Montara

Cast a wide net

It’s hard to tell time this close to the sea, it’s always grey and misty here, like the sun is camera-shy. I don’t wear a watch, watches remind me of old men, like Papa, but my iPhone is close. Papa taught me the sea and the ocean are the same thing, it’s all the same body of water. I don’t go to school, we’re always on the road, moving. I’m never in one place long enough to see my shadow. Papa wears a watch. Papa’s old, Mama’s not as old as him. Today I’m wearing sandals, no socks, basketball shorts, my Yosemite National Park T-shirt, a surfer bracelet of gold and orange string, and a handmade necklace Mama made especially for me from a silver chain, white-cubed letters NICO gathered at the bottom of the chain, the edges of each cube rounded, babyproof. I do not look like the second coming, only an eleven-year-old seated at a folding sales table, Mama inside the camper, out of sight but within earshot, a word Papa taught me, my pair of black Old Skool Vans Mama found at Goodwill for fifteen dollars stowed inside the camper, under the dining room table, Mama likely reading a book, one of her silly books, as Papa calls them, paperbacks with garish covers, Papa down at the beach, talking with a young couple who look like hippies, the boy with long dark hair, as long as his girlfriend’s, the girl wearing shorts and a T-shirt with an orange and yellow flower on it, the print so large it nearly covers her breasts. The boy is bare-chested, cargo shorts dipping below his belly button. I watch closely as Papa gathers them around him, Papa shirtless, like the young man, his big belly hanging over a pair of shorts, his long grey hair cinched in a careless ponytail with one of the hair ties Mama made for him, leather cord with beads strung along it, Morse code hair, sweeping the beach with his metal detector that always seems to gather a small audience, especially aimless young men, young men who dream of getting rich quick, Papa’s words, not mine, Papa saying it’s always the hungriest fish who tug hardest on the line, the young woman laughing, briefly touching Papa’s arm, his free arm, and I can tell the young man is asking Papa about the metal detector, Papa demoing how to sweep the wand to find dinner and a hotel room, the young man laughing, stepping further into Papa’s net. I watch Papa place the band over the young man’s forearm, guiding him, sweeping the wand above the sand, the young man laughing, almost girlish, his girlfriend at his side, screaming with joy. I am not jealous, I’m grateful for the distraction, the lessons temporarily halted, the traveling tin can school on hiatus. I am, briefly, only a boy. How much is this one, a young girl asks, her mother at her side. Fifteen dollars. Isn’t that a bit much, the girl’s mother says. I don’t make the prices, my mom does. Mommy, I want it, please! I already know, within this small moment, this brief exchange, that the girl will get what she wants, likely always gets what she wants. The woman, in apricot shorts and a white Grand Canyon T-shirt, a tourist, brings her handbag to her face, its mouth already yawning Yes to the girl’s demonstrations. I open my white legs slightly wider, like Papa taught me, and lean forward, my eyes concentrated on the woman’s forehead, my mouth slightly parted, carved marble, the look Papa taught me to adopt when someone is about to part with money. Like you’re about to come, Papa said. David, please, Mama said, laughing. Like what? Never mind, son, you’ll know soon enough. I didn’t have to guess, I suspected what he meant, a thing between adults I didn’t understand. White teeth, pink tongue, parking-lot toes in sandals, my attention on the girl’s mother the entire time. I only have twenty. Do you have change? No ma’am, standing up, patting my pockets, then palms out, truth teller. Papa and the young couple are approaching. I can tell Papa is trawling his quarry slowly behind him while I conduct business, holding back, the young man still carrying the metal detector. Oh well, keep it all. You’re a good salesman, the woman says, laughing. But I’m sure you know that already. How old are you? Thirteen. Thirteen? You’re very small for thirteen. I momentarily turn my back to her, bending towards the asphalt, fishing a small plastic bag from Mama’s tackle box under the table, careful to shield the money housed in the tackle box with my body. I can feel the woman’s eyes on my back, my legs, her eyes inventorying my sand-rubbed feet. I ask Mama repeatedly for a pair of Birkenstocks, tired of my cheap plastic Jesus sandals. The next time we’re in a real store, Nico, we’ll buy you a pair of Birkenstocks—I promise. I am still waiting. I straighten my back, carefully placing the girl’s newly acquired necklace in a plastic THANK YOU bag, Mama bought a box of them from Amazon, parcel lockers perfect for the traveling homeless. Thank you, the girl says as I hand it to her. Thank you, Mommy! I watch the woman and the girl disappear as Papa nods, the young couple soft-coated puppies lagging behind him. I remain standing, quickly slipping the twenty in my right-hand pocket, my iPhone in my left. I will place the money in Mama’s pink Wakeman tackle box once the young couple is out of sight. Papa gestures a hand towards me. I am grateful to leave the sales table, bored with it already. This is my son, Nico. I approach the girl first, as Papa taught me, and shake her hand. She shakes my hand, then hugs me, fully and openly, without hesitation, so I hug her back. You’re very tall for your age, Nico, the girl says, negating the old woman from a moment ago. Almost as tall as me! Your daddy tells me you’re eleven years old. Yes, I just turned eleven a few weeks ago! Eleven, oh my goodness, the girl says. You are such a handsome young man! My mom says I’m four foot nine, she measures me every two weeks. Nico, this is Gabriela and Mateo, they’re from Brazil, Papa says. Call me Gabby, Nico, Gabriela says (laughing). I’m only five one so I’m not much taller than you, but unlike you I won’t be growing anymore (laughing). Nico, you better let her go or Mateo is gonna get jealous, Papa says, but Mateo is only laughing, not threatened at all. I move towards him and hug him, not bothering with a handshake, figuring Gabriela and Mateo are both huggers. He hugs me back, tight, a bear crimp, the top of my skull a thumb and index from his chin, bank robbery gun, maybe three inches from his jawbone, my face pressed against his warm skin, his corkscrew nipple hair, forbidden, something I shouldn’t see during daylight hours, his entire body very male, a nighttime body. I pull away only when Papa says you two must’ve known each other in another life, Mateo laughing, maybe. Maria, we have guests, Papa says to the camper door. The door opens and Mama steps out and down onto the step, smiling. Hello! Hello! the Brazilians returning Mama’s greeting in Spanish. Do you speak Portuguese? Oh no, sorry I don’t, Mama says (lying). It’s okay, Mateo says, we kinda speak English (laughing). Me too, Mama says, and now they are all laughing. Papa, who speaks Spanish and Portuguese, does not answer in Portuguese, only in English, and Mama knows better than to let on. Papa has been to Spain, Portugal, Florida, Texas, Mexico, and Arizona, all on the kindness of others, but now we are here in California. The beach closes at sunset, my friends, which will be very soon, Papa says, looking at a watch that isn’t there. Have you eaten? No sir, Mateo says. There is a nice McDonald’s with a very forgiving parking lot about four miles up the road in Pacifica, Papa says. It’s very American, which is terrible, but it’s also inexpensive. Gabby and Mateo laugh at Papa’s silliness. Would you like to join us, my friends? Maria and Nico and I would be very delighted to have you join us for an early dinner. Gabby minutely nods her head at Mateo, who then says yes, of course. Papa says something to them in Portuguese. Gabby, nervously pulling at her hair, pretending to be embarrassed, dipping in almost a curtsy, like she’s really old-fashioned, but I know she isn’t, she’s very here and very now. They both are. We must drive there, friends. Do you have a car? Oh no, Mateo says, we are backpacking—how do they say—hitchhiking—through your country, we have no car. This is not my country, Mateo, this is the Devil’s country. Oh, we are so sorry, we didn’t mean anything by it. It’s more than alright, God is very forgiving. Gabby, would you like to join me and Nico in the cab? Maria and Mateo can ride in the camper. Oh yes! Gabby says, her arm around me, a big sister to a little brother who is not much shorter than her. Shall we retire to the road, Papa asks, guiding Mateo to the door of the camper while me and Gabby move towards the passenger-side door of the old Ford truck. I open the door for her, a perfect gentleman, and she scoots across the bench seat next to Papa. I close the door and push down on the door lock knob with my elbow. I have to be careful when I do it because the smooth anti-theft door lock knobs can pinch the skin. To our left, the darkness of the ocean, a black expanse of terrifying nothingness, the lights of Pacifica only the warm, suggestive glow of the weak bulbs of Papa’s headlights, Papa forever ranting against the evils of LED, the Devil’s Eyes, Papa calls them. Papa and Gabby converse in Portuguese, leaving me out. Did they greet each other in Portuguese? They must have at some point, maybe when they were down on the beach … The metal door of the old Ford truck protects me from the ocean, the water threatening to consume me, vast and unseen and ever-present. I can hear it, but I can’t see it, which makes it even more frightening. Death is all around us.

McDonald’s

Papa pulls into the McDonald’s entrance, but drives past it, crossing the threshold of a bank parking lot, the same lot we slept in the previous evening. Papa parks our old Ford truck with the cab-over camper next to a slatted wooden fence. Palm trees dot the sky like green Q-tips, the green mountains behind them sleeping bears. This is the gloaming hour, young lady. I’m sorry, I don’t know that word. It’s a fancy way of saying dusk, Papa says, laughing. Mama and Mateo are on the asphalt waiting for us. Shall we walk together, Papa asks, his right hand dramatically ushering us towards dinner. A lot of people scoff at the McDonald’s Corporation, but lots of American families eat here. There’s nothing wrong with a decent meal at a fair price, Papa says, if you don’t mind a little heartbreak with a dash of indigestion, opening the door for Mama and Gabby. We are very happy to join you, Mateo says, Papa’s denouncement of capitalism lost on them, Mateo somehow magically having produced a shirt on his back, a hibiscus T-shirt with HAWAII emblazoned across the chest. Papa also has a T-shirt on, his old Bob Seger tour shirt that he keeps on a hook near the headliner of the driver’s-side door. One must always be prepared, Nico. We look slightly above homeless. I follow Mateo into the restaurant, Papa closing the door behind us. Mama, Gabby, Mateo, me, then Papa. Papa is the last in line because he’s paying. We order dinner as we did a few nights before, or was it last night? Time is very hard to keep track of when you live on the road. I don’t wear a watch because I don’t care what time it is. If I don’t know what time it is, how can I die?

Dinner with strangers

Does Nico go to school? Gabby asks Papa. An innocent question, perhaps, but why does she ask him and not me? Why does she want to know about me? I am nothing, an empty vessel, as Papa has reminded me several times. You are an empty vessel, my son. If I could, I’d slice the top of your head off with a SAWZALL and pour everything inside me into you. I only adopted you to stuff my ideas into you, winking as he says it. Because people always trust the fresh-faced young. And always smiling while saying it. Oh yes, he goes to school. The road is his school, the beach is his playground, the light from the sun is his enlightenment. We are traveling scholars, my dear. The Lord is our teacher. Do you know our Lord, Jesus Christ? Of course, Gabby laughs, we are both Catholic. I won’t hold that against you, Papa says, laughing, patting Gabby’s leg with his hand. His hand lingers on her knee for a moment longer than I can stand, so I look away. I know where this is going. It always does. Are you Catholic, Gabby asks Papa. Papa stares into her eyes as if there is nothing else in the universe. A trick he taught me long ago. Use it, my son, especially when people are about to hand you money or take off their clothes. This conversation is best held outside, in nature, my dear, not indoors surrounded by plastic. I lift the polished shell of my hamburger bun and pop the sickly pickle slices into my mouth one at a time, remembering Papa’s admonition not to display greed and to eat like a proper gentleman, especially around girls and women. I forget myself for a moment and suck the mustard from my fingertips. What part of Brazil are you from, Papa asks Mateo. We’re from Campinas. That’s near São Paulo, yes? Yes! Mateo, excited that someone from the States knows his country, moves slightly forward in his seat. Do you know it? I have been to Brazil, my friend. I’m wedged between Mama and Gabby, both of their elbows in my sides, though the table we sit at is long enough with plenty of space to avoid crowding, it’s like they don’t want me moving, like Mama is afraid I’ll get up and run for the door, or run to a stranger and ask for help, and Gabby seems to be feeding off Mama’s nervousness. I don’t know why she’s nervous, if I wanted to run, I could do it while I’m manning the sales table, as Papa calls it when I’m selling, I have plenty of chances while interacting with customers. Adults handling trinkets asking me are you okay, where are your parents, who made this stuff, shouldn’t you be in school, how old are you, where is your mother, are your parents close by, all questions I have been taught to answer minimally, with polite, noncommittal responses. I am only allowed to fully engage with people when I am preaching, when Papa fully expects people to place their hands on my body, all over my body, you are an antenna, my son, receiving interplanetary transmissions from a Divine power, transmitting the word of God to the masses, your voice is as pure as a jar of raw honey, of course they want to touch you, you are a handsome young man, how can they not? Mateo, now fully engaged with Papa while unselfconsciously stuffing French fries into his mouth, leans closer to Papa, as if spellbound or hard of hearing. I focus on Mateo’s mouth as he opens his lips to speak and closes them around another French fry, his teeth opalescent, the cilia of his boyish moustache, his lips an otherworldly starfish. Papa and Mateo speak to each other in Portuguese. I don’t know Portuguese, only English and Spanish. Mama is fluent in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, but she never speaks Spanish or Portuguese unless Papa allows her to—the less people know, the better, Papa says, slapping her on the butt, Papa’s easy familiarity with women displayed more times than I can count. Despite his age, Papa is a ladies’ man, they are naturally drawn to him. You open your mouth, a different language comes out, and people develop these ideas about you, usually incorrect, usually stupid. People are easily directed, they just need an oar, and you are the oar, my son. Your body is the oar, your tongue the rudder. Mateo is beyond excited now, Papa and Mateo speaking quickly in Portuguese, a language that sounds like French to my untrained ears, people eating the flesh of peaches under the stars with open mouths. It’s beautiful, but I have no idea what they are saying. Gabby looks at Papa in wonderment and awe, as if she’s seeing him for the very first time. I continue eating my fries, not paying any attention to the adults, bored with the whole thing, my fingertips pruney from greasy salt and sandpaper tongue. I watch Mama’s head dip hummingbird in agreement at something that is being said, yet she never lets on that she understands what Papa, Gabby, and Mateo are saying. When Mama occasionally interjects something in English, Papa looks at her in such a way that means shut up, the men are speaking. I hate when Papa does this, reducing Mama to nothing, but I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want his wrath upon me. I try disappearing whenever possible, keeping out of his way. There are times when he is very loving, perhaps too loving, but then other times, when he has been drinking, his words sting, hateful and quick—why are you shunning me, you’ve got your ass in the air again, you’re just like your mother, stop being a girl, don’t act like a little faggot, you’re a boy, remember? Act like one. When Papa isn’t working on our old truck or down at the beach, sweeping the sand for treasure, he is inside the camper, seated at the dinner table, writing on his laptop, his KJV and my NIV opened like a chest wound to Matthew 4:19. Papa is always writing. What are you writing, Papa? I’m simplifying the word of God for simple men, son. To be fishers of men, we must use clear, concise language, my child. These neutered queers wrapped in eveningwear can only catch little boys, not men. Waiting for a moment between Papa and Mateo, I quickly wedge a question between the two. May I wash my hands, Papa? I’m finished. Certainly, my son. He is so polite, Mateo says, touching my arm as I get up from the table, throwing my garbage into the receptacle near the restrooms. I sense Mateo’s sales table eyes on me, turning me over… how much is this one? At the counter, I ask the lady for the key to the restroom. When she hesitates, I violently jerk my head in the direction of the four adults seated at the table. Pick up here, mobile order and pay, try our desserts. When she sees she is like them, she hands me the key. I’m adopted I say to her back, and it is only when the words have left my mouth that I notice another woman hiding in the corner, near the pickup window, watching my every move, like I’m a hallucination.

Glowworm

Our hands cleaned, back in the cab, except it’s me and Mateo and Papa this time, Mama and Gabby are tucked inside the camper. On our way out of the parking lot, I wave to a boy and his mother headed towards their car. God bless you! The woman waves back, in total shock. I am next to the passenger door, my usual spot. Mateo is seated between me and Papa, in the middle of the bench seat, because when I opened the door, I pushed Mateo into the cab first, giggling, my hands on his lower back. He laughs and looks back at me, appearing much younger than his age, a child gift-wrapped in a man’s body. His legs are strong like horses. It is completely dark, the glowworm lights of Pacifica shrinking behind us. You said you don’t have an automobile, Mateo? That’s right, Papa. When Mateo calls him Papa, I know we have won. Do you and Gabby have a place to stay for the night? Oh yes, we’re staying at a hostel in Montara. We’re going there once the beach closes. Oh no, don’t do that, Papa says. Would you like to stay with us this evening? We would love your company, right Nico? Yes, Papa! We have cards and alcohol. Cards? Mateo asks. Gambling, Papa says, winking at Mateo. Oh yes, really? That would be great! You have room for us? Of course, Papa says, patting Mateo on the knee. In the dark, with only the sweep of light from the occasional passing car headed in the opposite direction to briefly illuminate the cab, I move imperceptibly closer to Mateo, until I feel the warmth of his leg against mine. We are both wearing shorts, Papa too. I study Mateo’s face, the dark stubble on his chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he speaks to Papa. I hold two fingers to my neck but it’s smooth as glass. How old are you? Oh Nico, much older than you think, my friend! I am twenty-three. Twenty-three? What about Gabby? She’s a year older than me, twenty-four! Ahh, so Gabby likes them younger, Papa says, laughing in the dark. We all like them younger (Papa’s gravel on paper voice). Yes! Mateo says. I tease her when I get too old, she’s going to dump me for a younger guy, Mateo says, giggling like he can already imagine it happening. Oh no, a handsome young man like you, Mateo—I don’t think so! I can tell you two really love each other. Oh yes, we have known each other since university. Mateo says something to Papa in Portuguese and they both burst out laughing. I push my hands into my armpits, angry to be suddenly left out. Mateo tickles me until I start laughing. Little Nico, don’t be like that, baby brother! When I tickle him back, the stubble on his chin scrubs the anger from my head.

Johnnie Walker Tupperware

Papa, Mama, Mateo, and Gabby are circled around the dinner table, drinking Johnnie Walker from ancient Tupperware tumblers the same color as my Nintendo handheld. Papa says my Nintendo games are tools of the Devil but once he starts drinking, he quickly forgets his directives and allows me to play, especially if I have recited a verse from Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John perfectly, standing in front of the full length, my right hand raised to an invisible audience, my chest tightened and heaving against invisible armor. I’m in the loft, on my back, in shorts and a T-shirt, my feet dangling over the edge of the bed because I’m wearing socks and shoes, two pillows propped under my head, observing everyone from my eagle aerie, a word Papa taught me, my Nintendo 3DS a wall between myself and the overly loud adults. Papa bought my Nintendo handheld a few months ago, traded with some man and his kid for jewelry. The kid had just gotten a Nintendo Switch, which he let me play with for a few minutes, so he was cool letting go of his old 3DS for an ocean bracelet Papa made with wire and shells, his Dremel only eclipsed by the sound of the ocean. We are parked in a neighborhood somewhere close to the beach, hidden away from the freeway, from any major surface roads, Papa an expert at hiding. Mateo’s hair is now tied behind his head in a ponytail, a much younger, more handsome version of Papa. Gabby leans against him, her cards turned inward like she trusts no one, the beveled edges blue shells. There are colorful dollar bills strewn across the table, Brazilian and American, an ashtray threatening to vomit at any moment, a bottle of Johnnie Walker retrieved from under the sink, overturned cards and coins and colorfully wrapped candies that Gabby occasionally retrieves from her purse, trading them with Mama like they’re old friends. I watch Gabby unwrap the candies, little poppers with colored ends, before shoving them into her mouth, wishing I had one. Mama and Gabby speaking Spanish to each other, their foreign tongues loosened with drink. Papa doesn’t seem to mind. Mama never lets on that she understands Portuguese, but how long before she slips? I am briefly separated from the world of adults, which is a relief, though I don’t know how to act without them. I have no people my own age to measure myself against, save for the occasional kid on the beach shuffling through life with a house and a car and real parents, not these people who have named me only to forget me until they need something. I don’t even know how to be a kid around other kids, I feel like a freak, like when I try speaking without using God’s voice, I feel like I’m a total failure. When I ask Papa or Mama for Coca-Cola or hot dogs or a Chick-O-Stick they forget how old I am, or how young I am, and punish me with harsh words, calling me a baby. I can recite Scripture by heart—how many babies can do that? I can enthrall an audience with my voice, my body quivering as the word of God erupts inside me, threatening to split me open. Adults paint me dirty with their fingers, call my name without knowing it, push their insecurities inside my mouth. When I speak the truth, they are cleansed, yet I am left empty, my needs forgotten, unrecognized. I can only be myself with my cousin Paul, who lives in a house with a roof and several doors and a sister and a foundation without four wheels humming beneath it. When he puts a pair of shoes on and walks through his house, the floor is solid. When I pull on a pair of Goodwill shoes or whatever garbage my mom finds at Walmart that isn’t Vans, I feel the hollow world beneath me, like I could disappear at any moment. Me and my cousin Paul would later become closer than I ever imagined but this is before that, I am not yet rescued, I am lost and empty and without friends and sometimes I feel like I’d rather die than go on speaking the words from other people’s mouths, saying things I don’t mean, saying things I don’t understand, saying things that are wrong. I just want to stay quiet and watch the world rush by while lying on my stomach and looking out my aquarium window, the sand and the beach grass morphing into cypress, white beehives on pallets dotting the side of the expressway, sheep gathered in a field on the opposite side of the ocean, their lives easier than mine.

Wait, don’t

I’m dreaming so I must be asleep when an old woman pulls my iPhone from my hand and throws it towards the ocean. I am at the sales table, making adults money. NO! Don’t! Why do you have a phone, child, if you dabble with evil, you will become evil! My mom gave me that phone! I spring from Mama’s webbed folding chair and lunge towards the ocean, but the old woman stops me by wrapping her arms around me. I squirm to break free of her grip but it’s no use, she’s stronger than I am. When I try pulling her off me, I notice her hands are claws that end in sharp nails, the nails filed to a point. I turn my head to look at her. I scream when I see she has the face of a demon, her lips pulled back, revealing barbed wire teeth dripping with blood. When she moves towards my neck, I scream again, waking myself up. Disoriented and scared, I awake to find Gabby hovering over me. She has crawled into my loft bed. Shhh, it’s okay Nico, you’re okay now. Gabby? Yes, it’s me, shhh, mijo, you’re okay now, it was just a bad dream. Gabby is hovering over me, her face is a big balloon. Shhh, baby, it’s okay. My shoes and socks are missing, my T-shirt pushed into a space between the wall and the foam mattress. I don’t remember getting undressed. My Nintendo is near the bubble window, the curtains cinched together—the movie is over, the crowd has dispersed. Gabby pulls me close to her, her breath reeking of whiskey, candy, and cigarettes. But somewhere, beneath the chemical stench, there is another scent, something sweet, a perfume of some kind, mixed with sweat. My dick is hard, pushing against the confines of my briefs. Gabby thumbs my briefs over my thighs, my kneecaps, and hides them under the blanket. She pulls me into her, mashing my face into her boobs. I fall into her, a forest fire raging in my body. Her tongue finds my mouth, she pushes herself inside me, her tongue rank yet also intoxicating, and very adult, like it knows everything I want. I’m getting drunk off the liquor oozing from her pores, the traces of tobacco and nougat in her mouth. She guides me inside her, a soft warm volcano on the other side of the world. Horse nose holes, velvet soft, anemones I have seen, so foreign, and so beautiful. She unzips my back and pulls out my spine, my head collapsing into her breasts. I am crying when I come inside her. I have never come before, and mistake it for peeing, like I’m peeing inside her. Horrified, I whisper I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Gabby laughs quietly, a laugh that eats the world. It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. Not trusting her, knowing I will be in trouble if I pee the bed, I touch my penis, expecting to find water soaking my belly, the foam mattress, but there is only a viscous stickiness, the blankets intact. I roll onto my back, away from Gabby, staring at the vent above my head, the vent I can open with a crank, if I want to, but Papa warns me not to, that, like people, rain is unpredictable, you never know when a downpour will happen. When it rains, the raindrops hitting the plastic bubble of the closed vent sound like a thousand tiny BBs dropping from the sky. I stare at the flyscreen, moonlight pooling through curtains, just enough light to see Gabby. In the dining-room-bedroom-living-room area below the loft, where Papa and Mama and Mateo are gathered, tight as sardines, I hear vampire noises, a soft moaning, like all the air is being sucked from Mama’s lungs. Gabby’s body blocks my view of the adults below. I can hear Mateo, in the darkness, a slick whisper, as if he were mouthing winning lotto numbers to Mama and Papa. Mama’s cramped, enraptured voice, biting down on a pillow. Or someone’s shoulder. Cold, I pull the blanket over me. I am on an old swayback, riding bareback in a green pasture buttered with daisies, wearing only shorts, no shirt, the horse’s shoe-brush bristles needling my legs. Gabby moves her hand under the blanket, massaging me until I’m hard again. This time, she guides me over her, a mound of soft hills, until I disappear inside her body. She pulls me to the bottom of the ocean floor, a horrifying darkness filled with things I don’t understand. Blinded, I bump into the souls of the forgotten dead. She guides me over the landscape of her body, a deboned puppet. We are like this for I don’t know how long. I’m thankful we’re in the dark because I don’t want her to see my mark, the same mark Papa has, the same mark Mama has. I put my feet on top of her feet so I can bounce upwards and push myself deeper inside her. Her moaning is almost as loud as Mama’s. I’m wondering how because my penis isn’t that big. Maybe she just really likes boys, feeds off their energy. I hide under Gabby’s chin, afraid we’ll get caught. I dissolve inside a seashell, like I’m floating in warm water, not afraid at all, the current caressing my body, dragging me further from the shore. I die a second time.

Cypress

I wake in the morning to distant voices, people laughing, a comfortable familiarity. Gabby is no longer at my side. The adults below the loft are all missing. I part the curtains and look out my aquarium window, but all I see is short, stiff beach grass and beyond it the eternal ocean draped in a low-hanging haze. Our usual spot near the copse of cypress trees, copse a fancy word Papa taught me. I look to my far right, assuming they’re seated at the concrete park bench near the Men’s and Women’s restrooms, but I can’t see it from this angle. I am naked, the sheets a crinkled mass against my skin. Thankful to be alone, I pull the sheets from my body and wriggle off the foam mattress, sliding to the vinyl step that’s also the roof of the storage cabinet I keep my clean clothes in, quickly running my hands under the blanket, searching for my briefs. When I find them, I drop to the floor, barefooted. The area between my thighs and balls is sticky and gross, so I wipe the area with my dirty briefs, which aren’t really dirty, but Gabby touched them last night, and they still smell like Gabby, oranges and gunpowder. I open the lid of my storage cabinet, push my dirty briefs into a twenty-five-pound mesh potato bag Mama ‘repurposed’ as my clothes hamper (her words), take a clean pair of briefs from the short stack and pull them on, then pull a clean Vans T-shirt over my head, a real shirt bought from a real store, not a Goodwill misfit, my Aunt Pauline buying it for me on an outing to the mall with my cousins Paul and Melissa. Nico, honey, do you want anything? My aunt likely feeling sorry for me because my parents are too cheap to buy real clothes from a real store. Can we please go to the Vans store, Aunt Pauline? I’d like to take a shower in the citrus explosion bathroom before Mama and Papa come back, but I’m afraid Gabby and Mateo might be with them. I don’t want to use the toilet either, I’m afraid someone might come inside while I’m on it. Being alone is difficult in such a small space, a small life. Sitting on the vinyl step, I put on fresh socks, then pull my black jeans over my legs. I’m not wearing shorts today after last night, I don’t care what Papa says. I throw my cheap Jesus sandals inside the cabinet and pull my Goodwill Vans on over my socks. Once I am completely dressed, which takes maybe three minutes, I twist the doorknob, which is unlocked, open the camper door, raise my hands into the air, and drop to the parking lot asphalt, making an explosion noise with my mouth, the single metal step ignored. I crouch down, then push my entire body into the air like I’m flying. I sense, a little too late, that there are people to the left of me who have witnessed the entire performance. Looking to my left, I see Mama has set up the sales table already, Mama and Gabby sitting on the two webbed folding chairs that belong to Mama and Papa, Mateo sitting on my plastic milk crate, long side up, Papa towering over them, standing. I try brushing off my embarrassment as best I can. You are a superhero, Nico! Mateo says, laughing. You’re not wearing your shorts today, Nico? I wanted to wear pants, Papa. Gabby glances at me but her face is unreadable. Well, let’s try keeping them on today, shall we, Papa says, winking at me. All four adults break out laughing. Deeply embarrassed, I walk across the parking lot towards the Men’s and Women’s restrooms with the two black pipes pushing towards the sky, black fingers spewing filth and decay. Where are you going, son? I need to use the bathroom. Do you mean the restroom, Nico? Yes, whatever. Don’t get smart with me, son. Yes, Papa, the restroom. Don’t fall in, Papa says, the adults howling at Papa’s ridiculousness, his joke at my expense. I do not look back.

Montara Lighthouse Hostel

When I return, Mateo has a white button-down shirt on, the shirt tucked lazily into his cargo shorts. It’s the first time he’s worn a shirt since McDonald’s. Gabby has a small bag over her shoulder. They are both wearing backpacks. A deep sense of loss immediately comes over me, our shared dinner at McDonald’s yesterday evening a thousand miles away. I begin running towards them. Mateo swoops his arms out as I close in on them and he pulls me into him, Gabby laughing. Nico, what’s going on, buddy? You’re not leaving, are you? Please tell me you’re not leaving. You just got here! Involuntary hyperventilating, I try my best not to cry, but the tears come anyway. Please don’t leave. Oh mijo, Gabby says, sandwiching me between herself and Mateo. We have to get going, my friend, we have so many things to see. I collapse into them, willing myself to become one with them, to escape, undetected, just me and Mateo and Gabby, three souls occupying one body. I hear Papa coming up behind us. What’s all this, Papa says, clapping Mateo and Gabby on the back. Looks like you’ve picked up a barnacle, Papa says, laughing. Or a stowaway. He doesn’t want us to leave, Gabby says, shrugging her shoulders. Oh, come on now, son, why the tears? But they just got here, I say, blubbering uncontrollably. Gabby pulls me to her, caressing my hair, pulling me into her perfume, the perfume from last night. It’s ok, mijo, we will always be in here, closing her fist and placing it on my heart. Where did you two say you were staying? Papa asking, as if he didn’t know already. Mateo retrieves a slip of paper from his cargo shorts pocket, unfolding its quartered secrets. Montara Lighthouse Hostel, Mateo says. The hair on his upper lip, a soft brush, then lower, on his chin, scratchy. Papa takes the chunky iPhone from his pocket, thumbs the info, scrolls. I’ve already separated myself from Gabby and Mateo, preparing myself for abandonment. Well, the all-knowing iPhone says the hostel is two minutes by car or twenty-five minutes by walking. Maria and I will drive you to the hostel. Oh no, that’s okay, Papa, we don’t mind walking. It’s not for me, my friends, it’s for Nico … he seems to have grown very attached to you two. Well, if you don’t mind, we would be very happy.

Goodbye to all that

Papa, Mama, and Gabby are in the cab, me and Mateo are on our stomachs on the loft bed, our feet dangling over the edge, looking out the aquarium window, the curtains pushed open as wide as possible on the thin bony rod. I like your view up here, Nico, it’s very cool. You’re the big man up here, looking down on everything, Mateo says, laughing. Like an eagle! It’s my aerie. Your what? (laughing). My nest! We rock back and forth as Papa drives up the incline to the highway, waiting to merge. Behind us, several angry, short honks, someone deciding Papa is driving too slowly. I have heard it many times from my feathered perch on top of the world. As we move slowly towards the hostel, where Gabby and Mateo will be staying for the next few days … ‘we’re meeting friends there,’ I move closer to Mateo, the gills under my shirt taking him in, cataloguing him. Mateo loosely drapes an arm around me. We’re gonna miss you, mijo. We’ll try to come by and see you again before we move on. When? I abruptly ask, not believing him. I don’t know, maybe in a couple days. We’re booked at the hostel for three nights. A couple of our friends are meeting us there. I study his eyes, not believing him. Really, Mateo says, laughing. Don’t get so crazy all the time, buddy. The word buddy sounds forced, as if it were coming from someone else’s tongue, as if he’s afraid to leave me. You promise? Yes, Nico, I promise! We pass a creepy old house, visible through a break in the trees. An old sign, with the figure of a lighthouse on it, and below the figure, the word HOSTEL, an arrow pointing to the right. What’s your last name? Oliveira, Mateo says, laughing. I’ll remember it forever. Mateo squeezeboxes me, I’ll remember you, too, my little Nico! Papa turns to the right, a light incline that terminates at a gate with three strands of barbed wire strung along the top of it. Is this it, I ask, still not believing. It looks more like a prison than a hostel. Yes, this is it! Mateo says, looking at his phone. His phone has a weird name, it says Vivo on the back, not like mine or Mama’s or Papa’s iPhones, Papa’s self-made rules for austerity and minimalism apparently not including iPhones and his MacBook Air. I don’t have decent shoes, but I have an iPhone in my pocket. Mateo steps down, in a moment he’s on the floor. He motions to me, and I fall into his arms. The stubble on his face scratches my cheek. I lobster claw my legs around him, not wanting to let go. He is taller than me, almost as tall as Papa, his beard and moustache darker than his straggly, sun-blond hair. I gently tug on a string of beads in his hair, a colorful tail that terminates in a twisted band. He cradles my skull in his left hand, his right beneath my lower back, a dangerous dance, and brings my face within an inch of his, the heat from his mouth. Want to know how to properly kiss a woman? Yes, I say. Please teach me.