes, foo, singing my heart out to “Techno Cumbia.” Man, I was just beginning to enjoy the brand-new day, dude, sending postcard poems to the homies in Nueva York, and that foo left three exclamation marks—can you believe that? It had to be a dude, man.

What a dick, I say.

Tell me about it. Foo, do you remember when Massachusetts stepped on Buggin Out’s brand-new Jordans in Do the Right Thing?

Of course, I say.

Well, I was Buggin Out, bro. And I know some Massachusetts left that note on my windshield.

I laugh.

You’re laughing, Carlos, but I laughed harder, ja ja ja, and pressed my hands against my chest and acted as if I’d been shot through the heart, man, right there in that parking lot where In N Out is, you know it right?

I do, I say.

A Shakespearean death scene, Carlos. I clutched my chest so that everyone could bear witness. Performance art for the masses. I was a Chicano Julian Beck, Carlos. I channeled our holiness, Guillermo Gómez Peña, and among all those parking stalls, I prayed, O, deliver me the juice, GGP, inject it into me with your electric tongue and titanium ligaments. Then I pointed in a fever, in all directions, Carlos, unwitting shoppers, every last one of them, either wearing mugs like they were smelling shit all day long or narcoticized by their cell phones’ insta-chisme. I called those foos out, Carlos, one at a time: “To you over by the Jamba Juice, yeah you, foo, nursing that brain freeze because you have no self-control and slurp too fast! And looking at you poking your nose by the Hobby Lobby. I see that moco on your finger! And that one over there who just demanded to speak to a manager at PetSmart even though her coupon expired two years ago. No discount for you, Karen!

You didn’t!

I did, says Carlos. And that’s not all. I threw myself against some stranger’s car like this, Carlos, and I gestured wildly, like this, rolling myself all over the door and passenger window, and then I convulsed a bit before I jumped on my sister’s Camry, up on the hood I went, flexing my biceps, folding my back like an iron butterfly; and for added drama, I began to bend my shoulders and back, slowly and methodically, my arms out now like wings, flapping, plunging my neck forward like this, my nalgas out toward Devereux Street. I was a brown, cyborg rooster, Carlos.

You had those skinny arms flapping? I ask.

When you’re conjuring poesía, Carlos, there’s no time for dumbbells, dumb ass! You feel me, bro?

I do, I say. I’m just fucking with you.

So yo, I was holding that wrinkled-ass Jack in the Box bag in the air like some cultist lunatic, and then I yelled:

“To all of you, hear this proclamation that I bring before you today:”

And then I paused, Carlos, you know how I like to pause for effect: close my eyes, maybe even lean in my head as if I’m listening directly to someone’s dirty, little secrets murmuring beneath their chest, maybe raise my chin to the sky, like this.

You’re a trip, Mauricio.

What’s a trip is I remember an airplane that day, directly above me, at the exact moment that I was standing on the hood, that plane was up there, inert, as if caught in a sticky mousetrap in the sky, and I can’t help but wonder: were they listening, too? But never mind this digression, I haven’t had time to thoroughly deconstruct that detail, Carlos, but just wait, because I will, young Padawon.

I’m older than you, Mauricio. And just get to the point, I say.

Ok pues. So then, Carlos, guess what?

What, I say.

You guessed it, Mauricio says excitedly.

Guessed what, I ask.

You guessed it my thick-headed friend, Mauricio laughs, my slow-moving ruminator, he laughs: I unleashed upon them a verbal equivalent to Quetzalcoatl’s fiery and victorious escape from coloniality’s soppy, putrid mouth.

Carlos, get this, I yelled. Are you listening, Carlos?

I’m listening, man. Get to the point.

Ok Carlos, I yelled:

“As if…some…fake…ass…anonymous tough guy…could hurt me before I even had the chance to slide a Denny’s Scram Slam down my throat and into my empty belly. How dare you attempt to disturb my sensitive bio rhythms with this uninspired, fast-food scroll; with this double-cheeseburger diatribe!” Because by this time I was intensely staring at the Jack in the Box bag, Carlos, just like Hamlet looking into Yorick’s eye sockets. “Are you kidding me? Who wrote this,” I yelled. “Who, who? Who?” I hooted. Like a tecolote, Carlos. I yelled, “Ideas like these are exactly why we must read more poetry in schools!”

And what did they do? I ask.

Wait up, Carlos, man, there’s more. I continued, “This cop mentality needs to stop—punto! The lines are there for a reason. This thoughtless formulation of a line is straight and restrictive. Yes, my tires are parked slightly on the line, but never mind that, foolios, because lines are for two things: one, for making squares! Like all you foos. Or two, for snorting! Now let’s disappear these painted parking lot lines from our collective imagination with our hairy nostrils and yappy brains and let us be free of all this unrelenting anger and stifled creativity! And that means you, too, walking out of Starbucks with too much caffeine in your bloodstream!”

You know I had to throw in a Smiths reference, Carlos, because I’ll always be that tragic black-cladded llorón you all used to find irresistible in high school. And they all stood there, Carlos. Confused. And bleary-eyed. Then one by one, they began to clap, and jog in place, some did this odd jumping jack thing, closing their eyes, and some convulsed as if rogue muses were passing through their bodies, raising their arms, hopping and reaching. This older white lady smashed a poster frame she just bought at Hobby Lobby over a parking meter and screamed “no!” as if she’d been duped all her life. And one foo walking a German Shepherd yelled “Fuck das kapital,” and threw a green, plastic bag of dogshit at an ATM. And dig this, Carlitos, three nuns flung their large McDonald’s sodas at a parked security guard golf cart, and then dropped to their knees, closed their eyes, and smashed their hands together in prayer so fast they nearly knocked off their habits. Either praying for forgiveness or rejoicing in this weekday epiphany. Foo, we wanted rain to wash it all away. We did, Carlos. All that spirit muck. All that vision phlegm washed away. It was a Tony Award-worthy performance, primo. You shoulda been there.

I believe it, I say.

I believe it, too, I was there. I don’t need you to believe it. But why wouldn’t you believe it?

I got you, I say. I got you.

On three, Maurcio says, One, two, three:

We believe it, we say together.

Though we don’t believe it, and though we do. Though we both know Mauricio doesn’t have a sister, and that there’s no Toyota Camry, and that he doesn’t even have a driver’s license; and that as of today, even his bike tires are flat, and that he’d choose to eat chalk dust in the middle of a desert before he sunk those big-ass teeth into a Denny’s Scram Slam. Though we’re both certain, unequivocally convinced, that lines, like borders, exist to be crossed.

Who, who, who? Mauricio hoots. Who, who, who?

And I hoot too.

THE MAN WHO MISTOOK 7 ELEVEN FOR AM/PM

“What do you need, Lonely Star. I’m here for you. This store is an extraordinary menagerie of sweet and salt. This nametag identifies me as the ringmaster du jour, you see? How can I help you? Go on, now, and bring it to my attention.”

Puzzled: “Have you seen my missing snow light? Have you seen my sick gazelle? It waited for me by the dock, but now it’s gone. Everything’s gone, but you—”

“This is AM/PM, buddy. You’re so far from that neon disaster.”

Puzzled: “I can’t remember her name, but I remember red, orange, and green, around this height,” he motioned with his hand.

“I told you we’re a respected zone of convenience. I have no time for this. Go to aisle three and grab yourself a coffee cake and be gone. It’s unfortunate, but I haven’t the time. Look at you: that blanket draped over your shoulder ratted with hay and dandelion like that. Where have you been?”

“I’ve lost my shoebox stuffed with sit com scripts and my fishing pole. An employee with a nametag bedazzled with brightly painted indica seeds assured me that they were here. Have you seen my voice?”

“Ugh.”

Puzzled: “It’s about this round,” he said, forming his hand and fingers into the shape of a telescope’s eyepiece.

“Ugh.”

Puzzled: “Like this,” he repeated.

“You’re really trying my nerves, sir. You’re completely led astray. That other establishment will tend to your needs. Let us be. Can’t you see this woman needs to pay for that half pound bag of tardigrades? Follow the candles. They’ll lead you back to where you want to be, where you need to be. Soon you’ll have all 7’s and 11’s in your eyes.”

“But I’ve lost the pair of platinum scissors that are required to cut the green ribbon around the temple on the mountain. I need to purchase them here. I was here, I was just here. They were here next to the quartz skulls.”

“That other place, the cesspool you speak of, is on the other side of the river near the three bear caves and the recycling plant. When you arrive, look up, and you’ll see not a flagpole with a flag, but a flagpole with a moustache made of pubic hair that tickles the sky each day at noon.”

Puzzled:

“It’s ok to laugh, partner. I’ve been laughing since I first heard that stink pile.”

“But my jeweler’s loupe?”

“Who cares about your jeweler’s loupe.”

“But my jeweler’s loupe! It’s important to me.”

“And what about my rent, friend? Will you cover my rent when I’m fired from this twenty-four-hour nightmare? These burning lamps, that horrific oven over there rotating flesh? Will you? Will you stack those bags of sugar? Will you braid these breads? Will you pour nacho cheese over endless piles of tortilla chips? Have you ever heard of orange lung? What about cheesy lung? Does dairy diaphragm, ring a bell? Will you sell scratch offs ad infinitum to the itchy troupes of night?”

“But my jeweler’s loupe.”

“But his jeweler’s loupe, he says. It’ll always be about you. As a matter of fact, I remember when you couldn’t let the Slurpee campaign go. One free, small Slurpee with the purchase of two hot dogs. That was the deal. Everyone knew it, but you insisted that one could substitute, mix and match, the details provided room for interpretation, you argued, and you asked for my manager. I told you my manager flew home to see his mother in Burgundy. But you wouldn’t leave until you spoke with a manager. I called the sheriff’s office and asked her to deputize me, but sheriff, Marina, laughed on the phone, saying with shady records like mine, she just couldn’t. She urged me to pepper spray you like a plump, ripe tomato and everything would be fine, a-ok, she said, and I said I couldn’t do that, who could do such a thing, I asked her. Violence is in direct conflict with my inner constitution, one that’s purpose is to live and inspire life, so we hung up, and I called my manager, but Henry didn’t answer, and you led the customers in a three-day boycott. The hot dogs burned in the oven. The buns grew mold, but you didn’t care, did you? It’s all about you, friend. You seem to think that the entire convenience store phenomenon is like some kind of nervous system birthed to accommodate you.”

Puzzled: “I need to recover the plain-clothed window washer seventy-five floors in the sky! I was here just a week ago and have my receipt. You see?” He pulls out a wrinkled receipt from a satchel.

“I can’t see, sir. I’m blindfolded. You’ve made me blindfold myself. You see? I can no longer see you nor any of this travesty happening before my eyes. Now I’m sticking these frozen mozzarella sticks into my ears so I can’t hear you either.” He stands upright. Raises his arms as if demonstrating that everything is beyond his control. “This kind customer gave me his favorite handkerchief and now I’m enraptured by all of the darkness he has to offer me. Thank you, stranger. What’s that? I can’t hear you. Mozzarella, it appears, has a 98-degree threshold before it begins to melt and cover the window panes of my psyche like a blanket of snow. Troublemaker, make sure Handkerchief Provider doesn’t leave without paying for those saladitos and energy drinks. I saw it all. This isn’t amateur hour, Handkerchief Provider. After all, anarchy’s most often conceived of in broad and sober daylight is what my mother always used to say.”

Handkerchief Provider leaves the store with a pack of saladitos and three energy drinks without paying.

Puzzled: “These lights, ah, these lights. I remember the way they shone just like the way they do tonight. The ambient lighting! The task lighting and accent lighting! The decorative lighting! How beautiful the windowpanes of us covered in a blanket of snow.” He drops his arms to his side and inhales as if the atmosphere has turned suddenly to powdered sugar.

“What colors are they? This damn blindfold has—”

“Like the northern lights, I’d argue. Like the goddamn northern lights of me! Long streaks slipping across sky’s time, friend, just like the watercolor I drew for you six years ago alive now on your skin as I speak, like the northern lights, you see?”

“I see. That was beautiful, wasn’t it? Fanning streaks across my skin. Wait a minute, now I’m actually beginning to see. This blindfold is a window into some kind of dream, and you’re here, and I’m here. Wait, there’s your jeweler’s loupe. I see it! Isn’t that something, I actually see it. There’s your sick gazelle drinking water and whistling a tune. There is the window washer working seventy-five floors in the sky standing proudly in the palm of my hand. And there are the platinum scissors. The quartz skulls. Your voice is there suddenly, like a minister of confection. And, holy, holy, there’s the snow light. I’ve found them, and I can’t believe I’ve found them, and here’s my nametag bedazzled with brightly colored indica seeds. I see. I see now I am the woman in red, orange, and green…I wear red, orange, and green…” In disbelief, “Une pluie of red, orange, and green water-colored and brightly visible beneath the northern lights.”