By Cindy Wiggins Tapia
I got the creeping feeling of being observed and swiveled around and saw death walking toward me…
Nabo cautioned me from the get-go that he had to be in control. What he didn’t warn me about was his greed for money.
He liked to walk around with hundreds of dollars in his pocket and begrudged forking over his part of the bills. After he made the first payment on our used Oldsmobile, he ordered me to take it back, never mind leaving us without a way to the grocery store and laundromat. So, I pretended he was invisible for three days. We kept the car, but he figured out a way to wiggle out of his split of the rent. Boarders.
First up was his brother-in-law Garcia, a drunk and a tomcat, who worked in the bodega deli in the Domino’s Pizza strip and the Waffle House on Nelson Brogdon Boulevard and Buford Highway. He paid Nabo’s part of the rent. Late one night, Garcia came in loaded and apparently deaf, because he cranked his boombox and TV up to sonic boom. When he wouldn’t lower the volume, Nabo pulled the breaker and gave him three days’ notice.
Beto and Maria came along next. He peeled the rent off a wad of dough thick enough to choke a hippo and got into his nice car and disappeared for two weeks, leaving Maria behind to work at Golden Corral. How did Beto earn that roll of bread? Why, he was a coyote, a smuggler, m’dear, who drove to Arizona once per month to sneak Mexicans across the Rio for $1,500 a pop. The price went up $500 for a pregnant woman. He abandoned Maria without a penny, and we fed her until he reappeared, and Nabo booted them into the sunset.
Mary and Vanessa were also coyotes, and my anger and frustration knew no end. I tried my best to shove them out with my tongue, which caused trouble between Nabo and me. It didn’t take much for things to boil to a head.
Our new used lemon started acting bizarre. Either it wouldn’t crank or it wouldn’t shut off. Garcia showed up with his toolbox and a six-pack of tallboy Bud. They drank, and he worked on the car, while I read at my desk. Headlamps flashed across the wall, and I figured Garcia was going for a test drive around Lawson Circle which was nothing more than a glorified cul-de-sac.
When the lights reappeared, I went out to smoke. Garcia got out of the Ford with another six-pack. I was incensed that Nabo had let a drunken illegal immigrant drive our car down to Wee Willy’s. If he’d gotten pulled over or had a wreck, I would have been in deep snickerdoodle. I crawled Nabo’s skinny butt and went back in the house. Garcia left. I went back out. Nabo was standing up falling down boohooing drunk. He cold-cocked his boombox, and I tore back into the house and over to my desk. Felt watched. Turned around, and he was coming at me with his machete.
I latched my eyes onto his and double-dog dared him down… and so I married him.
