I nodded to acknowledge them and went out the door, and when I came back after reassuring myself that my bike was intact, unticketed, and still where I’d left it, they were all staring at me.
“Come and eat, son,” said Jim.
“Cooper,” I said. I could see their eyes taking in my body with its webs of scars, tattoos, and the crisscross of whip marks like the faintest white fractures on flesh-toned earth. In the old days, I would’ve flashed an unrepentant grin, but these days I couldn’t keep my eyes above anyone’s knees to save my life.
“This is Alfred, my partner,” said Jim, referring to an attractive man in his late thirties who looked at me with curious hazel eyes.
I held my hand out for him. “I’m just passing through,” I said warily.
“Okay,” he said, holding my hand in both of his and giving it an extra pat. “Have breakfast with us.” He repeated Jim’s invitation.
“Thank you. Let me get dressed,” I said, but there were murmurs around the table.
St. Nacho’s
5
“Don’t bother dressing for us. Most of us are admiring the scenery.” Jim winked.
I grimaced. “Lotta mileage.” They smiled back.
It was a pleasure to sit down and eat, and the food was melt-in-your-mouth perfect.
Thick, chewy homemade tortillas with pork carnitas, shoulder meat cooked in lard and spices until it was fall-apart delicious. Chunky salsa that defined the perfect balance between flavor and heat. Rice and beans any Mexican grandmother would kill to put on the table. Jim introduced me to Oscar and Tomas, who were apparently the cooks responsible, and I let them know how good I thought their food was. They seemed to swell with pride.
Someone passed me a big glass pitcher of what I thought was Bloody Mary so I started to pass it along when Jim said, “It’s mix; there’s no alcohol in it. I just like it with breakfast.” I smiled to acknowledge his thoughtfulness, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about everyone at the table knowing I didn’t drink. Often that presented its own kind of challenge, particularly with men who didn’t like to drink alone.
I looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention to the exchange between Jim and me, so I took the pitcher and filled a glass. I took a big swallow and it fucking blew my head off, the Tabasco flavor enhanced by a smoky burst of what could only be habanero pepper. Aw, shit, I was in tears, my face was probably red, and I couldn’t breathe for a second. I fucking loved it. Culinary thrill seeking was one of the few avenues of harmless adventure open to me, and wherever I ended up these days, I found ways to indulge myself.
A hand pounded on my back, and several of the men laughed.
They stopped laughing when they saw that I had no qualms about continuing to drink it, and then laughed even louder when I offered to suck them off so they could feel the burn for themselves, which earned me a mild reproof from Jim, who apparently had fiery firsthand experience with that very thing. When everyone stopped laughing, he leaned over to talk quietly to me.
“So, are you going to stick around Santo Ignacio for a while?” he asked.
I said, “I haven’t thought about it. I was just passing through, but it seems…nice here.” I didn’t want to appear too eager. It was nice in Santo Ignacio, and I’d felt something here, both in this town and in this bar since the day before that I hadn’t felt for a while.
Acceptance, maybe, or simply peace.
“I can always use a hand around here in return for room and board,” said Jim. “And if you play that violin, you could probably get tips. Summer’s coming, and we get tourists.
There’s usually street performers on the boardwalk, and no law on the books as long as you’re not out-and-out panhandling.”
I thought about it. “Yeah. That might be…I could do that. What kind of help do you need around here? I’ve waited tables, cleaned, bounced. I’d prefer to avoid bartending.” I knew how that sounded. Like I could be tempted. It wasn’t that. The smell of hard alcohol makes me sicker than a pig, and to have drunks breathing on me… I couldn’t do it.
6 Z. A. Maxfield
“I understand,” Jim said. No, he surely did not, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “Actually, I could use a waiter sometimes -- and someone to see that Oscar and Tomas don’t kill each other. Do you have any experience in the kitchen?” Did I ever. “Yes,” I said. “I’m good with a knife.” Oscar and Tomas exchanged glances.
“Kitchen skills,” I clarified. “Slice, dice, chop…food prep basics.” They nodded, relieved.
“Good,” said Jim. “I won’t have to cut up all that crap for the bar.” He’d made up his mind, even though I had yet to make up mine.
After breakfast, I prepared to start my first day of earning my keep. At the time, I knew I was willing to give it three days. I rarely stayed anywhere longer than that. Three days was always enough to know that I hadn’t run far or fast enough and that my past was only minutes from catching up with me.
I called down the stairs and asked Jim if it would be okay for me to practice my violin.
He said sure, the bar didn’t open for about an hour, and if I knew any mariachi-style music I should be sure and drag it out. I knew “Las Mañanitas,” “Cielito Lindo,” “De Colores,” and
“La Bamba.” In a pinch, I could listen to a CD and learn to play more. I pulled my violin out of its case, reacquainting myself with its heft and the feel of it against my skin. It had been almost a week, and like a lover, I held it for a while, tuning it up before I began to make it sing for me.
As soon as I began, I had the deep desire to descend, down the stairs, down to the basement if there was one, to play as deep inside the earth as I could, but I made myself get to work. I never let it fully rip anymore unless there wasn’t another living soul around to hear me. I played gently, even sedately, where once I’d played as if possessed, until my teachers teased that my strings would catch fire.
This was the greatest of all my crimes, and every time I played I felt retribution on my neck like a breath. I had been given a real and apparently lasting gift by the gods, and I had thrown it away. Even though I carried my violin everywhere, it was only a reminder of what could have been. My fingers flew through the first of what would be a number of exercises, followed by classical pieces, followed by mariachi songs.
If I’d lost my gift, it would have been justice. If I’d lost my soul, my guilt would no longer haunt me. I still had both of those. I’d simply lost my humanity and everything else along with it that ever meant a shred of anything to me. And Santo Ignacio was as good a place as any to wallow in the knowledge of that.
St. Nacho’s
7
Chapter Two
I went down the stairs that afternoon at five, as requested, to do whatever was required of me. Room and board. That was an answer to a prayer because even for a drifter like me, the road can feel long at times. I got to park my bike behind the bar and offload some more small things. I knew where I could find a coin-operated laundry.
Home sweet home.
I was asked to man the kitchen knives, the broom, the mop, the coffeemaker, the toilet brushes, and the hose out back when anyone puked. Simple enough. I would do this for four hours, and then if I chose, I could set up a tip jar and play mariachi music or whatever else I liked for the customers until ten, when the kitchen closed for everything but nachos and a DJ played dance music. On the weekends, I was to work the brunch crowds with music, and then take up my knives and cleaning tools, reversing the order.
Privately I believed it was merely a tacit way for Jim, the owner, to help me out. He didn’t need me, which probably made me determined to be all the more useful. I was removing two rather large bags of trash when I literally bumped into the beautiful golden-eyed boy who’d served me coffee the night before. I apologized and murmured something inane, and he smiled at me with his expressive, open face, but said nothing. Later that evening, I was collecting the ashtrays from the patio for washing when I saw him yank his arm away from a customer.
Glancing sideways so he couldn’t tell, I watched as he picked up some plates and placed them in one of those industrial gray tubs universal to busboys everywhere. He was collecting silverware and napkins and trash and moving from table to table wiping each down when the grabby drunk lurched up to follow him. What followed was some awkward thrashing and almost pushing that had me moving toward them. To catch his balance, the busboy had to drop the tub, and plates shattered on the concrete patio floor.
8 Z. A. Maxfield
I cursed myself even as I began helping the boy pick up his shit. I had the broom out already because I was planning to sweep the patio after I got the ashtrays, and I used it to clean up the mess. As I was trying to get the smaller chunks of shattered porcelain I said,
“I’m sorry. I’ll help you clean this up. I saw that asshole bothering you; are you all right?” The boy said nothing, just concentrated on picking up the silverware, scraping the bits of food off the concrete into his hands. I worried that he would cut himself.
“Here,” I said slightly louder. “I’ll get that, you go on ahead. I don’t want you cut.”
“Don’t bother,” said the man who caused the trouble in the first place. “It’s not like he can hear you.” The guy seemed to think this was funny and nudged his companion again.
Fucking drunks. I’d been their patron fucking saint and I still couldn’t get over how much I loathed them.
“What?” I asked, though I did it politely, which was a stretch.
“He’s deaf, you asshole.” Amber Eyes picked up the tub and left, not looking back.
Well. When a cosmic joke like that comes your way, you have to laugh. Amber Eyes was probably the first guy in three years who I saw in color, and he was deaf. And me? The only human language I had anymore was music.
* * * * *
I put the trash I’d collected off the patio floor into one of the big bins. It wasn’t half full, so I didn’t need to empty it yet. I was putting the broom and dustpan away when a hand came down on my shoulder. I turned to find the busboy there.
He was taller than me, which surprised me, but I didn’t know why. Lots of people are taller than me. I’m not very big at five feet ten. Where I have muscles, partly because I used to play a lot of sports and partly because I burn off energy by exercising whenever I can’t sleep -- which is all the time -- I was bulkier. Because of that I’d kind of assumed, from a distance, that I would be bigger. He was tall enough that I had to look up to see into those eyes, and right then they were just looking at me, with nothing in them.
“Thank you for helping me,” he said, using the most utterly unmusical voice I’d ever heard and his hands. It was as if he couldn’t talk without using both. Couldn’t or wouldn’t. I detected a hint of something defiant in the way he looked at me.
“You’re welcome,” I said. My turn to leave. Whatever the hell else I was getting into here, I didn’t want to get into this.
A hand caught my shoulder and he turned me around, his grip surprisingly strong for such a slender man. “My name is Shawn,” he signed and said.
“Cooper,” I said, and already I was doing that careful thing, talking louder, exaggerating my pronunciation, and I hated myself for it.
“Hooper?” he asked, his fine eyes curious under a V of furrowed brows.
St. Nacho’s
9
“Cooper,” I said. I made a C with my hand because, yeah, I knew what a C looked like if I thought about it.
He nodded. “Cooper.” Then smiled. Oh shit, he had a smile that…dazzled. I turned away and this time he didn’t pull me back.
After I finished cutting up the rest of the bar fruit, I was free to play my violin for tips.
I didn’t kid myself as I walked up the stairs to my room to clean up. The men downstairs eating nachos would rather be watching the ballgame. In the restaurant part of the bar, there were a few couples eating at tables. If it sucked, and if everything went to hell, I could always play on the boardwalk on the weekend and make enough to get to the next town.
The secret of my success was substantially lowered expectation.
I rosined up my bow, a ritual of sorts for me, as I scanned the smallish crowd. Jim turned off the overhead music, but the television over the bar still played the game. I began by playing “Las Mañanitas” for a man who was having a birthday party. His friends and the waiters sang; even Oscar came out to do the honors. After that, I passed a pleasant enough hour wandering between the restaurant, bar, and patio until it was time to push back the tables and set up a makeshift dance floor. I wasn’t even sure that was legal, but here in St.
Nacho’s, as everyone in the bar referred to the town, rules didn’t seem to have the bite they did in the world beyond.
Already I found myself slowing down to the pace of this sleepy town. I wondered how it was during summer, or even on weekends. I hadn’t wondered about a town in a long time.
Mostly, I just wanted to move on. I made close to twenty-five bucks in tips, and since I didn’t have to pay for room and board, I felt rich.
Over and over I told myself not to sweat the details. The guy with the warm brown eyes was just a guy, and this was just another gig. In three days, four tops, I’d be heading out again. But then I got to know Jim and his lover, Alfred, pretty well the next day over breakfast. It turned out Alfred played the cello, and we bonded over being orchestra geeks in high school. That I didn’t mention fucking up Juilliard wasn’t really lying, I told myself; it was just that it was a long story, a long time ago, and it always went a long way toward ruining any relationship I had with serious musicians. It gets tiresome hearing that I’m too stupid to live.
Mostly I enjoyed my second day in the kitchen with Oscar and Tomas. They worked seamlessly together and still managed to argue the entire time. Tomas inexplicably called Oscar precioso snidely when he was angry, and just as strangely Oscar called Tomas pendejo when he felt tender toward him.
They gestured threateningly at each other all day long with big spoons because on my first day I’d hidden their chef’s knives. They were quirky and worked well with each other, and the third morning I was there they made chilaquiles that were so good I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I realized that morning that most of the people who worked at Nacho’s ate breakfast there at around one in the afternoon, except for Shawn, the busboy, because he 10 Z. A. Maxfield