School began the first of September. Saint Jude’s was a small and mediocre institution in the middle of a poor and tiny town. I mainly went because my placement in public high would've put me on a straight track to community college—I thought I was better, though. It was three towns over, half an hour in the car, and so I rode the transit train to and from. There were others like me at Saint Jude’s, commuters, because their regional public highs made kids walk through metal detectors and wear see-through backpacks.
Hammonton, my school's town, was the blueberry capital of the world and famous for its Italians, but it seemed more like little Mexico. I was confused until I found out that the Italians didn't pick their own blueberries; rather, they owned the farms. It reminded me of things I'd learned in grade school, about African Americans in cotton fields. But it wasn't slavery because they were aliens or something. I figured if it looked normal to everyone else then it was normal.
I wasn't a great sleeper back then, and the morning walks from the station all blurred together. The afternoon train came forty minutes after dismissal, and, like all respectable adolescents, we used this waiting time to break and steal as many things as we could. Our backpacks had deep mesh pockets that seemed to make things just disappear; they could fit a few Hershey bars and soda bottle, comfortably. I never cared much what we stole; I just wanted to run from things: a shop owner, a police car, it didn't matter. The one convenience store wised up, and they forced us to leave our backpacks on the entrance floor. The subs there were good, but that wasn't the point.
This is when we started going to what we called the corner store. It was three blocks from the station and positioned alongside the tracks. Its only exterior detail was a neon open sign that flickered in the window. And it was by nothing more than chance that we started going there. Ky was looking for a place that would sell cigarettes to us, a gang of fifteen-year-olds, and this place would.
I’m pretty bad at explaining this kind of stuff, but when you walked in, a smell hit you—it was like stale bread and body odor; it straightened you out, like a wall would. It turned out that the stale bread was actually fresh tortilla. And the radio in there, it was like the station only played one song—like MTV seemed to when I was a kid; I guess it was the Spanish words that made it that way.
I liked how things were at the corner store. It was something in the way the pudgy Mexicans talked to us, like they saw only good things in the world. We’d walk in and they'd call out to us like we were one person. "Leetle Beados!" they'd say and begin to laugh and bobble their shoulders. I guess it was our moppy hair that made us look like the bastard sons of Ringo Starr. It was a riot to see what those Mexicans made of our mop tops. People talked a lot about culture barriers like they were bad things, but at the corner store they only made people laugh.
We stole more from the corner store than all the others, and it became our only stop in the afternoons. It was a shame, for the Mexicans, that they acted so aloof to our game; we played for the risks, but they didn’t see it. Ky would take something like three Red Bulls and a box of Oreos, a day. I felt like they knew but I couldn’t find anything in their faces that told me so. To make sure they cared, we'd creep past the bulletproof counter with hands full of whatever, like kids without candy bags on Halloween. "No, Beados!" they'd say, laughing in a soft, full kind of way. Reassured, we'd put the most of the things back.
Don't think we didn't pay for anything. We did, usually for the quarter-priced candies that colored the pay counter, which looked like a new piñata had been slaughtered above it every day. But the bulletproof frame of the counter soured its look, and I always imagined being held up as I searched my pockets for quarters. I could see Pedro, that's what we called all of them, jumping over to save me from the robber and me running away, deserting him. I could see the look on his face; it said, “I save you, Beados. No matta what, I save you.” But I couldn’t be saved, Pedro.
Before you ask if I started to, you know, like Pedro, let me tell you this: when you steal, you can’t get all friendly with people—you’ll forget to run when they catch you. Also, Ky told me that, because the Mexicans were aliens, they don't pay taxes. My parents paid their taxes and got into cursing matches over them, so I guess I paid them too. I’d tell myself it's all just taxes; we’ve all got to pay taxes, one way or another. But then I couldn't stop thinking about taxes and yelling and Pedro trying to save me from it. At the counter I’d hear Pedro’s soft, full laugh and, in my head, my parents' curses, and all I wanted to do was run from things.
Soon Ky was packing liter-sized sodas into his backpack, its mesh pockets over-flowing with candy bars, potato chips, Oreos, etc. And still, "Goodbye leetle Beados!" What could I do? A few Hershey’s bars and a Coke were fine for me. God did he tick me off with that. This was when I started to see Ky.
"Whas wrong leetle Beados, you have no change?" I wanted to throw my Hersey's in his face for being so blind, but the last thing I wanted was to hear that laugh.
At this point in the year, we'd gotten our first report card; my GPA: 1.48. I assumed this, above all other things, made me a sinner. But I wasn't any more afraid of God than I was of my parents, who I knew would blame themselves for it, anyway. I'd learned by then that divorce makes a lot of other things easy for kids. When Ky ended up with one B and A's for the rest, I started to hate him. I could see him too well now: a thief and a real know-it-all.
One day at the store and Ky must have taken so much that he ran out of room in his backpack, because he shoved a handful of things into mine. I wasn't looking we he did it.
"Beados, you like school? You learn a lot there?"
"Sure." I handed Pedro my quarters without looking at him; I might've forced the change down his throat if I had. What did he know about school, anyway? He started laughing and Ky, having seen my grades, joined in. I guess Pedro thought he was being funny. We'd just gotten out the door when Ky jumped to my side all ninja and idiot-like, pulling a Red Bull from my mesh pocket.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I was damn forceful, and he felt it.
"Calm down man, just chill." I wanted to crack that round jaw line of his right there, but I'd never hit anyone before, and, really, who was I kidding. Ky didn't know what I thought of school, about stealing, about him, anyway. And now I was stuck looking into his confused face when I just wanted steal from Pedro and have fun doing it.
It'd gotten cold quickly. November's winds were relentless, and, in the mornings, we'd wear pajamas under our khakis to help us bear them. We spoke little to each other, saving our breaths for our cupped hands. Before the afternoon train, we made our usual visits to the corner store. One of those afternoons I was a few blocks away when I noticed the neon open sign was gone from the store window. I felt sick, and thought of how I helped it happen, helped put Pedro out of business. We were a block away and, still, no sign. I said something to Ky about it, but he just laughed. His laugh reminded me of Pedro’s, and how it would have probably been the reaction of the poor Mexicans to the tax collectors. I ran for the door and, grabbing the cold handle, threw it open.
"My Beados!" What a relief it was to hear that. It was just a busted sign, but, then again, the corner store didn’t much need one. I then noticed Ky heading to the snack isle, so I followed him. He held his unzipped backpack, which looked like a set of jaws, at the edge of the rack, and, with his right hand, swept everything into to it. He looked damn pathetic trying to shut that bag.
"Put it back," I said to him.
"Man, shut up! The spics might hear you."
"Do it!"
"Yeah? make me."
"Hey! Look at this kid, he’s stealing food!"
Ky, with that idiotic, confused look of his, was searching my face for an explanation. I was angry as hell, but I began to laugh. Pedro rounded the counter and Ky charged me. I laughed louder when I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t. He checked me into the rack and ricocheted out the door. It wasn't until then that I realized a Hersey’s bar and a Coke in my mesh pocket, and I began to cry when I realized I’d never be able to disappear inside it. Pedro tried to grab me, but I back-stepped out of the door and made for the tracks. With a wet face, I ran against the wind. I looked back at Pedro, trailing at a pitiful pace, and saw his sad, sad eyes. Then I saw his eyes; they said: “Beados, you don’t have to run.” But I felt like I had to, and I couldn’t stop.
I haven’t seen Ky since he transferred to Mainland, but I’d imagine, by now, he’s made a name for himself—at least among the local shop owners. My parents thought I got into a fistfight that day when I came home with a few cuts. Truth is, I ended up tripping on a piece of trash in the street—a can of Red Bull.
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