La movida
Boy ducked into La Buena Bakery in the Southside where he’d just coffeed with Meche, his childhood sweetheart. Meche had gone back to baking, and Boy had left to get the rest of the day going, but he hadn’t gone far when the winds of early spring picked up and started to blow dust everywhere. At the same time, big droplets of rain started to fall, causing a mud shower.
It took Boy a minute to remember what that was like because he hadn’t been back in the Southside in decades. Then he quickly trotted back to the bakery.
When he walked in, Boy was surprised to see an old childhood acquaintance had just ducked in before him, a heavy-set chapo with dark skin.
“Naldo! Look what the storm brought in?” Boy said.
The chapo didn’t hesitate to respond.
“How you, ese,” he said with a big smile and outstretched hand for a greeting.
“A toda madres,” Boy said.
“Órale,” the chapo said.
The conversation paused after a brief shake of hands.
The chapo looked at Boy as if trying to remember him.
Boy sensed this and thought he’d have fun with the tension.
“Good to see you again, vato,” Boy said.
“Oh, simón, ese. No it’s been a long time?” the chapo said.
“Simón,” said Boy.
The man nodded and thought how he might approach Boy to learn how they knew each other.
Boy suddenly remembered a movida he once tried to spectacular effect.
“Whatcha, ese. Remember that movida we tried on that ruca who used to threaten everybody in school who said she liked you?” Boy said chuckling.
The vato looked down and furrowed his eyebrows, as if trying to remember.
“You told her you were going to a war and write her letters. But she didn’t know where the war was or even why you were going,” Boy said,
The chapo smiled nervously, clearly not remembering anything at all.
Boy thought he’d go a little further.
“Then, she kept asking you if you’d gone to the war already. And you disappeared to make her believe you’d finally gone?” Boy said.
“Oh, yeah,” the chapo said.
“Pos she never married cuz she was waiting for you and in the meantime became an aggressive and muscular policewoman in Tarilas.” Boy said.
The chapo smiled a facade of recollection.
“What was her name?” he asked.
“I just saw her parking in front. Her name is La…,” Boy said, turning his head as if the woman was about to walk in.
With that, the chapo walked to the back of the cafe and asked where the back door was.
“...Movida. Puro joke, ese,” Boy said now to himself.
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