First-and-foremost, my thoughts go out to the victims and families of those affected by the sucide bombings and firing assaults in Istanbul, Turkey.
Rory Tomas sat at his beloved cherrywood desk, carved with petals, and engraved in symbols that raised the price of the whole piece at least $200. His plumage of hair was so dark and oily, it shined almost like a sequin stone trapped on the ocean's bed. His pencil pressed markings Into the Manila envelope, writing the letter to his mother down in Sao Paolo. She had moved recently to get away from his father for a few months, or decades, depending on her temperance. She would never divorce the old drunkard, with eyes of grenadine, and breath of tequila sunrises that were enough to cover the Aztec Empire in oceans of blood.
No, snd loved him too much for her own good, but he never faulted her for tradition, no matter what sins we're avoided over safety. He wasn't much for the old ways himself, he was on wife number two, kid number four, and mortgage number he'd rather not say. His hands were chiseled with early-onset arthritis, he had tried to unclench his fist once, and caused his cracks to erode, crushing some ants on trail for some churro crumbs in an avalanche of dead skin. His mother always said he looked ancient for a man barely forty, but his best years behind, and his hairline receding, Rory didn't miss his misspent youth, licking the edges of the letter, adding up the postage in his head.
The letter was heavy with soliloquy, and a tad powered with surreptious language. He wrote it in Spanish, but added exclamation in English. Terms like "stupid ass" and "drunken turd" didn't roll off the tongue as viscously in his native tongue. The woman was his first love, a boy's first love always comes from his mother, the connection is infallible, as babe's mouth touches swollen teat. He loved his mother, an intelligent, university-educated woman, but so lost in tradition, he spoke her as though it were medieval times. Why didn't she leave the bastard? Why take a siesta to some faraway country just to avoid the paperwork? He was respectful to her wisdom of old, but it felt more she suffered for the arrogance of stupid men.
His father: barely a role model, barely present, he attributed his success from a strong-willed woman that would never spare the rolling pin to the back of the head of her drunken excuse of a husband. He hated the man with a I lists not for the man's wily ways, but for the torture head out his once fair-skinned other through, to age her like a weathered temple. She stood strong, but moss can camoflague the most golden of statues.
The man pissed away life like his father before: laziness and drink, bedding whores in the back of the cabaret, he stunk of dung and crabs whenever he departed to his study. A cloud of smog and haze of liquor cautiously trailed him wherever he roamed. A pissant of a human being, Rory would spit if even his father's shadow entered the room, a presence only as shady as the figurehat casted it; the cur!
Rory creaked from off his desk, his knees not as fit as they once were, and his back followed. He placed the letter in the rusty old mailbox, the dusty road was kicked up with atmosphere,degradating his shoes, whipping his tan colored suit pants, not even money could keep the poor soil from harming western fashion. Sao Palo was thousands of miles south, he had wanted to visit her before she picked up and left. She had family in Brazil, but even in the city, communication was scarce. Her family wee ancient, and a telephone was often turned ed off, so it was fifty/fifty on reaching his mother via a phone call.
His father, who indeed called him sporadically, which was still far-too-much for his taste, loved but several towns over, an hour drive exactly, no more, no less. It wasn't far enough in Rory's opinion. Still he honored them both, though his thoughts were best kept between him and God, his confessions about his father had made Padre Ferdinand leave the cloth. Rory hated to complain, but it was hard for him. It to, Tomas' rule was to never show one's feelings, it was a disgrace to cry, just hold it in and show strength. Rory was anything but weak, but even he knew that a modern man was inclined to complain, even if it wee for old hens to squabble about how the generations were condemned to Hell. His father tested him.
Rory Tomas was an accountant in the poorest region of the country. He'd rather have moved to Chihuahua, or Mxico City, but he was in Iguana, barely on the map, not even the famous Iguana. The town was not even worthy enough to be used in a Sergio Gomez Western, it was too pitiful to be accurate. The chickens here looked as though they've been drawn with a toothpick and ash, with only a thumb. They were straggled that even the wild dogs wouldn't dare try to choke down their feathers.
For a Tomas, he had succeeded, he was lucky to afford himself nicer things, like running water and working plumbing, but he knew that the Catch-22 was just that: his work only survived in that location, he was Dammned to be successful in misery. Ethics were what they were in Iguana, but even Rory could not abstain from the defects policies that let modern day banditos use his makeshift stretch of town as a watering hoe, and a money laundering pit. There were a different wet of rules in Ifuanw, even the federales were corrupt, expose to the harshness of the desert hear, and corrosive violence that stemmed from it's relentlessness. He wasn't above this corruption, he took their money and filed false documents, but what choice did he have? Rory hated his circumstances,mbut if he had to live in pig shit, he would do so with rhinestone-studded heels. Even when the police were out to make a dime on the corruption of his hometown, then he too would then have to smile along, but it wasn't hard to accept this life: he hard thwt he was doing wrong, but this was Iguana, survival came at the end of a long knife, and golden words to keep it from slitting one's throat.
He was a bastard, indeed, but he was also not proud of his lifestyle. He was proud to have succeed at becoming so endowed with teachings at Universidad, but he was ashamed to hsve such wasted talent, unfortunately used to the delight of idiotic criminals. His disdain for his father kept Rory leveled, for if he had a scumbag of a father that was far worst than he, perhaps his moral compass would still contain some shred of positive dignity. Regardless of the asshole he was becoming, Rory vowed never to be the prick his father was, the slimy mongrel of a rat bastard he had proven so-often to be.
That was the least of his worries though, as Rory closed up shop for the day, it was after five, and he had siesta, then would open up yet again, for the evening folk that needed help with their expenses. The desert heat of Iguana was dry, and the air was salty from an ocean evaporated millions of years before. Rory dropped off the last of his paperwork at the local postal office, the old woman sitting guard gave him a wicked eye, her mangled cat growling at him with equal disdain as it had done for the past few months since he'd rescued the foul creature from underneath a caravan stampede. He paid neither of them any mind, and vindicated his position by strutting off into the sunset, a machismo back towards his bungalow, where he would nap in his favorite hammock.
The nights came quickly over the horizon, and the winds picked up with zephyrs replaced by ice chills, a pancho sufficed as a makeshift blanket. Rory tossed and turned with a vigilance of disdain for his mother's poor choice in men. The bastard wasn't far from here, but he was miles away from a father, and Rory knew that he'd not rest easy until the man was spun-up in a gravesite,money worthy of visiting on the first of November. No matter the bastard one is in life, it was custom to respect the dead whenever the opportunity arose, for the dead are without mortal sin; a shell left behind as a decaying monument to what used to be.
The early evening was returned with a chill, as armory opened up his offices once again, feeling slightly refreshed, and mildly famished,mbut a few bites off a sandwich burrito was sufficiently. Even with the chill, the weather was still enough to unsettle the stomach. His clientele came into the accounting firm, the spare living room, converted into an office with a slightly-upgraded computer, and a desk with enough filing cabinets surrounding it to feel like a metal fortress of the human genome. Little old ladies, and young drug dealers on the lam made up his core clientele. They wanted him to keep their books tidy, and their incomes at perfection. He did his duties without fuss, there were no federales to stock the cartels from pushing, or even old ladies from cheating on their income as drug mules, or side businesses of sewing hand-crafted sombreros to would-be tourists coming through enroute to Cabo.
Every other week, Rory was offed millions in hush money, but he always turned it down, he didn't want blood on his hands. Still, he kept the books clean, he wasn't a fool, he did what the bastards wanted. Every week he was offered, and every week, he, sometimes reluctantly, turned down the money. Why? Because he feared his mother more than the cartel. Even still, Iguana didn't leave room for compromise. His actions would instill serious consequences eventually, but for now, he'd have a cerveza, and enjoy the cool desert air in his office, until the sun comes up, and the process begins again, just with less than half the clientele.
Days went by, much like they had the past few years, as Iguana heated up, and the days grew longer than ever, the sun setting at the latest of 9:15 pm, and rising as early as 3:55am. It was brutal hot, that not even siesta relieved the grief of the heat from his chapped lips, and swampy brow. On one of these particular days, a letter came through the mail, it was from Rory's mother down in Sao Palao Brazil. It was written in broken Portuguese, but he understood the gist of the letter, and it was begging,pleading him to reconsider, and move back down into the jungles. He tossed it aside as he had the dozen others he'd received over the years, and sipped the bit of warm beer left over from the night before, a nightly ritual of cooling off, and keeping his parched mouth.wet in the sizzling heat.
The last thing he wanted was to taste regurgitated beer, now more spit than fermented yeast, but he didn't mind the flavor, it was a crummy day out: hot, but cloudy. They were nice and fluffy white, and it didn't meant there would be rain just yet. A morning went by without a single customer, and the mail carrier trudged on by before noon, earlier than usual, and unloaded a bit of mail into the rusty old mailbox, more like four slabs of metal held together by barren hinges.
There was nothing but bills, his landlord cursing him for being two months behind on the rent for the shiny little firm. He was a lowly accountant, and he had money, and was only behind because business was surprisingly slow, and since he had to taken any bribes, he had less money coming in, and his event was paying for it. It was a lose-lose situation,meh was certain his own landlord, the scumbag dick that he was, was also involved with the cartels. It almost seemed like everyone was corrupt, but his focus went away from the bills, as a handwritten letter surfaced from the pile. He had to squint hard to make sure he was reading the letter proper.
It was from his father. The man he had written off as dead, had sent him a hefty letter,sure,y not written by his illiterate ass,perhaps he had kicked the bucket, and this was a will to leave Rory all the assets and personal effects. He could put all that whit in the trash, but no, it was signed by his father, and dated just five days earlier. The letter was short, and filled with eccentricities. The man was full of himself, always thinking himself a womanizer, a wife-beater, and an all-around piece-of-shit mongrel. The cur writer that he would be coming up to visit, and that it was urgent he speak to Rory. What a gag! What a farce! He just invites himself up to Iguana! He wasn't very far from Rory's town, but he couldn't believe that this pig of a man wild be coming up in just a few days. The bastard even mailed it so by the time I got the message he'd be halfway out the door! The letter stated hen would be by in two days, and it was a whole day trip.
Rory was pissed, he wanted to break everything in his office, and it was barely enough for him to keep from pulling his hair from out his head. "Mi papa es un maricone!!! How come he thinks he could just come up here without my permission. Fucking low-life scumbag, free-loading, son-of-a-"
"You forgot druken, pithless, mother-fucking cunt." The voice enraged Rory, a Tomas' rage is infamous throughout South and Central America.
"What the funk wre you doing here father? Why the hell are you in Iguana? You said you would to be here for two days."
"My son, meijo, I was n'ver good with these things, I always give myself more time, but no, I'm here now, and I need to have a serious discussion with you, about family matters. You know I would stay away if it wasn't serious, but this needs your attention, and despite what you have to say to me, you're going to want to hear this, it's important."
"Think you can stay sober enough to get through it?! You're a fucking drunken piece-of-shot,mand I not only want nothing to do with you, I'd gladly see you placed in the ground, alive today if I could. No amount of animosity in the world could equalize the amount I hold for you! The devil doesn't hate the Almoghty as much as I hate you."
"Son, you could hate me with the might of Midas, but you're still my son,mand you'll have to honor me,mon matter what. I think you'll find what I have to say relevant to your current....circumstances."
My father said, looking around my small offices, shaking his head, as though he could've done any better. Being ridiculed for my career by a man whose never worked a day in his life, it was enough not to commit homicide, and blame it on the cartel.
"Just tell me what you have to, my offices will be closing soon, and I have siesta until I open up for the evening clients. I'm very busy, so make it quick."
He explained to me that he was dying, I swear, I couldn't have cheered any louder. It was an exalting experience, it made me both happy, and yet, somehow at peace with myself, like the demons I've been fighting for years were finally leaving me, lifting their weight from off my shoulders. I was so happy, I wanted to light a cigar.
He went on to say he would be dead in over two months, it was serious: cancer, the nasty kind,the sort that makes you wish for death by a bus, or just opening a vein. I wanted to dance around in happiness. There was nothing that could make this day better, except to have mom here to witness this shithead's fall from grace. All those women, all those so-called scumbag friends he had, all those years drinking and not being a father, it all means nothing, a meaningless life, the world would not remember him, I'd be more-than-happy to bury his ass in an unmarked grave, so. Even historians would pass him over foot without a second thought.
My grief was gone,mi felt I could move on again, but then something came up, soemthing I wasn't expecting.
"Rory, I can tell you're taking great pleasure in all of this, and despite my obvious disdain for my own demise, I'm understanding of your feeling. In these last weeks, I've come to realize I've been nothing but a pain for you. I've done nothing for you, and I'm not proud of that, and it's impossible to fix what I've broken. I'm sorry, and I know that's not enough, nor is it all you deserve. But I want you to know, despite it all, I'm more proud of you than I ever could be. I'm very jealous of you, but take that as a compliment, I'm a piece of shit,you've said it best! So I'm usually jealous of everyone."
"What?! No! You don't get to do this! State your business, and get the fuck out of here!" Irate as best to describe how I was acting, like a lunatic on the fringe of blacking out, awaking to find blood on my hand.
"Fine! I want you to have my will, I can't pay you back in life, but in death, well...let's just say that you'll have o excuse to leave Iguana behind, and head-up to Chihuahua. Your mother would rather you move to Sao Palo, but we both know you won't do that. 200,000 pesos, on my death,which won't be much longer. It's all I have. How could a drunk save that, you ask? I could touch it,MIT went into a fund for you, I. Your name,payable on my death. Which, I must admit, is coming much sooner than I want. I moved ahead of schedule because I've been feeling extreme pains in my stomach the last few weeks."
This brought me great johm and I looked over the will, shocked by the truth in just how much was there. I was furious that he kept this from me,move struggled for so long, but it was blatantly obvious thwt was the plan. Perhaps if I had the money beforehand,mid have wated it away on fruitless endeavors. I was an accountant, and I knew I've been more mature in these past few years than most of my adult life.
Suddenly,,my father keeled over, the scumfuck was going to die on my couch! I moved him to the floor, so he could haunt this hell-hole, not any of my possessions. Out-of-respect for my mother, I didn't show joy, but kept a stern face as he fell to the ground.
"My heart! It cries out! Son! I love you! I leave you, with a better future! One I couldn't give in your childhood, but don't repeat my mistakes, and get out of this hell! Leave me in Iguana, it's a death I rightly deserve!" He passed away in my arms,mand this man,mthis piece of shit man, whom nothing but hatred was all I held, hurt me one last time. The bastard, with those words, made me she'd a tear for him, that motherfucker, that scumbag motherfucker, he made me feel for him."
I buried him in the back, called the policia, they saw that my father died of natural causes, and allowed me to bury him. I went to the nearest bank the next day, taking out about a quarter of the money my father has left me,and packed all of my belongings. I headed off to Chihuahua, the only good advice he could've ever given me, and I was off. I was upset, and stayed closed after siesta, andthat morning, made sure I found new accountants a town over in Valero for clientele. I forwarded all my mail to a post office box in the big city, I would start my own firm. With the money I've been saving,mand the money I earned on my father's death I would have enough to move on, and I would get passed this siesta of grief, and carry on the name of Tomas.
I would be better than my familiars,mi would make smarter choices,mand live life to the fullest. My father, as much of a dickhead as he was, did do right by me in-the-end. Regardless, I was happy to be done with all of this, and I moved out, the moving van took everything ahead, as I caught a bus to Chihuahua. Whatever else happened, I knew now: it was on me to break the Tomas curse, to be a better, no! A greater man than my father could ever be, because anyone could be a better man than that bastard. So off I was, just an accountant, and the reparations of a father riddled from guilt. My grief was gone, my happiness began as thwt bus pulled away from thwt cloven-hoofed town....I was off toward destiny, my father's bones left resting in redemption.
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