touch and run

My name is Sergio Adrian Lostaneye. I’m a lad in his teens, no more nasty or kind than any of my age. previous I’m not a geek or a kid of the coach potatoe type. Mother has always said I should make a handsome man and so it would have undoubtedly been, but for the misfortune that befall me not a week ago under the never better called Black Bridge. Then even when it’s well known, all sort of sinister accidents might happen under a river bridge, under this particular one, every frightful thing can also happen except to get drown, since long before I was born -I’m fourteen-, there’s not a single decent pool left for even a cat to get half wet in the asphalted emptied basin river. Water abandoned the river. Puritan murmurations assure it was diverted to las Vegas city, in order to wash away the land from the sin of gambling; while non puritans prefer to talk of loos and bathtubs to refill after its repetitive use by too many dirty asses together with those of theirs belles or beaux.

To grow up is like running, the body simply asks for it. But from the teens on it seems to proceed in a rather jumpy thoughless mood, following the hormones’ illegal ways. But this is theory I’ve learned by hearsay. Myself being somewhat of the belated type, and until now grown only in height, a true perch with a pitch unmistakable boyish voice and, if one is to believe the priest’s cruel words, never to get the grave tone, nor a single blackhead or any promising pimple on my bare desparing –not a hair- face! Shit!! Notwithstanding father’s superb mustache and whiskers.

So I’m late to adulthood and there might lay the cause of me trying continously to prove things. Things an oblique joker term. Let's see: Things is anything to be approuved of by friends, exactly as a Latino in the US is to be feared at for many as mature reasons. And our things and their reasons are continously changing. It’s hard to keep the pace. But then we are young and they, well they…

Not so long ago as last Monday we took the river direction, Ivan had been reading

- What’s the title?

- Huck Finn, a fellow that escaped his home and fled westward on a rack

None of us is a reader, we meant to be “engineers” or “mechanics”. At least that was my set reply whenever I was asked about my future, and since everybody seemed satisfied with it, I didn’t hassle me further. On the opposite, Ivan enjoys reading, and we have the benefit of good stories without the trouble of coming to more contact with books that what’s necessary for school.

The bed river was emptied and dry, and the Murdering Black Bridge was an iron dwarf skeleton creeping under the midday sun. We sat at its shadow. The invisible borderline emerges at two thirds of the basin, so we were two thirds at home and decided to

- Touch and run

A good race, proposed by myself, 500 yards to the neighbouring country, crossing the border, touching the gate and running full speed back

And we started, but something must have gone wrong. We were already almost back, still 10 yards to Mexico promising home ground, when the migration patrol of course arrived.

Then I know they got Ivan. One of them was dragging him by the hair, and the poor guy was screaming his fear out, because the officer –they’re all officers- was about to draw a pistol with his free hand. The shooting came soon after. We were runing like chased rabbits, trying to help the caught friend, throwing pebbles from too far. at entire sight of dozens of binational commuters, a crowd

Yes, we certainly had a public and comments were fussing overhead:

- God! they’re shooting at them

- stupid!

- lads are unarmed

- they don’t care

- wait

- boys’re picking

- up what

- stones

- pebbles

- mind!

- still

- pebbles are arms

- now!

- teens cross

- thanks God

- finally back

- the border

- line

- oh

- they don’t care

- they shoot

- still

- to kill

- stupid

- stupid

- stu-

At the precise uttering of that final –pid syllable I stumbled on my back, and felt indeed stupidly feeble, the head full of air, and to tell the truth just a boy with an awful need of a good cry in mother’s arms.