Beast Rider: Chapters 16–28

In this place there is a fragrance of incense and the whispers of all the faithful who have ever entered.

Lapped by the prayers of years, we sit in silence.

In this moment I am overwhelmed by all that has befallen me—and him.

We do not dwell upon The Beast. Too well we both know that story.

This octopus is so ugly, it is a bit simpático. From one, on we go, for two, three, and the rest. These tentacles they are rubbery and sometimes slip out of my hand.

Toño is a magnificent teacher and brother. “Magnificent” is one of my English words and I am proud of it.

So far some of the words are: “hover,” “flamboyant,” “swoop,” “rind,” “trophy,” “yikes,” “stupendous,” “cheese,” “wyvern.”

Like I said, I am a day guy. Toño is nocturnal (word-of-the-day).

I say nothing, but the hot water hurts my hand. After all this time the scar is still tender.

Trauma del tren, train trauma, that is what Toño says that I have, over these long months with him. Train trauma. Upness, downness, sadness, madness, all-over-the-placeness. These feelings are ever there, like a rat gnawing at the edges of my spirit.

This work, it seems not to be about dirt and flowers at all. It is chopping down—with machetes—a tree of huge tallness. An eucalipto. A monstruo. “Stupendous” I can use after all.

The lady and us, we settle upon a price. It is cheap, but what can Lorenzo and I do? We need the work, so we are stuck. The tree lady knows this. I bet there is a big smirk down somewhere in place of her heart.

This monster looms close to the casa, very close.

Here we are, two guys from far places, whacking at a tree we hold nothing against, for a hard lady who cares for nobody but her own face-stretched self, about to plunge to our deaths. Suddenly we both spurt forth with laughs—petrified ones.

We are up here like eagles with no aeries (word-of-the-day)—and no wings.

Between Lorenzo and me this work takes some days, in which we are sweating and covered in wood chips and leaves, grazed by falling limbs and always overcome and reeking reeking with the eucalipto smell like medicine.

As if it is not hard enough, the lady of the tree is so stingy she does not offer food, she does not offer water.

I think about things that I like to do, my mind rambling over my years.

It is all clangings and bangings as tiles are spat out by big machineries onto what is called a conveyor belt.

Sometimes he just barges up to somebody and swats a tile from his hand, shattering it on purpose.

I do not care what time it is. I care about talking with Cejas. But I now slow down, going for nonchalance.

I cannot ignore a bow. Among many things, Abue and Papi have taught me courtesy.

Always a bit ceremonious, he is the kind of person who causes you to use his full complete name.

Shards of broken-bottle glass tumble down down in slow motion through the vision I have had.

One shard is etched with a machete blade. Another with a brand, a horned B.

“By all means,” he says with a slight bow and poses like an old-fashioned gentleman, stiff and somber but with a twinkle hiding somewhere close.

“A good likeness,” says Mr. James Ito in a satisfied way.

Maybe Mr. James Ito has come to guide me in place of Abue and Papi. With his many years like the rings of a tree, his many wrinkles, his life crosses mine to give his many wisdoms. He is a sage. (Word-of-the-day.)

The picture at once gives me a pang for home.

“You made it this way?”
“I did.” No pride. Only truth. His speech is as spare as his home.

The Angels is all flashy and big. Big cars. Big buildings. Big signs.

“Yes,” muses Mr. James Ito looking off into somewhere far away.

This corn is struggling to grow through a crack in the sidewalk. It is stunted. Short.

Above him, the wide sweep of sky is spangled with stars.

The young man ruffles the big bucket head, holds the old dog close to his breast.