Ladrones

by Esteban Rodríguez

At least inside it was always December, a reliable winter unfurling from the lumps of ice clumped with a history of erupted sodas along the freezer walls. I rested my chin between the broken stacks of ice trays and the Ziploc bags stuffed with frostbitten meat I meant to cook, but never did. I turned and placed my cheek on the freezer bed, so glad to be home, and as that cool darkness began to numb my skin, I almost forgot the rabid sunlight Ana and I endured at la pulga all afternoon.  

The calendars gossiped August, but the warm spurts of wind that cooed in my ears made the air feel purgatorial. Both the English and Spanish language forecasts announced a chance for rain—my old TV screen columned with a constellation of droplets. I found the reports convincing, but out there at la pulga, as I watched the flabby bodies of clouds disband slowly across the sky, I became less devout to the idea that the climate would soon change.

I knew Ana felt the same, or at least assumed she did when she’d toss her head back and let the sweat beaded on her temples squirm down the folds of her squinted face. Like most girls just weeks away from entering high school, she would’ve preferred to be elsewhere, preferred sculpting an image of herself that could confidently walk the hallways crowded with students who had already forged an identity they’d embody the next few years. She didn’t want to be at la pulga, wrapping a saint or angel figurine in newspaper, rearranging the handmade bracelets, the dreamcatchers, the wallets, the small leather purses, the flower pots and pottery in front and beneath our foldout tables, or the plush San Marcos blankets that were either draped on the side of my truck or piled in a straw basket, each with a design ranging from bluebonnets, imitation Hello Kitty, the silhouettes of wolves.

As much as I wanted to sympathize with Ana, be the mother I swore I’d always be, this was a business, and her help, regardless of opinion, circumstance, or season, was essential, especially on days like this afternoon when a pair of boys, either brothers or cousins—each no older than nine or ten—drifted to the tables, the taller of the two scanning our items, while the other sucked on the tip of his right thumb absentmindedly, as if he were weaning off the habit, but still wasn’t ready to let it go.

They both wore oversized shirts. The shorter boy tugged on the taller one’s hem, stretching the frayed, blue thread closer to his waist until the taller boy finally turned his focus away from the Batman figurine that had caught his interest. He gestured at the other table with his chin. The taller one nodded and the shorter one moved to the opposite end.

If they had been adults, I would’ve stood up, positioned myself behind the table and begun upselling the items I believed they were showing interest in, explaining how their children would love the Marvel figurines as a gift, or how the blankets could also be used for decoration, draped over sofas, armchairs. And if I suspected that the people standing in front of me had just arrived from church—that occasional family enduring the heat in their button-downs, slacks, blue jean skirts that extended to the ankles—I’d lift the porcelain San Martin de Porres and insist that he’d be a smart purchase not only because of his documented life of martyrdom, his ability to heal the sick and wounded, to communicate with animals, to stand up for the religious working poor, but because he would also make a great addition to their living room, sit perfectly on the coffee table or bookshelf where I’m sure they had other collected iconography.

I remained seated on my lawn chair, one hand on my knee, the other in my lap. “Cómo están jóvenes?” I asked.

They looked at each other, then at me, but didn’t say a word.

“Entiénden?” 

Ana, seated behind me, stood up from her chair and walked to the tables. “You can pick it up, just be careful,” she told the taller one. He smiled, placed his hands behind his back, and started swaying his body side to side.

“You speak English?” I asked, getting up.

The shorter one nodded, but remained silent. I came up to Ana and reached over and lifted the Batman figurine. I took off the detachable plastic base and placed it on the table.

“Mira, grab it,” I insisted.

The shorter boy took a step back. The taller one took a step forward.

“You like it?” I asked.

The taller boy nodded.

“You can tell your parents to buy it for you so you can play with it all the time.”

Reluctantly, the boy reached out and gripped it by the legs. He brought it to his chest as if he were about to rock it to sleep.

From where I stood, it appeared they were wearing nothing but a shirt and a pair of white shoes with Velcro straps that no longer fastened.

“How much is it?” the taller boy asked, still studying the gear, and perhaps comparing it to the Batman variations he had become familiar with through comic books, TV shows, movies.

“Dice aquí,” I said, pointing at the price-tag dangling at the elbow, the string wrapped around Batman’s arm. The boy lifted it but didn’t seem to care.

“And what about that one?” he asked, forgetting Batman instantly and pointing at a blue Power Ranger.

“The same,” said Ana.

“And that one?” he asked, pointing randomly at the row of figurines.

“It’s gonna be about—”

“Okay. And that one?” he asked, interrupting Ana and pointing at a Tinker Bell.

Ana looked at me and I tilted my head, placed my hands on my waist.

“I have a sister,” the boy said, his small Adam’s apple bobbing down his throat.

“Look mijo, they’re all less than five dollars,” I said. “Do you wanna buy one?”

The boy focused on Batman again, pondering the object that appeared to be as foreign as it was familiar.

I waited and placed the action figure back on the base.

“I’ll tell my mom.” The boy looked down and moved toward the end of the table. “She’s over there. Look,” he said, pointing at the afternoon crowd, at the patrons and families still remaining from the morning, at the aisle where Ana and I had set up for years, and where vendors filled their tables or stretched-out tarps with used radiators, transmissions, batteries, air filters, old tires for almost every type of vehicle; with piles of shirts, shorts, and socks sold by the bundle, worn shoes and sandals polished as cleanly as possible; with car radios, stereos, CD players, Walkman’s, boomboxes, television sets, VCRs, satellite dishes, home sound systems advertised with the promise that despite a few parts missing, the bass would make anyone feel like they were in a movie theater. And there were mutt puppies crying and pawing at each other in crates and boxes, cages filled with lizards, snakes, hamsters, mice, chicks chirping through the blur and echo of human voices spilling in every direction. And regardless what direction Ana and I looked, how we strained our eyes to find a woman we imagined could be this boy’s mother, all we saw was the assembly of stalls at the end of their aisle selling men’s boots made from leather and snakeskins, cowboy hats, corduroy pants, belt buckles and brightly-colored button-downs meant for a night at a roadside cantina where everyone knew how to dance.

“Where?” asked Ana, but the taller boy had already begun walking away.

He turned back and looked at the shorter one. “Luis, come,” he hollered.

Ana and I turned around only to see this boy now named Luis with a brown leather wallet in his hand. It was my wallet.

The smaller boy stared at us, then at his accomplice.

“Run!” shouted the taller one and Luis ran toward him.

“Ana!” I yelled, expecting Ana to sprint after them. But she just stood where she was, watching their bodies weave between the shifting and shapeless shadows that seemed either not to notice or care.

I moved around the table, bumping against it. The table shook and a few figurines fell. “Watch our stuff!” I yelled as Ana, nearly tripping on herself, reached out and grabbed the angels, saints, and superheroes twirling on their bases like coins.

I wasn’t sure if my movement could be considered running, as the idea, much less the action of running hadn’t crossed my mind since I crossed the border twenty some years earlier, presenting my visitor’s visa, and moving toward the governmental doors with the paranoia that the officers, some with a darker complexion than mine, were somehow reading my mind, that they knew my thoughts and plans to let my allotted days expire and not return, and had already deciphered my desires to travel farther inward into a country I knew only from a handful of visits to my extended family. I was certain I would be stopped in that cold office, or apprehended outside, where the sun, that ancient immigrant, was quickly migrating to another hemisphere. I remembered the scabs of rust riddled on the railing, the ribbed concrete, the parking lot and vehicles, the small flood of tourists walking in from the other side, and how when I saw what looked like my cousin’s car waiting for me just ahead, I almost began running, descending the sidewalk into the slow yawn of dusk soon to embrace me in darkness.

But this was different, and as my stride grew longer, the heels of my huaraches dug harder into the ground, while my thighs, stomach, chest, and arms wobbled in ways they had never wobbled before. My shadow struggled to keep up.

The boys ran for several yards before the nameless one darted to his right, disappearing into the back aisles. Luis stammered in his direction, but ran into a stranger who stumbled back, unsure what just hit him.

“Agarralo! Ese. That boy!” I pointed, unable to keep my arm still. “Grab him!” The stranger, however, gave me a blank stare, and Luis backpedaled until he tripped on himself and fell. He quickly turned over on his stomach, and as the dirt flared around him, he pushed himself up, bent his knees, and like a sprinter, pivoted off the balls of his feet and bolted straight ahead with the wallet still in his hand.

I swung my arms into a rhythm. The faster I ran, however, the more this newfound motion caused my shorts to slip and succumb to gravity.

Luis reached the end of the aisle and stopped. He turned back to see how far he had pulled ahead. After taking a few quick breaths, he ran toward the assembly of wooden stalls roofed together with corrugated sheets of rusted tin.

I scuttled after him. Inside, the crowd of voices grew louder and the scent of bistek and barbacoa and roasted elote scratched my nostrils. The sun crept slantwise through the roof’s cracks and crevices.

I ran past a few stalls, but stopped when I could no longer see Luis. A few vendors called out to me, mistaking me for a customer.

My breathing became asthmatic. My body lightly trembled. I placed my hands on my knees and began coughing, and as I straightened myself and cupped my hands behind my head, I shut my eyes and saw a kaleidoscope of colors flaring out, swelling, spinning in the pulsing voids of my skull. I opened them and my vision shuddered back into focus.

Slowly, I reined in my breathing and looked around, but saw no signs of the wallet thief. Only a few feet, and in some cases a few inches, separated the stalls. I walked down the aisle, bending over and searching through every slit wide enough for a boy to hide in.

“Estás buscando algo?” asked a woman, who although appeared about half a decade older than me, shared the same weathered skin and static-streaked hair I had come to accept was the only reflection the mirror would return anytime I stared at it.

“No, no,” I said to my doppelgänger.

“Pues, vendemos ropa usada, señora, si te interesa,” she said, fanning out her arm behind her where columns of plastic hangers hoisted Mickey and Minnie Mouse shirts.

I backed away. On the opposite end stood a man handing out flyers with black-and-white photographs of the electronics displayed directly behind him. He offered me one, but I waved my hand in front of my chest and declined. A passerby snatched it from the man’s hands and another bumped into my shoulder, pushing me in with the crowd flooding the aisle. I had no reason to remain idle, so I kept walking, watching the vendors shouting, calling the attention of anyone willing to listen, of those potential buyers who had an idea of what they wanted, scanning the stalls, asking questions, bargaining with the vendor for another discount on an already discounted item.

Unlike the stands outside, the pace here was quicker, and there was a sense that like an auction, things would be sold regardless of what they were and where they came from.

I passed a boy, no older than the one I was looking for. He had a small box hinged just below his chest, and the corners of it were cinched with a long black rope that hung around his neck, like a protest sign. With his right arm raised high above his head, he held up a handful of melting candy apples—the rivulets of red liquid bleeding down the veined plastic wrapping.

I passed another boy selling cotton candy, raising his long, yellow-painted and notched wooden pole in the air, like a standard-bearer parading through the street. Then I passed a legless man in a wheelchair with two open boxes of laser pens and pointers resting on his lap. His khaki trousers were folded at the knees and stained with what looked like motor oil. He wore a black cap with brightly colored insignias and the words VIETNAM VETERAN stitched in gold thread—a history no one here felt sympathetic toward. A wooden board displaying rabbit foot, poker chip, and bottle opener keychains jutted out between his left thigh and the wheelchair’s arm, and the swinging metal clinked against each other as he rolled in the opposite direction.

I ambled farther down the aisle, forgetting about the wallet and the kid. And I wondered why the moment I walked in, I felt like a guest faced with the reality that no matter how deep into the market I went, how native the Spanish sounded, this wasn’t my geography.

I made it to the end of the aisle, where a stall selling fruit cups and lemonade had drawn a small crowd whose attempt at forming a line was undermined by the larger crowd flanked around it.

I wasn’t sure whether to feel a sense of failure, but when I turned around, I spotted Luis crossing a few yards ahead, as though the best way to avoid being seen was to be out in the open.

As quietly as I could mute my footsteps, I weaved through the crowd and commotion and came up behind him, grabbing him by the arm the way any mother would do to a child exhausting her patience. He cocked his head, but didn’t yell or flinch, as if he were already accustomed to being handled in such a way at home.

“Dónde está la cartera?” I asked, tugging him closer.

Luis pulled his arm back and looked up at me. “Huh?” he uttered.

“The wallet.”

He began moving to his left, avoiding and being avoided by the bodies blurring around them.

“I— I— I don’t have it.”

“Where did you put it?” I asked, moving after him.

“I don’t have it no more,” he said.

“Dónde está?” I asked again, reaching over, lifting his right arm by the wrist, and patting down his torso and waist.

“Stop!” he yelled, attempting to pull away.

“Dámelo!” I demanded, squeezing his wrist tighter.

“Eeey!” shouted a woman behind them. Luis turned around. I looked up. We scanned the crowd, unable to put a voice to a face, until the woman whistled and pointed at us. From the way she stood behind her stand, a miscellany of packaged toys displayed behind her, I knew she must have been a mother, that her body—round and rippled with middle-age worry and wrinkles—could belong only to a woman acquainted with the constant ache of responsibility.

“Qué pasa?” she asked.

I straightened my posture. “Mira, este niño tiene una cartera—” 

“I didn’t do nothing!” Luis shouted. I yanked his arm, lifting him slightly from the ground.

“Eeey!” the woman shouted again. “Don’t touch him like that,” she ordered. She stepped around her table and began walking toward us, rolling her tongue across the inside of her bottom lip. “He’s my nephew.”

Luis stopped jerking and stared at the woman for a few seconds before stepping closer to me.

“You know him?” I asked.

“Sí, eras sorda? He’s my nephew,” said the woman before Luis could answer. She extended her arm and waited for me to hand him over.

“Umm…” Luis studied the woman and I felt his body stiffen— the tension suggesting that he owed or would soon have to owe her something he couldn’t repay.

“Tell her,” she said, nodding at me. “Tell her you’re my nephew. Don’t be afraid.” She took a few steps forward, and before I could tease out the woman’s motivations to intervene, Luis swung his body beneath my arm and darted down the aisle.

“Eey!” I shrieked, running after him, leaving the woman, who shouted for us  to come back, alone and nephewless.

Smoke billowed from the stalls. The steady hum of voices funneled into echoes as I barreled through the crowd, feeling the soreness in my legs, the sciatic-like sensation radiating from my lower back to the back of my thighs. Luis was still in my sights, but the crowd had grown too large to navigate. He tripped on his foot and fell head first—the wallet flinging out from the back of his shorts.

Blinded by the plumes of dirt, Luis patted and searched the ground for the wallet, and just as his fingers clawed the leather, I grabbed him by his waist and dragged him beneath my straddled legs.

“No!” he yelled, unwilling to accept that the wallet wouldn’t be his. “No!”

I pulled him farther back and reached over to retrieve the wallet. It wasn’t as sleek or visually appealing as some of the other ones I sold, no unique design or stitching, not even a logo. There was a good chance that as soon as I cleaned it and placed it back on the table, it would just sit there for months before being picked up and examined closer by a man who wasn’t sure if he should spend ten dollars on something he already had.

Luis stood up and adjusted his shirt collar. His neck was red, veined with frustration. A few people looked in our direction, some even stopping, confused by the situation, but I assumed that most had mistaken me for his mother, that this was public punishment, and that the boy, regardless of what he had done, deserved whatever he had coming.

“Why did you steal it?” I ask.

Luis looked up at me, his chest contracting like that of a wounded animal.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I wanted it,” he said.

“But why?” I demanded, ignoring the tears forming on his eyelids. “Why?!” I shouted.

“It was for my brother,” he said.

“El otro niño? Was it the other boy that was with you?”

Luis became silent, careful about linking a name to a person.

“You’re too young to have a wallet,” I said. “You and your bother.” I looked around, feeling that the taller boy was lurking nearby, listening to our exchange.

Luis focused his eyes on the ground and kept them there. I brought the wallet to my chest. I wanted to tell him something that was not only profound, but that would unravel his attitude that this type of behavior was acceptable.

I opened my mouth, and when nothing came out, I slipped anonymously into the crowd, certain the boy wouldn’t be there if I looked back.

My walk down the aisle seemed shorter than my initial run through it. A few strangers smiled, but I wasn’t sure if I had earned the right to return the gesture. Outside, the sky was still swollen with a hurtful blue, and the sun molded its fever to my face like hot wax.

As my tables and items came into view, I stopped and watched Ana retrieve change from our small metal lock box, placing the coins in a man’s palm. He nodded, muttered something I couldn’t make out, and walked away with a plastic bag swinging from his hand. Ana watched him briefly before looking down. She then glanced up, shut the box, and without looking at her hands, folded the bills the man gave her and tucked them inside her back pocket.

 

Esteban Rodríguez is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Lotería (Texas Review Press 2023), and the essay collection Before the Earth Devours Us (Split/Lip Press 2021). He currently lives in south Texas.