Eric Stever - Non Metallic

Leo fidgeted. He felt a twinge of panic as his Uncle suddenly tried to rise up, to grab control. But he suppressed him and was able to speak. “And Tomas, how’s his new business?” he asked tightly.

“Good as ever. There’ll always be drunks in my country.”

“So that’s it then,” Leo said. He breathed in deep, trying to fight it, trying not to turn On. His Uncle had been forceful in the past, but never this persistent. He wanted to turn, to run back to the Coordinator, but his legs did not move.

“That’s what?” Manny said. He shoved a plastic wrapper into his bag.

“This is how you want it, miserable all the time?”

Manny turned to look at him, and spoke. “Don’t talk to me about happiness old man. Some of us have to work around here.”

Leo felt another surge and felt himself slipping away. His Uncle made him splay out his feet, open his hands wide, a formal greeting. He watched as Manny turned clumsily toward him, his hands and feet pointed the same way, the awaited reply. But Manny’s face showed no sign of understanding what was going on, only bitter resentment.

Like a gust of wind, the Uncle’s urge subsided, and Leo became aware of the rain again. The young boy in front of him was openly showing his dulled anger, but nothing else. Perhaps Leo was imagining the whole thing, and Manny had not responded to the formal greeting. Perhaps Leo’s Uncle was as affected by the alcohol as he was.

“So I’m a tourist now, is that right? ‘Me gusta mucho-mucho’ yeah? I talk like that right?” Leo said. “I’ve lived here 15 years almost. That’s one more than you.” Leo touched his ear, and Manny did the same, mimicking him. But his Uncle remained silent.

“But you can leave,” Manny said. He set aside a glass bottle for his brother Tomas’s fledgling brewery. “You can leave whenever you want.”

The soft rain splashed down around Manny, and just for a moment Leo saw the next great painting he would never finish.

The boy was right. The artist’s community newsletter was full of articles on how much of a difference they were making in the lives of these locals, how they were improving the community. As artists they claimed to seek the truth; but not this kind of truth.

“Jesus, Manny I’m sorry.” Leo said. “I know some people in the States. You could go to university—”

“And leave momma here by herself? And what about Tomas, you gonna send him too? What about the rest of the kids here? You going to transport them all to the U.S.? An even swap maybe, so you can steal our country from us? No thanks.

Why don’t you go to the States? Maybe you can teach them how not to throw garbage in the streets. Maybe then my mom wouldn’t have to clean up after you invaders every goddamn day, and smile just for your cameras.” Manny stood up, his yellow gloved hands balled into fists. Mud oozed between his fingers.

Leo turned to leave, shaking his head. He walked down the road, away from Soledad’s store, then turned around and walked back. “If I said I was sorry, and that’s all, would that help? Can I say just that?”

“Is your money gonna soak up all this rain too.”

Leo said nothing in reply. The darkness on Manny’s face softened.

“All right,” Manny said. “It’s not you Leo, geeze I know that. It’s not you. You’ve been good to us, I know that. Even a stupid moron like me, a pobrecito, even I know that. You helped momma get started, she tells us that. You gave her the money for the store.”

Leo’s chest constricted at the word, the Uncle’s word for the unenlightened. Pobrecito. “It wasn’t much—”

“Take my gratitude, old man,” Manny said. “Take it, ‘cause I don’t know when it will come around again.”

Leo nodded and now he sought his Uncle, to get a reading on the boy. But his Uncle was slippery, avoiding his attempts at contact. It was the alcohol, he thought, and he dearly wished he could believe that’s all it was.

“It’s not right,” Manny said. “This garbage, this goddamn mud.” He picked up a handful of mud and threw it across the road. “Where does all this mud fit in, huh? You tell me, what good is all this rain? There’ll always be more mud, and there will always be mommas to sweep it away.”

Leo nodded again, but his uncertainty had given way to something more powerful. His Uncle was roiling beneath his surface, but it still pushed Leo away.

“Tell me,” Leo said, his voice soft. “Tell me what you think we should do.”

Manny grunted, but did not answer. The rain had picked up, and was now blowing almost sideways into his face. He did not move, his gaze was fixed on the growing puddles. Leo wondered if the boy was On right now. People did spontaneously develop their connection. Was Manny’s Uncle trying to communicate with his own? Was Leo’s Uncle hiding the conversation even from Leo himself? Leo felt the urge again to run back to the Coordinator. But his feet failed to move.

“She’s sick,” Manny said quietly.

“Who’s sick?” Leo asked. But the tears in his eyes showed he already knew.

“She’s got cancer,” Manny said. “Momma, the rock of our town— she’s rotting on the insides.” He smiled. “She’s just like us after all.”

Manny picked up his bag of garbage and tossed it on the porch. He walked inside, stomping his feet to remove some of the mud. From inside came the slam of two boots hitting the floor and then nothing.

Leo stood outside, the rain beating down on him. He stayed there for a long time, staring at the ground, watching his feet sink lower into the mud with each drop of water. He wanted to rush back to the Coordinator, to reach out to his Uncle, to return to his painting… to move. But he did none of these things. He stood in the rain and waited. When it came time to move again, Leo hoped the mud would set him free.

Leo’s cap rested on the sticky barroom table, haloed by a sprinkling of dandruff. His head lay uncomfortably on the crook of his arms, as if it had decided to sleep without notifying the rest of his body.

“Hey, jackass, wake up,” a voice said.

Leo stirred but did not wake. His head wobbled on his thin right arm.

A finger poked Leo in the ribs and this time his eyes creaked open. He winced at the sound of cracking pool balls.

“Oh,” Leo said, licking his lips. He could see a blurry version of Jim standing over him.

“Oh,” Jim replied, smirking down at him. “Did you want some company?” He took a sip from the coffee cup in his hand and sat down.

“When in Rome,” Leo said. He lifted himself up from the table with a sigh and looked down at his cap as if he had never seen it before. Smoothing down a few sprouts of frizzy grey hair, Leo placed the cap back on his head.

Jim reached across the table and straightened the bill of the cap. “Having some creative troubles?” he asked. “Or have you moved to this bar permanently?”

Leo drained the remains of a beer bottle, swishing it in his mouth. He licked his lips. “Something like that.” He smacked the bottle down and bits of his dandruff jumped up and off of the table.

“We missed you last meeting,” Jim said. “We need to talk to you about—”

Leo waved his hand, cutting Jim off. “Not today.”

“Some big stuff is going down—”

“Is that you talking Jim, or somebody else?”

“It’s me, you bastard,” Jim said. “Don’t pull this stuff all right? You know both of us are still me.” Jim softened his tone and looked around the bar. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

“Well I’m here,” Leo said, “so lets talk.”

“You’re here, but I need all of you. Not just Leo the drunken artist.”

Leo laughed. “You’re full On right now aren’t you?”