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Puro yonke in those dompes

Órale, the featured word for this week of Caló is yonke. It comes from the English word junk. As it’s a recent adoption into Caló, you see it in signs through the border region on both sides of the Rio Grande today. Unlike the English use of the term, however, it applies as much to animate as to inanimate objects, including man-made objects, unwanted plants, cultural kitsch and even people. A pichirilo that won’t run at all anymore is yonke. Weeds and unpopular songs are yonke. A chirion former boyfriend or girlfriend you don’t wanna see anymore? Yonke.

This is gonna be the last of the Spanglish worlds we’re gonna feature in Caló. There’s many others, but we’ll get to them further down the road.

“I heard you were in the pinta,” a tall coyota said to Boy as he was leaving the bule with his childhood friend, Tudy.

It was his prom date when he as a sophomore in high school. She was two years older than him. She’d been married and divorced by that time, her ex, a man much older than her, having been torcido for ten years.

She went back to school to get a diploma, but her reputation as the ex of a vato in the pinta kept everybody from associating with her.

So when time for the prom came, she asked Boy to be her date, as he was popular enough to catch her eye and just sonso enough to accept her invitation.

Boy accepted and was rewarded with his first kiss from a girl. Nothing more happened after that. Her ex didn’t escape the pinta until Boy was in college.

Now here she was in the most dompe of all the dompes in town, cantandole babosadas to Boy.

“Nel, esa. Not the pinta. College,” Boy responded.

“No difference,” she said.

“Chale. In one you can go in an out when you want, and not so the other,” Boy said.

“Oh, if you’re so smart, then what are you doing here?” she taunted Boy.

“Told you we’d get burned coming here,” Tudy said.

“Pos we’re gonna hacerla now,” Boy said to the ruca.

They left and drove by Boy’s cousin’s house a couple of blocks away, where the front yard was full of trocas and a crowd of vatos drinking beer.

“Hey! It’s Boy! Stop, ese,” somebody yelled at them.

“Stop?” Tudy asked.

“Simón. Haven’t seen them in a long time,” Boy said.

All the men we’re Boy’s first- or second cousins. They all stood around two trocas parked with their rear ends pointing at each other, both tailgates open and a big chest of iced beer in each cargo box. Dozens of kids played loudly around them. Their mothers sitting together on the front porch watching over everything.

Boy walked in the middle of the crowd and shook hands and gave abrazos (hugs) to everybody. He waved at the women, who waved back.

“We’re watching you. So don’t be inviting them to any bar,” one of the women said, eliciting laughter among her companions.

Their husbands grinned sheepishly.

“Eeee! Can’t you go out?” Boy asked playfully and loud enough that the women could hear.

“Chale. This is as far as they can go cuz there’s puro yonke out there,” one of the woman said, bringing on another round of laughter among her friends.

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Oscar Rodriguez is the creator and host of Caló.