by Joshua Vigil

The rats ate at the walls and, when I forgot to pay attention, they ate at me too. Gnawing at the paper-thin folds of my elbow skin with their cheddar-stained fangs. I flung them across the room and sank the final dregs of toilet paper over the open cuts with one hand while scrolling through Craigslist with the other. Beside me, a stack of the usual threats: past due bills, another eviction notice. I’d do what I always do and ball them between my fists, slam them against the many walls hollowed out by rodents.

I emailed some postings, looking for cash quick. Beads of blood sprouted and I sucked. These were desperate times, they usually were. I scrawled down some addresses, and out the door I went.

She lived in a gated community with low hanging fronds that draped every door in fit boxes of shade. The bell clanged an unlovely sound. But she was graceful in how she opened it. Taking a step back. Scrutinizing me for a split second before deciding that yes, I would do. I felt my worth, and I strolled in with some misplaced confidence, leaving the perfect fronds and the perfect shade for the giddy unknown. 

In the living room, she said, and I followed the soft patter of her flip flops into a space in which the blinds had been drawn. Light filtered through the edges of closed slats. On the coffee table, a bullet proof vest and a gun case.

I’m not getting shot, I said. No way José. I raised my hands, began to back out.

It’s not for you, Kid. You said you were down for anything. That these are desperate times. 

A strip of light fell over a face I now saw was stretched tight from a billion surgeries. Her lips were plump with filler. Hair held in a loose bun the color of gold, fried into a delicate, brittle state. Her skin was a shade of varnished wood—perhaps beech? Looking at the balls of sweat that formed and rolled down her chest, I worried her tanning job would run and spoil the perfectly white rug I rubbed my toes into. I still value life, I said. Even if it ain’t always worth living. The struggle is what keeps me alive.

It sounds like you enjoy your poverty, she said, folding her arms into her chest. She was, despite or because of Dr. Whozit’s work, gorgeous—but I liked women in extremes.

Money talks, wealth whispers.

Shouldn’t that make you silent? 

What?

She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. I want you to shoot me, she said, taking a step closer, slinging forward the scent of vanilla cupcakes fresh out of the oven. Her mouth was swimming in sweet gloss. Her cheeks coated with powders. Beneath it all, of course, I could see age and its cracks. We all had those. Not even Dr. Whozit could fully erase life’s faint fissures. That’s all, she said. You aim it into my chest, bang. Then we’re done. You walk away with $500.

Then: You won’t miss, she said.

But what if I do? 

I have more money in my safe. I’ve left it open. You can walk away with thousands. Make it look like a robbery if you want.

Miss, what if I just rob you now instead?

You won’t do that. 

How can you be so sure?

Kid, you seem like a decent person. Are those rat bites?

I shrugged. My roommates. 

She reached for the vest. Slipped into it easily, fastened the sides to the sound of velcro. She pushed the gun into my hands. If you miss, she said, run. 

Wanna talk some more first? I like the sound of your voice.

Shoot now or forever hold your peace, she said, taking a step back. She planted her feet firmly to the ground, clenched her fists, and she closed her eyes tight, so tight. 

I thought of my mother. I thought of prayer. I thought of my bank account. 

The tip of the gun smoked. The air now laden with the scent of summer bonfires, ash. She was on the ground. The walls leaked with sound still, some harsh and violent echo: the blare of the gun fired and fired and fired, smothering the house. I dropped the weapon. Crossed the room until I stood above her body squirming across the floor. So good, she said. That was all. 

I scooped up the envelope of cash and I was a goner. 

I passed the neighborhood women nesting in the living room and found my mother in the kitchen smacking maseca. Working hard or hardly working? I said.

Don’t you play, she said—we both knew how many hours she spent doing backbreaking work, more than me.

I aimed my thumb at the living room. Las brujas, I said. My mother clicked her teeth. It was the same neighborhood women as always. Crowding the couch while my mother assembled their food orders, the same women who passed me around like a toy when I was a kid. The orders piled up, and my mother spent Saturday and Sunday slapping corn flour, her fingers slick with oil. She rose at five, sometimes earlier, and planned her day: what ingredients needed buying, what orders to prioritize, and to make sure Dad ate. The women would send their fingers through my hair, mouths shaking with gossip. My mother said la buya reminded her of home. My father agreed: a loud house was a Latin house. 

I sat across the counter as she served me pupusas that steamed from a plate, at the center a mound of cool curtido. Cheese flooded into the ceramic edges. I wish you’d bring home a girl, my mother said. I told her that was the last thing on my mind, and I shoved sliver after sliver until none were left.

She busied herself in the kitchen, sending utensils and pans into the sink with blunted clangs. She sprayed cleaning agents onto the counter, made fast swipes at the streaks of grease, the flecks of masa that stuck to the granite like glue. My mother was a beautiful woman. Large opalescent eyes that held some special glint. Thick hair the color of caramel, and which always glistened with healthy oils. Is there really no one? she asked.

I shook my head no.

Te vas a quedar vistiendo los santos.

I grunted, asked her how her other work was going. She wrung the rag in the sink before setting it over the counter to dry. It’s okay, she said. 

Ever since I was a kid her weekdays were spent tucked inside a toll booth perched at the foot of a bridge, the blinking waters of the canal that stormed into the Gulf a stride away. Palm trees flanked the sides and dolphins flipped the air. When I was young, I spent summers crouched beneath her desk, watching as she entertained the drivers. Nestled between her legs, I filled in coloring books as the hours slipped past our sweat-soaked fingers, the hours she spent standing, the hours she spent handling cash, the hours she spent smiling at the men. I watched her talk, her feet screaming in pain beneath my chin. How she’d say something like, Another summer shower coming, and the men whose sniggers reflected off her bulky sunglasses, how they would show their teeth, pop their tongues, and drive off with vulgar beeps. Another summer shower.

Dad’s in the bedroom if you want to say hi, she said now.

Asleep?

She nodded, and the image came to me, the heat pads glued to his back, the bottles of clattering pills floating along the nightstand. A body twisted beyond repair from years of hard labor. It was difficult not to imagine my mother in a similar position in only a few years’ time. I told her I’d check in later, and I scrubbed my plate clean while she shuffled outside for her daily cigarette. I patted my hands dry and followed her to the squat porch wrapped in mosquito netting that smelled of pennies. My fingers were still smooth with oil. She lit her special cigarette, took a long pull. Thin bands of smoke lifted into the sky that was a swirl of pinks and oranges. Behind her, the women in the living room continued chatting. Are you okay with money? my mother asked.

Yes, I said. Don’t worry about me.

Weeks passed before the woman sent me an email asking to meet again. Was I up for it? I looked at my bank account: $22. At least I had been able to clear my coffee table of the eviction notice. At least my landlord no longer glared. 

She opened the door with less finesse this time. Her guard was down, and did she trust me now? I followed her past the front hallway. When she asked me if I wanted water, I said yes. In the kitchen, perfect cubes of ice tumbled from the fridge and clinked into a magnificently tall glass. The water tasted solid and clear and the correct amount of mineraly—it tasted bottled, and honest. This is great, I said.

It’s water, she said, tapping her fingers along the edge of the marble counter. 

Do you bruise? I asked.

She looked me in the eyes. Yes, she said. Which is why I waited a few weeks.

Don’t you worry? 

What’s a sprained rib here and there?

I mean about getting properly shot. 

Her eyes wandered around her kitchen, which was large and airy, golden light striking the floors and walls. You’re right, she said. It would be a pain for the person who found me.

Do you have family? I asked.

Let’s not.

I’ll tell you about mine.

I just want you to shoot me. I just want to be outside of my body for one goddamn second. 

You don’t always feel outside of your body?

Maybe I always do, and this brings me into feeling at one with it. Regardless, it’s the peace I’m after. The come-up. I’m fairly new at this. Saw it on some TV show and it just clicked with me. I said to myself, That’s what I need.

Getting shot? Well, I’m fairly new at doing the shooting.

I doubt that.

You think I look like I shoot up some places? Miss, you don’t know me if that’s the case.

The case is we don’t know each other, and that’s the point. We should keep it that way. 

You don’t want your husband shooting you?

He’s the last person who should touch me.

So you are married? 

He’s married to his work first. Come, now, the feeling is going to vanish soon.

She was pulling at me. What feeling? I asked. She squiggled into the vest, slapped the gun into my palms. The metal was so cold I jumped. The truth is, each time I feared I would miss. The truth is, each time I wanted the $500 even more. I could look past having blood on my hands, I thought. She took a breath and I shot.

I pushed the cash into the cashier’s fingers, swung home with a bag of pomegranates. The seeds spilled over my sticky counter when I split them with the kitchen’s sharpest blade. I pressed my thumb down, plucking at the seeds, and I swallowed. I went to my mother’s, arriving with some of the excess fruit that tripped out of my tote, bowling across her kitchen counter that was only slightly nicer than mine. This is for me? she said, swiping her fingers to her apron.

Life isn’t fun if we can’t enjoy its many pleasures from time to time, I said. 

Are you going Buddhist on me? 

I’ve been meaning to find God. 

You’ll find him here just fine if you keep on the way you’re going.

Meaning?

How’s the job search?

It’s going.

As long as you don’t deal drugs, upward and onward. As long as you steer clear from that old crew of yours, too. We’re on the straight and narrow now, remember?

Me consentis demasiado. Where’s Dad?

Where do you think?

I peered into their bedroom, found him asleep, a dull drone out of his mouth. The room shed heat and the smell of unwashed bodies. I took a step back. 

The woman asked to see me again. It had only been a few days since the last time we met. She told me to hurry, that the feeling had surfaced. She pulled me into the foyer the moment I arrived, pushing me down the main hall. Can I at least get some water? I asked.

We’re losing time, she said.

It’s the heat, Miss. I’m hot. 

She pounded into the kitchen, dragging me with her, fingers digging into my arm. You know where everything is, she said, and she let me go. The water was unsurprising in its delights. What does your husband do again?

He works for Telemundo.

As a newscaster? 

Yes, now hurry.

I chugged. The water threatening to rise up in bubbles. My throat shook with a cough. I said, Let’s go already. And we ran into the living room.

Aren’t you worried I now know who your husband is?

One thing I’ve learned from getting shot, life is too short.

Don’t you wish I’d miss? Is that what this is about?

If I wanted to kill myself, I would have already. My legs are trembling. The feeling…

Some people want death, but are cowards. It’s not so easy to pull the trigger.

Do you wish you’d miss? You’ve killed before, haven’t you?

Miss, you carry all kinds of assumptions.

We’re made the same. That’s why we’re both here. Doing God knows what. Getting our rocks off, I suppose.

That’s just you, Miss. I’m here to get some bread. Do you ever cheat on your husband?

Who even cheats anymore? We’re all just sucking and fucking.

So you’re open?

I’m lazy. Now shoot.

My father was leaning against a stack of pillows in his bedroom. He was awake, the TV flickering with news, casting the wall with flashing lights. I asked him if he was okay. I know you see I’m in pain, he said. But I don’t think you understand how much pain. 

I want you to know I am here, I said. Anything you need.

You’re not here, he said. Not for me. For her, yes. Your mom. That’s fine; she’ll need you when I’m gone. She needs you now.

Death is only as mysterious as we make it, I said.

You don’t know anything about death, he said.

My mother chopped cabbage in the kitchen. I stood beside her and began to knead the dough, sloshing in some water. The sun sank in all its gorey colors. Spilling reds and oranges onto the city. These are the most orders I’ve ever seen, I said.

This is normal, my mother said.

Don’t you want to quit one of your jobs? 

With your dad not working, I can’t. Who knows what health scare is on the horizon.

Has he said something?

I meant for us both. 

I can help. I have some money now.

She laughed. You don’t have any money. 

With the flat-top sizzling, I flicked on the radio. I turned the knob until my mother told me to stop. I saw it now. How the edges of a fingernail were stained red. My mother took a step closer. She tipped her head to the side. I like that singer, she said finally, and she closed her eyes. We continued working, the flamenco flooding the kitchen, and when we were done, I scrubbed away the woman’s blood.

Joshua Vigil lives in the Pioneer Valley. His work has appeared in Hobart, HAD, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.