CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY be a singer, a clown, a'nd entertainer. He can’t say my name Walt, so he calls me “ Juan” and then “ Guante.” It’s a strangely Freudian epithet, meaning “ glove,” which fits me perfectly. Only recently, after several years’ absence, Raul has returned from the United States. He is trying to adjust to his own culture. He tells me, in several months, he will leave for Mexicali and the border. He isn’t free here in Bamoa. It’s difficult even to smoke dope. His mother asks me to explain why Raul hasn’t written her for two whole years. “ That’s the way young people are,” I tell her. She shakes her head in mock despair. After breakfast, Raul takes Steve and I to the river to show us his grass plants, small and hidden. We use newspaper or tablet paper in order to roll joints, because the government doesn’t allow ciga papers to be sold. The Sinaloa River runs through the flat dry countryside. On its gravelly bottom, the trucks and local bus cross, driving through the shallow water. The square spire of the red-and-white cathedral sticks up above the plain. “ It’s more than 425 years old,” Raul’s friends, the local cowboys tell me as we drink brandy and smoke dope. “ Pancho Villa rode here. We still fight the government, over marijuana,” they say. The buzzards circle in the blue sky. The dry clear air. Dusty earth. The local cemetery. Irrigation ditches. Flowers decorating the graves are wrapped in plastic. I ask Raul, “ Where is my tomb? I want one painted red, with red roses.” He and his friends laugh. “ Don’t worry, you’ ll have a pretty one.” Da ily Life Can I really be at Raul’s home in Mexico? The small but functional hacienda is almost perfectly shaped. White-washed house, flowers in front, dusty yard, corral, well with a bucket, outhouse and shower house, and wash shed, and a single palm tree like a banner in the front yard — all fit neatly. The chickens roost in a tree. A pig is tied to a post. Rabbits are penned and hop loose. Life is everywhere underfoot. A golden rooster struts like Raul. The family awakes at dawn. The father and mother yell at Raul and his brother to get up and milk the cows. Chico, Raul’s brother, a real charro, will take the cattle a kilometer or two, to pasture by the river. It is impossible for a guest to sleep in the morning. I might as well fold my cot and get up with the rest of them. I feel guilty just watching. Warm milk is to be sold to the neighbors. A chicken will be caught and killed. The pig fed. The horse needs to be saddled and the cattle led out on the road. Mama, a large contented loud-voiced woman, fixes breakfast and makes tortillas. Rosa, Raul’s sister, helps her. The father, El Jefe, mounts his bicycle and peddles energetically up the road, after he has conferred with his none-too-eager sons about what work needs to be done. The old man startled me. I don’t think he knew how much I was in love with his son. He kept a pistol under his pillow, and often got up in the night, to see if there was a coyote to shoot. One night when he drank too much he shouted in his sleep, “ Chinga su madre!” Guasave Raul, Sergio his best friend, and I go to Guasave, 15 miles away. It’s a city of 30,000 with banks, buildings, department stores, a supermarket. I buy gifts for Feliz Navidad, and cash travelers checks. El Presidente brandy. We sample shrimp, cama- rones, at Marisopa Restaurant. Tecate beer. The queer owner likes me, and asks Raul questions. Bald- headed, with a slight lisp, he calls himself “ a senorito.” All of the customers laugh at him. He jokes back, in total control. The country is full of life, humanity. Bare-assed babies, dogs, donkeys, too many kids, cattle, horses, dust. They come from the clay and go back to the clay. Building houses out of clay and straw, their skin is the color of earth and sun. Crosses next to the road mark automobile deaths. In my folly, at first I thought they buried the victims beside the road. What a joke! Full of ruts and wash-outs, the road follows the river to Bamoa. Soldiers, half-asleep, young and stupid-looking, in khaki with automatic weapons, waited at the dusty crossroads. Near the main highway. Waiting for something violent and crazy to happen. Then they’d open fire. When we see the red-and-white tower of the cathedral, and cross the river, we’ re close to home. On Saturday morning, Raul tells me it ’s his turn to take the cattle to pasture and stay all day. He’ ll see me in the evening, Christmas eve. But his two brothers, Salvador and Chico, want me to return to Guasave and buy drinks! The older one, Salvador, is a real lush. And somewhat shy Chico, the cowboy with brown hair and beautiful eyes, drinks a lot also. Salvador says, “ Chico is a pure animal. Borracho.” He treats his horse, named “ Ice Cream Cone,” harshly, whipping it from side to side. The horse reluctantly dances. Borracho We go back to Marisopa, “ seasoup,” whose letters could be rearranged to form Mariposa, or butterfly. The Spanish word for homosexual. The owner of the restaurant is glad to see me. Salvador tries to set me up for an xmas party. With a straight face, the man asks me if I’d like to stay overnight. I say, "No. I will be with the family.” He’s very persistent. Like a sticky fly. The brothers love to pistear. Drink. Get drunk. They brag about it. Maybe they are trying to escape the boredom of life on the farm. Maybe there is more despair here than I think. There is a lot of repression. Where are the whores, the women? Mainly there are Catholic girls and married women, and a lot of horny boys and young men. No wonder I am sitting in a gay bar, cracking jokes about screwing the fairies, with drunken Mexican cowboys. How ironic! When will they find out the truth and turn on me? We carry a couple of bottles of hard stuff back to the farm. For tonight and tomorrow. I get to meet more relatives. There will be a dinner of rooster stew. Many drinks and toasts, at another house. The family wants me to bless the babies. A set of twins! They are very proud. I fear I might give the kids my flu germs, and they could die! As all this goes on, I ask myself, Where is Raul? He’s staying out-of-sight, with his friends. About Raul I never want to leave here. I want to be one of Raul’s brothers, friends in this village. I wish to spend my life with sleepy Raul. In the morning light, he ropes the ankles of a cow, brings a calf in close, shoving the nipples in its mouth to make the milk flow. He milks the rest into a bucket, then loosens the rope, slaps the cow on the ass, and goes for another one. Ten or fifteen are handled in this way. Thin, getting tan, using a rope, Raul is muscular but vulnerable. With a frown or quizzical look on his blonde face, he tosses a stick at a chicken or throws rocks at birds eating the seed in the fields. In a t-shirt, one pant’s leg slightly rolled up, shoes with no socks, he wears a serious expression on his face. I love this slender boy in the sun, or on horseback. I would almost die Photos by Walt Curtis 13
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