“Readying to bury your father and your mother//what did you think when you lost another…”

Another October afternoon, another deluge I get caught on. My fave umbrella broke 4 years ago, and I haven’t bothered buying a new one. That one was a gift from my aunt Tatay, who bought it for me at this hoity-toity umbrella shop in London. Be as that may, the poor umbrella gave up the ghost on a windy rain afternoon in ’92, on my first semester of high school.

I gave up fighting the inevitability of rain, and actually enjoyed getting drenched like a motherfucking sardine any time. Mexico City is so hot and dry, I actually appreciate the rain. Helps me get my caps washed too, and today it’s the turn of my Charlotte Hornets cap.  I bought it in late ’93 at Macallito, in Tampico. Macallito is a place where “fayuca” is sold, which is imported goods that weren’t available anywhere in Mexico, like videogames, clothes, candy, and toys. The last series of GI Joe toys I bought there for peanuts, and I used to save any money before a trip to Tampico and acquire the action figures no one in Mexico City could sell due to tariffs.

A car approaches and I’m ready for getting splashed. It’s a knack, keeping your notebooks and calculator dry. You see, you allow your backpack to get drenched, that’s what it’s for. But your personal stuff? Carry a grocery bag, the thicker the better, and wrap up before venturing into rain.

So, big rain, October of ’96, walking by myself listening to music in well-protected earphones and walkman. Then I hear a loud claxon. It’s a blue VW beetle. Cream blue, to be exact. It’s Theresa. She holds the door, the rain making her brown and cream 70s style sweater a little soggy. I rush in, as Michael Stipe’s vocals swell while he belts “ooooh sweetness follows”.

-Howdy stranger. Guess I’m right on time. Again.

I wipe my eyebrows with an already soaked sleeve. She smiles and hands me a handkerchief she had on the glove compartment. It smells of lilies and magnolias, or any violet purple flower that has a nice smell. I’m useless with garden stuff.

She clears her throat. I let my walkman out of its protective coating (another grocery bag) and hand over the tape. She recognises the song, and rewinds, with good old trial and error to test where the song is. She rewinds too far, and it’s Hummer by Smashing Pumpkins. She scowls, fakes gagging, and forwards until that distorted cello starts.

-R.E.M. Now that’s real music.

The volkswagen roars like a wheezing lawn mower. I fake sing:

-readying to bury your cream blue beetle…

She notices my grinning, scoffs and steps on the pedal and the car is this close to roll up and die.

-How can this fucking song be so soothing but depressing- her index fingers drumming lightly.

-The magic of R.E.M., I guess?

-I mean, the guy’s an orphan now and still keeps a good attitude.

-It’s one way to deal with it, I guess. The protagonist of the song is sorrowful, but there should be an upside.

-What? Like an inheritance?

-I dunno if that’s the sweetness it harks upon!

-Jesus, Sam, talk like a fucking human for once, will ya? I’m this close of ditching you near Club de Golf, see how you describe that with your ten dollar words.

-Don’t blame the player, Tere.

-Sure, buddy boy.

We get stuck in traffic near Burger King in Arboledas. I’d wish I had some dosh and have a burger with her, but alas, we’re just a couple of uni students, strapped for cash. She, alone with her aunt in this unforgiving city, me, a financially irresponsible peon with a music addiction. We’re lucky if we can make it to the end of the week.

-How’s the parents?

-Doing okay, thanks. How’s your mom?

-Doing her best with life in la bella airosa, think I might visit this weekend.

-Send my regards!

-Yup.

We barely move and the traffic light switches to red again. A stir of horns and bad words are aimed at cars half blocking the street as they couldn’t wait their turn. Gridlock and rain, like peas and carrots. Theresa rewinds the song and it starts again. Is that a tear on her eye? She never speaks of her dad. The only time was to assure me she didn’t have one, and didn’t need one. I never asked again.

-I had this terrible nightmare the other day.

-Oh?

-I’ve been sleeping in my brother’s room because my windows are being replaced. So I had this very vivid dream of hearing my dad choking and me seeing him from my bed. I can’t move due to the horror of it all, and he walks almost like crouching, hacking and wheezing harder as he moves, and the he keels over and dies.

-Jesus fucking christ, buddy boy!

-And I woke up in the exact same pose as in the dream, and my dad was just walking back to his room, with a glass of milk as he was reading some damn Tom Clancy book. I didn’t tell him anything.

-Did you hug him?

-No, he doesn’t like hugs. He doesn’t show any feelings at all towards anyone except my mum.

-How come?

-Bad memories of his family. He never opens up because of how they treated him.

-Man, that sucks.

Theresa manages to squeeze by and barely makes it as the amber light switches to red.

-So, what’s your excuse?

-Sorry?

-To be distant and kinda cold.

-I’m not!

She looks at me below her black and scarlet red wavy hair. Her eyebrow arching behind the fake gold-plated glasses.

-I just…don’t want to intrude in people’s personal spaces, ya know?

-People might take it as you don’t like them, dude.

-I’m trying, I’m just dealing with stuff from junior high school.

-Still?

-Yeah, it’s a long road.

-How you getting it out of the way?

-Writing as usual. I started in ’94. It kept me awake at night and I had these daily planners with nothing but ideas, ramblings, and the odd confessional.

-Oh, dishy. Can I read them one day?

-Sure, just don’t judge.

-Buddy boy, you don’t know half of my story.

-And yet you ask me to be more open?

-Asking you to do what I can’t, Sam. Changing what I can’t, I guess-she sighs.

-Like taking a photo together?

-Don’t push it, mister.

-It’s all good. We’ll remember what we have to and forget what we don’t.

-One day, buddy boy, one day. Let me deal with my own stuff too.

-No rush. Sorry, I think I was pushy.

-Don’t worry, buddy boy, you said it. Long road to recovery.

She slowed down as we approach the bus stop near Valle Dorado. I thank her for the ride and wave goodbye. She waits for me to get into the bus and she fades into the heavy rain, the roaring of the cream blue volkswagen beetle intertwining with Peter Buck’s feedback solo.

-Sam J. Valdés López