A screen door clapped. The lane swirled in dust. Sandy scuffed from the tavern to the edge of the dirt, big baggy britches stained in grime and nicotine. A mosquito whipped past his arm. Buzzards circled his mind. Doing all he could to keep from wobbling, he took a swig from his bottle and grimaced, “Fucking vultures.” Then he cut a glance and moved across the lane.
Manuel shifted on the stoop, the first breeze in a month exciting his nape, as he watched the man he knew only as El Blanco Grande stumble toward him.
“Hey Mexico, got any weed?”
Manuel took some beer.
Making it to the stoop, Sandy motioned his fingers to his mouth.
“Weed, you stupid shit! Got any weed?”
Manuel didn’t move.
Sandy shot a spit down to the dust and put a hand on the stoop-railing. “Fucking wetback, don’t speak a word of fucking English.”
From high over the peach orchard, a wide swath in the bowels of Columbus—the only produce anywhere—a squeal caught Sandy’s attention. He straightened and glanced around, a moment or two. Then after forgetting what distracted him, he turned back toward Manuel and stood, mouth agape, staring.
Manuel wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.
Sandy took his hanky and wiped his brow.
Manuel hit the can.
Sandy hit the bottle.
Manuel did his best to ignore the big-ugly in front of him, another breeze summoning the strength to stir the grit in the lane. Sandy exhaled disgust and looked upward, dark clouds undercutting a sky overwhelmed with stars, each bringing to mind the millions of possibilities other than Columbus over which to languish.
“Nothin’ round here but shit and piss and the same filthy pigs.”
Sandy mumbled this, practically inaudible, and then scrunched his face.
“This is still my town, Mexico.”
Manuel slanted his mouth, a slight grin.
Sandy slammed his bottle to the ground, stomped his boot heavy on the stoop. He was about to speak again when Manuel flicked out his hand to snatch a mosquito. Sandy flinched, and then glared at Manuel—crooked teeth glowing yellow in the streetlamp—the sight of the immigrant souring his innards.
“Evil mother-fucker. It’s late for you, ain’t it boy!”
Spittle hung from Sandy’s mouth, eyes temporarily to the back of his head, nothing but the crazy, mad-hot whites. He took a few deep breaths and then jutted his face forward.
“I suppose first thing in the morning, you’ll be spraying the trees and filling your basket.”
Manuel sat unmoved.
Sandy reached inside his vest, slipped a switch from the pocket and cracked it erect, the sound harsh against the hollow of night. He pointed it at Manuel, and then with tiny scrapes separated dead paint from the rail.
“A man can’t get no rest with that equipment running all day.”
Sandy drilled his eyes through the bridge of Manuel’s nose.
Manuel raised his can.
Sandy worked his shoulders back and lurched forward, driving the switchblade into the stoop an inch from Manuel’s foot.
“You got no rights to no peaches around here. You understand!”
Manuel smiled more teeth.
Sandy ripped the knife from the step and steadied himself against the railing, the molded fingerings of the switch handle powerful with reassurance. He moved up a step and, with a blink, perceived Manuel motioning to something—a nubilous figure creeping up the lane. Sandy whirled and stomped the wood.
“Git, you damn dog!”
Then he lifted his blade.
“Listen here, Mexico.”
Sandy lost his balance stumbling backward, a cackle bringing to mind the nightbirds in the orchard. After catching his balance, he wiped the slobber from his mouth and looked around, past the tavern, over the withered fields, and out to the horizon. Again, it took him awhile. When he turned back to Manuel, he needed the railing.
“I’m gonna slice you, fucker ...”
A streak of weather ripped across the night, a gust chasing Columbus all over the stoop. Sandy held fast, his gleam shaky, as Manuel adjusted his position to reveal a pistol on his belt. Seconds passed, the windwhipped dirt settling at Manuel’s side. After all was said and done, Sandy folded his weapon and staggered home; the whole time Manuel grinning, as if in his hand, he held the key to life.
