Western Avenue and Other Fictions

In the Fields of Memory

67 In the Fields of Memory Tino is a good six corn stalks in front of me. His wrinkled, sweatstained paper-sack hat knocking against the cream-yellow tassel tops of corn. Deep in the green, up ahead of me, Boogaloo’s voice rises from the wet field like the repetitious song of the coqui frog: Que me duele la cabeza Tráeme una cerveza Que me duele el corazón Tráeme un palo de ron Then the soft, tired voices—Tino, Arturo, Negro, and my father—sing in harmony the guaracha’s chorus, their voices hanging low near the dirt, floating back toward me through the dew-covered leaves. The guaracha is a new lament, a song of sorrow and longing that Boogaloo has brought from a recent, brief return to Puerto Rico. Only fifteen, I work toward this song, I keep listening and try to stay close to the men. They keep moving , the tops of the corn rustling, swaying. Sometimes the song is all we have—the rhythm that soothes our hands scraping the leaves, lifting bags of potatoes, our feet walking up a dusty lane, stepping behind a tractor in the late afternoon sun, jumping on the back of a wagon. Sometimes the song is all I have—the rhythm of a language that separates me from the men. It reminds me that I have not lived the lives that they have, that even though I haven’t left an island like them, I am too young to be without a home, too young to enter into a lifelong struggle to find work. It reminds me that I should be ten miles down the road, in Niles, going to high school with my friends. My thighs are sore and chafing in the dew that has soaked my pants. I can’t keep up this morning, my arms tired, my head foggy 68 from too much drinking last night. Outside the Sportsman’s Bar, I sat under a tree, drinking a six-pack of beer, while the men went inside. Blue and red lights circled within, the deep beat of drums escaping from the swinging doors. I was about to fall asleep when they came with a bottle of cold Don Q, yelling for me. They passed around the bottle, laughed at each other’s stories , and played dice. Under the August moon, we walked along the edge of the highway, back to our shack, the lights of cars and semis spraying across our faces, down to our shoes. Single-file, kicking up stones, into the cool darkness we sang our song: If my head hurts Bring me a beer If my heart hurts Bring me a shot of rum Sometimes it isn’t enough to work hard and fast, to try and keep up. Some mornings all I can do is stay quiet and wonder if I have no choice but to become the man my father is: silent, always tied to men who have worked since they were children, men who seem to walk with a stoop straight toward death. I wonder if there will always be Boogaloos in my life: men who don’t feel any pain. He’s full of smiles jokes laughter—full of his voice, the guaracha, and he sings louder and moves faster and faster down the rows. Rápido, rápido, mis hermanos. Moving faster, I pull off three more ears, drop them into my burlap sack. Last night, outside the bar, underneath the tree, Boogaloo told everyone how he wasn’t going to work in fields anymore. He has changed, and he has returned to live each day smooth and light. With good food and drink. Song, laughter. Suave. So rich, hijo, I wipe my ass with one-dollar bills. My father wasn’t angry, and his voice wasn’t drunk. He stared into the fields. When his father made him quit school, he never thought he’d leave the fields of Puerto Rico to end up working in these fields. He looked at Boogaloo, and his lips trembled for a moment. He focused on his hands. He said that in the middle of the cane field he felt at peace swinging his machete in hard slices, and that the hardest work was at the mill unloading the carts of cane, seeing a white ox chained to the mill, walking round and round. That ox had walked so much rain filled its path, the water lapping against...