Elizabeth Strout - The Best American Short Stories 2013

NELSON: That’s right. California. The Golden State.

ERICK: Hollywood. Sunset Boulevard.

COCHOCHO: Many Mexicans, no?

ERICK: Route 66. James Dean.

JAIME: I have a nephew in Las Vegas. Is that California?

COCHOCHO (after opening a bottle of beer with his teeth): Don’t answer him. He’s lying. He doesn’t even know where Las Vegas is. He doesn’t know where California is. Ignore him. Ignore the both of them. That’s what we do.

ERICK: Magic Johnson. The Olympics.

COCHOCHO (to Erick): Are you just saying words at random? Do you ever listen to yourself? (to Nelson) Forgive him. Forgive us. It’s Friday.

NELSON: I understand.

JAIME: Friday is an important day.

ERICK: The day before Saturday.

NELSON: Of course.

JAIME: And after Thursday.

COCHOCHO: As I said, forgive us.

As well as being the oldest of the group, Santos is also the most formal in speech and demeanor. Suit and tie. He’s been waiting for the right moment to speak. He imagines everyone else has been waiting for this too, for their opportunity to hear him .

SANTOS: I’m appalled by all this. This… What is the phrase? This lack of discipline. We must be kind to our guest. Make a good impression. Is it very loud in here? Perhaps you don’t notice it. I’m sure things are different where you live. Orderly. I was your father’s history teacher. That is a fact.

Nelson looks to his father for confirmation. A nod from Manuel .

MANUEL: He was. And I remember everything you taught me, Profe.

SANTOS: I doubt that. But it was my class, I believe, that inculcated in your father the desire to go north, to the capital. I take responsibility for this. Each year, my best students leave. I’m retired now and I don’t miss it, but I was sad watching them go. Of course they have their reasons. If these others had been paying any attention at all to history as I taught it, they might have understood the logic of migration. It’s woven into the story of this nation. I don’t consider this something to celebrate, but they might have understood it as a legacy they’d inherited. They might have been a bit more ambitious.

COCHOCHO: Profe, you’re being unfair.

SANTOS (to Nelson, ignoring Cochocho): Your father was the best student I ever had.

MANUEL (sheepishly): Not true, Profe, not true.

SANTOS: Of course it’s true. Are you calling me a liar? Not like these clowns. I taught them all. (nodding toward Erick, who is pouring himself a glass of beer) This one could barely read. Couldn’t sit still. Even now, look at him. Doesn’t even know who the president is. (Television: generic politician, his corruption self-evident, as clear as the red sash across his chest.) The only news he cares about is the exchange rate.

ERICK: The only news that matters. I have expenses. A son and two daughters.

COCHOCHO (to Nelson): And you can marry either of them. Take one of the girls off his hands, please.

SANTOS: Or the boy. That’s allowed over there, isn’t it?

NELSON: How old are the girls?

COCHOCHO: Old enough.

NELSON: Pretty?

ERICK: Very.

COCHOCHO (eyebrows raised, skeptical): A man doesn’t look for beauty in a wife. Rather, he doesn’t look only for beauty. We can discuss the details later. Right, Erick?

Erick nods absent-mindedly. It’s as if he’s already lost the thread of the conversation .

SANTOS: So, young man. What do you do there in California?

NELSON (glancing first at his father): I have my own business. I work with an Arab. Together we have a store. It’s a bit complicated, actually.

SANTOS: Complicated. How’s that? What could be simpler than buying and selling? What sort of merchandise is it? Weapons? Metals? Orphans?

Television: in quick succession, a handgun, a barrel with a biohazard symbol, a sad-looking child. The child remains on-screen, even after Nelson begins speaking .

NELSON: We began with baby supplies. Milk. Formula. Diapers. That sort of thing. It was a government program. For poor people.

JAIME: Poor Americans?

NELSON: That’s right.

COCHOCHO: Don’t be so ignorant. There are poor people there too. You think your idiot cousin in Las Vegas is rich?

JAIME: He’s my nephew. He wants to be a boxer.

COCHOCHO (to Nelson): Go on.

NELSON: This was good for a while, but there is—you may have heard. There have been some problems in California. Budgets, the like.

SANTOS (drily): I can assure you these gentlemen have not heard.

NELSON: So we branched out. We rented the space next door, and then the space next door to that. We sell clothes in both. We do well. They come every first and fifteenth and spend their money all at once.

JAIME: You said they were poor.

NELSON: American poor is… different .

SANTOS: Naturally.

COCHOCHO: Naturally.

NELSON: We drive down to Los Angeles every three weeks to buy the inventory. Garment district. Koreans. Jews. Filipinos. Businessmen.

SANTOS: Very well. An entrepreneur.

MANUEL: He didn’t learn this from me.

SANTOS: You speak Arabic now? Korean? Hebrew? Filipino?

NELSON: No. My partner speaks Spanish.

COCHOCHO: And your English?

MANUEL: My son’s English is perfect. Shakespearean.

COCHOCHO: Two stores. And they both sell clothes.

NELSON: We have Mexicans, and we have blacks. Unfortunately these groups don’t get along very well. The Mexicans ignore the blacks, who ignore the Mexicans. The white people ignore everyone, but they don’t shop with us and so we don’t worry about them. We have a store for each group.

SANTOS: But they—they all live in the same district?

Television: panning shot of an East Oakland street scene: International Boulevard. Mixed crowds in front of taco trucks, tricked-out cars rolling by very slowly, chrome rims spinning, glinting in the fierce sunlight. Latinas pushing strollers, black boys in long white T-shirts and baggy jeans, which they hold up with one hand gripping the crotch .

NELSON: They do. And we don’t choose sides.

COCHOCHO: Of course not. You’re there to make money. Why would you choose sides?

JAIME: But you live there too? With the blacks? With the Mexicans?

They look him over, a little disappointed. They’d thought he was more successful. Behind the scene, Elena prepares to bring more beer to the table, but her daughter stops her, takes the bottles, and goes herself .

NELSON: Yes. There are white people too.

CELIA: Excuse me, pardon me.

Celia has inky black eyes and wears a version of her mother’s outfit—an old T-shirt, sweatpants, sandals. On her mother, this clothing represents a renunciation of sexual possibility. On Celia, they represent quite the opposite .

NELSON (eagerly, wanting to prove himself—to the men? to Celia?): I’d like to buy a round. If I may.

COCHOCHO: I’m afraid that’s not possible. (slips Celia a few bills) Go on, dear.

Celia lingers for a moment, watching Nelson, until her mother shoos her away. She disappears offstage. Meanwhile the conversation continues .

ERICK: You’re the guest. Hospitality is important.

SANTOS: These things matter to us. You think it folkloric, or charming. We’re not offended by the way you look at us. We are accustomed to the anthropological gaze . (this last phrase accompanied by air quotes) We feel sorry for you because you don’t understand. We do things a certain way here. We have traditions. (to Manuel) How much does your boy know about us? About our town? Have you taught him our customs?