Sometimes, we park underneath the shade of bridges or signs so that our sun soaked bodies can cool off. Sometimes we even sleep on the side of the road.

 The window's open letting in the screeching crickets and the sounds of cars pounding down the road. Not me though. I can never fall asleep looking out through that slanted rear window. Looking at the stars looking at me. I know there is a devil out there, waiting for me in the dark, waiting for me to close my eyes. He doesn't come out during the day, so as the clouds lay their blanketing shadows across me, I fall asleep. But at night, when I look out, I can see him. He runs from tree to tree, following the car forward, staying just far enough away so that daddy can't see him.

 Daddy has bad eyes. Not like he has to wear glasses, he just seems to cry a lot. Maybe it's because he knows the devil's after me. My stomach hurts again.

 Every once-in-awhile daddy tells us where we are: Tennessee, Oklahoma, Texas. He didn't have to tell me when we got to Mexico, though. I saw the signs everywhere. When we get to a little patrol station, a large policeman asks daddy to stop. This makes him very nervous and he talks to the policeman like he is talking to his boss. Daddy searches, sweating, for something in his wallet. When he finds it, he hands it to the man and them man tells us to have a nice trip. Daddy puts the little green card back in his wallet and starts to drive off, slowly.

 It starts to get a lot hotter and mom starts complaining again. Ever since daddy put that baby in her stomach she complains a lot. That it's too hot. That she is thirsty. That we're making too much noise.

 The we is me and Deanna, my sister. My daddy pronounces it Day-Anna because he is Guatemalan. I used to say Mexican like the kids do at school, but when I said it once at supper, daddy told me that we weren't and got really angry. Anyway, I call my sister Jana, just because it's easy. Jana of the jungle. We both have green eyes and dark hair just like our daddy. Mom says I look exactly like him, but he's bald and has a beard and I think mom is just being silly. But my sister does look like my mom, especially her nose because it's fat and round. Daddy says it's because she picks it all the time, but mom just says it's because of her jeans. My mom really is silly sometimes. My nose is thin and I have a puppet grin, which people say is always on my face.

 To pass the time on the trip, me and my sister play sign games, license plate games, and my favorite, the "cloud game."

 Mom tells us to be quiet because the mountain roads are dangerous. I look out the front window and can see the clouds sleeping right above us. I look at my sister and she is sleeping, snoring. It's just like her to miss life. As I look forward again, the car gets covered in the clouds thick, white smoke. I am afraid but we soon rise above the clouds and I can see what seems like for miles. The butterfly-winged sun flapping over the cotton.

I ask my daddy if we're in heaven, but he says no. Maybe not, I tell him smiling, but we're somewhere the devil can't get us. My daddy just smiles and says, "Go to slip, Bryancito."

 It's sleep, daddy. Sl-eeeee-p.

 "Okay Bryancito, go to sl-eeeee-p. We'll be there soon."

 And so I did.

Guatemala

As we pull up to the bright pink house, I notice three things: a small old lady waving, a dead plant falling from its water-stained ceramic container, and a small, beat-up go-cart. Once the car doors open I run straight for the go-cart. It seems like somebody made it from bits and pieces of wood and metal. It's white with a big black "1" painted on the front hood. I look at the wheels and notice that no two match. I jump in half-expecting to find a keyhole starter and one of those gear sticks. But all there is, is a steering wheel and two pedals underneath that big black "1". Still, I pretend that I am James Bond 007, and that a gazillion lives are at stake. I start to pedal as hard as I can and turn the steering wheel like I've seen in the movies. All of a sudden two boys jump out of the cotton candy house and block my path.

 My daddy picks me up out of the go-cart and says, "Bryan, these are your cousins, Ha-Cobe and Ee-saw-ool."

 I try to say their names but they just look at me strange. My mom says I can call them Jacob and Esaul. So I do.

 Then my daddy introduces me to the old lady in front of the house, the one that was waving. He says she is my Abwelita. I look to my mom, but she doesn't give me a translation. So I repeat it back to my father and he smiles. We all go in and my stomach starts to rumble.

I tug on my daddy's shirt and ask him when we are going to eat. He asks my sister if she is hungry and she shakes her head up and down making her pigtails whip around the back of her neck. Every time I call them pigtails my mom tells me they aren't. But then I always laugh and say, they're pigtails because Jana is a pig!! Mom says I am going to give Jana something called a complex.

 My daddy says something in Mexican, I mean, Guatemalan to Abwelita and she brings in plates of food, food that I have never seen before in my life.

I look at my plate, then my sister, then my daddy. It looks like someone mashed up a penguin. I sick my spoon in the blue-black mush and put it back down. I can't eat this I don't even know what it is. My daddy tells me they're beans, but it reminds me more of black mashed potatoes.

"Eat, eat," he says.

 I finally let the hunger that's been sucking at my stomach win. I hold my nose and jam a large spoonful down my throat. It oozes around in my mouth and as I chew I can feel it squishing between my teeth. Finally I swallow and for the first time realize that it's actually pretty good. I finish the rest of the plate without complaint and I begin to notice the house as I start on my second helping.

 Not much to notice. The house seems to be shedding from the inside out. Everything seems to be falling inward, towards an imaginary hole in the center of the house. Even the pictures lean sharply towards the center. I feel like I am going to slide into that hole if I am not careful. There is the smell of steak in the air, and as I get up to use the bathroom, I walk by and see Abwelita cooking in the kitchen. Actually, it looks more like a dungeon with its metal walls and tubs full of unknown objects. Meat and vegetables hang from hooks on the wall, flies buzzing crazily around them. Abwelita stands above a small gas stove, her hair smooth and thin with a few strands of age running through it. The skin on her face is tight, but she doesn't have to hold it back with her hands like mom does when she looks in the mirror and says she's getting old. Abwelita's hands are the only signs of age. The blue mountain-like veins towering above the brown-spotted valleys below. Her teeth sit in a glass next to the stove and when she sees me she smiles a wide toothless grin.
 

Estadia
We stayed for about a week, visiting relatives, the mountains, and more relatives. Then my mom said that her stomach started to hurt real bad. She said the baby was ready.

 Ready for what I asked my daddy.

 Ready to be born my mom answers.

 Ay, Jesus
The drive back is going a lot faster. I get to sit in the front seat because mom went back home on a plane and also because daddy says I am the second man of the house. When we reach Mexico the devil comes back and so does my sleeplessness.

My daddy tells jokes to pass the time, but he is usually the one who ends up laughing the most.

 Like the one "what's brown and lumpy?"

 He never gets to the punchline though, he just starts to laugh and repeats it to himself out loud over and over again. I like that one though. It's one of his better jokes.

 When we reach the Mexican border my daddy gets nervous again. This time it takes a lot longer and they search the car. The man who took the little card from my daddy holds on to it until they finish. Daddy holds his head down and plays with a loose thread on one of the buttons on his shirt. I start to cry and they finally let us through. My daddy doesn't say anything for a long time. Then he finally tells me a story about the first time he went back to Guatemala with my mom.

"We used to sell clothes in Guatemala. You weren't born yet but your sister Day-Anna was born. We put her crib mattress in the backseat and she slept there during the trip. We didn't want to get into trouble with the border patrol so we told Abwelita to meet us in the United States just outside of the Mexican border. We didn't want them to think we were going to sell the dresses in Mexico so if Abwelita came along they would think that the dresses were hers. We made to Guatemala with no problemas. It was late, about one a.m., and they were fixing the road to Quetzaltenango, which is high up in the mountains. I kept going though, because I wanted to get Abwelita and all of us home. So we kept going up the side of the mountain. There was only a mountain on one side and a...barranco, uh...ledge on the other. So I kept driving up until about two a.m. and all of a sudden the fog started to get real bad. I couldn't see nothing. It was like someone dropped a white handkerchief over the car. Man, I said, it's getting real bad.

 I slowed down to about two miles an hour and put my head out of the window to see if I could see anything. Mommy was asleep because it was cold and she had a big blanket on her. Day-Anna was in the back asleep, too. Abwelita was sitting in the middle of the front seat wrapped in her scarf. Ay, I said, I'm going to have to stop the car because I was afraid I was going to go over the edge. So I pulled the car towards the mountain, I mean I didn't even care if I scratched the car, it was better than falling off the mountain, you know what I mean? So I stick my hand out of the window to feel for the wall of the mountain, afraid the whole time that a truck was going to come from the other way and smack into us. Then, out of nowhere, it was like someone pulled the handkerchief off the car.

 It was completely clear. You could see the stars and everything. I was like, what, what just happened? I looked over at mommy and she was still snoring. Then I looked at Abwelita and she just sat there smiling. And Abwelita answered, I prayed for it. And that's the truth."

Simplicity
We just moved to Simplicity Street. My daddy says that the part of San Antonio we were living in has gotten too bad. This is the third time I've moved in my life: the first from Florida to Tennessee, then from Tennessee to Texas, and this time makes three. My mom says simplicity means life is going to be easy now. I don't think my daddy thinks so because he is still coming home a grease monkey.

 My new school is a lot nicer. It kind of smiles and winks at you as it come into view. The playground has a lot more stuff like fiery horses that bob and sway on a spring, swings with metal chains that never break but bite into your skin, and a jungle gym that houses the famed lava rocks of hell. The kids around here smile a lot more too.

 Whenever I bike down that hill that slowly eats the school out of sight, my handlebars shake like those motel beds that take quarters. God, I love those things. My daddy says my bike shakes because the tires are solid.

 Is that why mom shakes when she laughs? No, he says, she shakes because she isn't, and he smiles a crooked grin. One that I will see again in the future, in the mirror or in pictures.

Ocho
My abuelita visited the Christmas of 1982. That was the year I finally figured out her name wasn't abuelita, it was Aida, and that abuelita means little grandma. It was also the first time I've ever felt really proud of myself. I finally stopped drinking from a bottle. Not that I drank everything from a bottle, it's just that I needed my chocolate milk, and I needed it in a bottle. The only reason I think I drank out of a bottle for so long is because of the song my father sang to me every time I did.

 Pacha Chocolate
We're going to the fair
To see the little monkeys
On my daddy's head
It's supposed to be hair, but my father didn't have any so we'd say head.

 The other reason I was proud was because I learned my first Spanish word. I ran around screaming abuelita, abuelita, I know Spanish, I know Spanish. I ran around beaming that puppet grin. Eight years old and as happy as I would ever be in my life. Eight years old and full of innocence. Eight years old and looking like the fifth member of the Beatles. Not knowing anything about anger and hate. Not knowing about pain.

 Bryancito dice que el sabe una palabra en Espanol, my father said to my abuelita. And without even letting a word come out of her mouth I cried, "Ocho." In my head I was tumbling over butterflies. "Ocho," I said as my father winked a jade eye towards me. "Ocho," I said.

 I'm ocho.

King of the Dirt
I ran away yesterday, but not very far. I took my daddy's keys and slammed the door behind me. I opened the back door of our station wagon and climbed in.

I spent the night there hating them for all the fighting, hating them for choosing sides, hating them for hating me.

 As the orange spilt over the dashboard, I felt my daddy's rough hands, worn from toil, worn from labor. He picked my tired, limp body out of the car and into bed.

The demons are here now, I dreamt. They have followed me to Simplicity. My stomach hurts again. I left the house after the sun again split my eyes open. I rode around on my bike searching, fleeing. I went to a pond by my house to cry.

 My sister calls me cryin' Bryan because I cry so much.

 The blue velvet water slapped at the ducks on shore trying to quiet the honks and hoots that have filled the air with my surplus of pain. I ran to the other side of the pond and found it. A mound of dirt, big enough for one. Protected by two guardian trees, their leaves like stilettos threatening anyone who crosses their path. I dodged and lunged and managed to escape with only minor injuries. I made my way to my throne.

 My throne. I have found it. I have found my place. I am to be a king, King of the dirt.

 And there I sat until night laid its heavy blanket upon me. I went home and ate the only thing we had.

 Ice cream.

 My Fault
It's stuffy.

I can barely breathe.

 My sweater's arms droop down and stick to the dried tears on my face. The tears have stopped and I am just sitting. Sitting and waiting.

My mom left, left my daddy because they fight so much. It's all my fault.

Please God help daddy.

 Please God help mom.

 Please God help me.

 Hot Wheels
Mom came back with Hot Wheels' racers for me and my brother and a doll for my sister. A doll that closes its eyes when you lay it on its back.

 Daddy and mom are talking in the kitchen while we are playing with our new toys. I try to listen but my brother rolls a hot rod into my foot. I start to cry.

 Mom and daddy run into the room and ask me what's wrong.

 Nothing I say. Nothing.

 The Year I was Gay
I have visited my spot more often lately.

It's easy to think as the lazy day casts odd-shaped shadows across your face and arms. I'm in high school now and I've been thinking a lot about something lately- I think I am gay. Not the happy kind, the other one.

 I haven't had a girlfriend for the past two years of high school. I guess if you really want to be technical, I haven't had one before then either.

 The other day my sister said the reason I never have a girlfriend is because I am gay and then she laughed at me. I started crying and yelling and we got into a big fight.

 Big, big. Big enough to make me say a bad word for the first time in my life. I called her a bitch.

 As soon as the word came out of my mouth, tears ran, screaming down my face. I couldn't believe my own ears, the demons had gotten me. They made me say something I never wanted to say.

 My sister just laughed, laughed at my pain. To make matters worse, then she told on me. When my mom asked what started it all and I told her the Jana had called me gay.

 My mom, not even daunted, asked, "Well are you Bryan?"

 I have never felt so small. I have never felt so vulnerable. I was a peanut opened by menacing hands, trying to find a secret that I didn't even know was there.

 I answered no. I didn't like guys. then again I really didn't like girls either though. One thing I did know was that I was tired of crying. I wanted to go to my throne of dirt and be king again.

 So I did.

 Cigarette
Something is missing, something is gone. I must find the part of me that I left behind so long ago. I've been running so long I can no longer see my beginnings, my origin.

 There are no more demons out there. Now I am a demon. One day I will devour the earth. One day I will sit on my dirt throne and reign over the meandering ducks, the slowly dying trees.

 I need a cigarette.

 Guatemala, revisited
The tops of the mountains poke above the cotton ball sky like noses breaking through tissue. The sun winks an orange eye as the air conditioner on the plane makes my eyes start to water. I've caught my father's disease.

 I readjust the air and recline the seat. I look at my father who sits like a child waiting for the next seat on the marry-go-round. Eyes wide, green, and full of innocence.

 I fall asleep and awake to feel the sudden jolt of the landing gear touching the ground. The dirty skyline dotted with lights, freckles on a sleeping city.

 It's six a.m.

 My grandmother and grandfather are there to meet us, they have been divorced for over thirty years.

 My grandfather was a beer brewer in Guatemala and often traveled to Mexico to sell his beer. One particular trip of interest occurred late in the Fall of a year which I was not present for.

 My grandfather left one day to Mexico, with his barrels strapped to his burro, for his monthly sale of beer. He left and my grandmother waited for his return. She waited and waited but he did not return. It had been four months since he had left and the family decided he must have died crossing the mountains to Mexico.

 So they held a funeral. Flowers, headstone, the whole nine yards.

Then right smack dab in the middle of the funeral guess who shows up?

 The guest of honor, my grandfather.

 Everyone ran screaming that his ghost had come back to haunt them but not my grandmother. No, she walked straight up to the "ghost" and started yelling in a fierce tongue that probably would make me blush.

 He had been in the mountains after his burro died and decided to hold up with some Indians which lived nearby. He became so much a part of their tribe that he even had an Indian wife. After getting her pregnant and running out of beer, he decided to return home. At least thatÕs what he told his guy friends.

 My grandmother wouldn't have him back though. She divorced him and moved away, even if it was only three blocks. They were and still are good friends though, and love each other very much. My grandmother had to take care of my grandfather now that he is going a little deaf.

 Hola, abuelita y abuelito!

 Their smiles jump across their faces. They say I look exactly like my father, except taller. I don't mention the fact that he's bald and has a beard anymore, I just take it as a compliment.

 We drive off in a rickety old Nissan, smoke pouring out the back.

 How many times have you been here, my grandfather asks.

 I answer that I came once when I was five.

 So, you've never been to Guatemala before?

 No, I guess I haven't.

 Revival
I went back to my throne today. King of the dirt, King of running away. Only it's been unearthed and a half-a-dozen kids are swinging from those branches which once guarded me, shielded me from the world.

 I look out on the cockatoo horizon and make a wish. A wish for the future.

 There is no more time to cry, no more time to think of all that's been.

 I have run from the demons.

 I have been a demon and I have run again.

 Now I am a man.

 Now I am ready to fight.

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