Chapter 18
Thinking Like A Stud
The late model, metallic green Mazda rumbled over the rough contours of the unpaved alley, during a night that was more on the cool side than warm. Behind the sedan, a small cloud of dust and dirt was roused up. Seeing nothing noteworthy, the restless debris quietly descended back to its former place of rest. The vehicle slowed before an equally primitive and sloped driveway.
Once the car had rolled into the driveway, a dejected and twenty-two year old Frankie Robles set the transmission in park. Right after, he cut off the lights and gazed out across from him. A short distant past the passenger side windows lay what his siblings sometimes referred to as The House Of Robles. They'd come up with the label some years ago, and somehow, it had stuck. The young man absorbed the structure. The squat, three-bedroom residence looked nearly forgotten as it sat there in the dark.
Frankie found it unusual that no lights were on at his parents' house. He peered at the dark structure for a moment longer, hoping to see the flickers of a television screen or any sign at all that someone was home. He witnessed no such confirmation.
After releasing a long, pent up and frustrated sigh, Frankie slipped out the door. He stepped around the front of his car, intent on letting himself inside. Promptly, he planned on raiding the fridge for food or booze, when the motion sensor light in the backyard clicked on. In its ferocious glare, he saw his younger brother Junior, wearing a white tank top and a pair of old jeans, and holding an aluminum baseball bat in his grip.
Frankie studied the surreal scene for a moment. "You look like you're about ready to pound the shit out of somebody."
"One of Amanda's friends called a little while ago." The nineteen year-old Junior replied. "The rumor is that Malo's out."
Malo, Frankie knew, was Amanda's ill-tempered and violent boyfriend. "You think he's coming here?"
Junior held out his bat. "If he does, I'm the fucking welcoming committee. Amanda already told him she doesn't want to see his ugly ass anymore, but you know how thick-headed some thugs can be."
"Especially thugs like Malo." Frankie agreed, before he looked back toward the house. "Where is everybody?"
"Dad came in from work, ate, took a shower and left. Vicky left on some date, right after she found a babysitter. Mom's over at Aunt Cessy's as usual, and thanks to Malo, Amanda's spending the night at Melinda's. I'm the only one here."
Frankie frowned, for the person he wanted to see most was his little sister. He'd come over to ask Amanda for advice regarding his oft-cheating wife Carmela.
"What are you doing here?" Junior asked.
"I didn't feel like going back to the apartment, because of everything that's been going on there lately with Carmela. Hey, listen. You want to go get something to eat?"
"If you're treating, hell yeah! I'm not exactly rolling in cash right now, since nobody wants to fucking hire me."
"I've got you covered."
"Sweet! Let me go change and lock up real quick." Junior ran off. "I'll be right back. Don't leave me hanging, bro!"
Frankie snickered. He could just imagine his younger sibling coming back out all dressed up, and him being gone. He'd played such cruel jokes on his brother before. This time, however, Frankie waited. He was sorely lacking in company.
A handful of minutes later, Junior strutted back out. He boasted, "I hardly get the chance to wear any of my good clothes."
By good clothes, Junior meant a long-sleeved Pendleton shirt checkered in black and white, a woven black belt with a polished square for a buckle, and pleated, tan, Dickies slacks.
"All you need now is a hair net." Frankie teased.
"I'm a Chicano and I look like a Chicano." Junior returned. "What do you think you look like?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Take a look at your clothes."
Frankie did. "It's just a shirt and jeans!"
"Where did you get them at?"
"Carmela bought them for me at the Anchor Blue store."
"See? You're losing your identity, bro. Your wife is so worried about trying to impress people over how much money she makes, that she's buying you stuff from the trendiest places at the mall."
"There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing!" Frankie protested.
"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it. All I'm saying is that you didn't used to dress that way before Carmela took over your life. I bet she paid for everything you have in your closet, didn't she? When you look at what I'm wearing, and you tell me that all I'm missing is a hair net, I say hell yeah! I know who I am and I know where I came from. When I look at what you're wearing, I'm thinking that you look like a poster boy for Plaza Bonita shopping mall."
In irritation, Frankie asked, "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"
"Yeah, Carmela cut off your balls. She cut them off, chewed on them for a while, and then she flushed them down the toilet. How is that for a reality check?"
For a moment, Frankie glared at his younger brother.
"You getting mad, bro?"
"No! Well, yeah. I am getting mad, but not at you. I'm getting mad at myself. I came out here to talk to Amanda about my wife. I'm sure she'd be saying pretty much the same things you are!"
"The truth hurts sometimes." Junior replied. "But if you can't trust your own family to tell you the truth, then who can you trust? Hey, you still want to get something to eat, or are you too butt-hurt now?"
"Let's go. If I stay here and that Malo guy shows up, I'll probably help you beat him up."
The siblings climbed into the car. Shortly after, the car rolled away from the dirt alley and onto much smoother asphalt road.
"Let me borrow your phone." Junior requested.
"Why?"
"See, this is one of those things you're going to have to change. When your own brother asks to borrow your phone, you pull it out of your pocket and hand the fucking thing over. On the other hand, when you find three guys' phone numbers in your wife's purse, that's when you start giving somebody the third degree and flipping out."
"Amanda told you about that?" Frankie grumbled.
"Yeah."
In resignation, Frankie gave up his phone.
Junior quickly punched in a number. A couple of moments later he was gabbing with somebody.