Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [12]
And I ended up being on edge every time I heard a Russian accent.
PEDRO SEES me walking up to The Bucket. I gesture at Mickey’s back and Pedro shrugs his shoulders. I lean on the bar next to Mickey. He looks up from my paper, smiles. It’s a pained smile, the smile of a man in the grips of a savage hangover.
—Good morning.
—Yeah. Look, no offense, man, but that’s my cup.
—Cup?
—That cup you’re drinking coffee from? I bought it in town, brought it all the way down here because I wanted a really big, heavy cup for my coffee.
He looks confused.
—I’m sorry, it was . . .
—And that’s my paper.
—These things, they were, you know, on the bar.
—Yeah, Pedro does that for me, has my stuff waiting for me. Because I live here and I pay him extra for it to be that way.
Pedro has his back turned to us, rotating my chorizo and stirring my eggs. His shoulders are shaking as he tries to keep from laughing. Mickey starts to slide the paper and coffee cup over to me.
—No, Mickey, that’s OK, just leave everything there.
Pedro is starting to lose it, little pops of laughter escaping from his mouth.
—You are sure? It is OK?
Puppy dog all over his face, he just wants to make me happy. Just to end the noise of my voice so his head will hurt a little bit less.
—Yeah, just leave it there.
He smiles, relaxes a little.
—Thank you. I am very embarrassed.
—Yeah, just leave it there, ’cause that’s also my swing you’re on and I’ll want my things right there when you get up so I can sit down.
Pedro gives in. Guffaws. Mickey gets tangled in the ropes again and almost falls from the swing. I grab his arm and direct him onto the next swing over.
—I am sorry. I did not know this was for you. I sat and I thought . . .
I sit. Still laughing, Pedro brings my plate, the tortillas, and a cheap plastic cup for Mickey. I stick a chorizo into a tortilla.
—Hangover?
—What? Yes. Hangover.
—Pedro, bring the guy a Modelo.
I finish making the little burrito and hand it to him.
—Eat this and drink that beer. Trust me, I know what to do to a hangover.
HE KEEPS his mouth shut this time and I pass him sections of the paper as I finish them. He eats the food I give him and drinks the beer and then the coffee and then I tell him to drink water for a few hours and he’ll be right as rain. He’s grateful as hell. He’s not really a bad guy, and it turns out he’s leaving tomorrow anyway. He’s planning to start heading north, but really wants to get over to Chichén Itzá before he moves on.
—And then I must go home.
—School?
—Christmas. My mother must have me home for Christmas.
Christmas. Right. It’s December and Christmas is at the end of December. How did I forget that? But I know why I forgot it. Because I wanted to. I always used to go home for Christmas, too. And I don’t like to remember what it was like. How nice it was.
Before I know it, I’ve volunteered to give him a lift to the ruins tomorrow.
He insists on paying for breakfast and I let him. Then he takes his water bottle and walks off to loll in the sand and sweat out the rest of the hangover. Pedro picks up my plate and wipes the bar.
—He was asking about you.
—What?
—Before you got here.
—What?
—How long have you lived here. Where do you come from. Do you work.
Little shit bastard.
—So?
—So?
—So what did you say?
He looks at me and snorts through his nose.
—Cabrón. I kept my mouth shut.
—Sorry, sorry, man.
—I don’t talk about you with no pinche tourist.
—Mea culpa, Pedro, it’s cool, I know you wouldn’t say anything.
I stick out my hand and he takes it.
—Si, si, but you have to watch that shit. I never talk about you.
—Claro.
Shaking his head, he starts scraping the grill. He never scrapes the grill. I light a smoke. The only way I can make up for insulting him will be to stay up late into the night while he gets drunk and we sing songs together and repledge our friendship. No relationship, no number of psycho girlfriends, can prepare you for how easy it is to hurt