CutBank
Volume 1
Issue 76 CutBank 76
Article 10
Spring 2012
Water
Sean Bernard
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Bernard, Sean (2012) "Water," CutBank: Vol. 1: Iss. 76, Article 10.
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SEAN B E R N A R D
W ater
dhe g irl ar the tem p agency laughed every tim e 1 returned. I ’d gone
th ro u g h six jobs in a year. J a n ito ria l. D ata entry. S helf-stocking , dhe
previous w in te r I was a hank courier. E ndless hours escorting do u b le locked canvas bags across barren southw est highways. O nce I dozed
o ff and nearly drove rig h t in to Nogales, M exico. So the agency tossed
me a labor gig, rakin g tar and gravel across roofs before plastering
it w ith C oolcoat, this oozing sealant that protects space shuttles.
Scraping m olten sludge on a Tucson ro o f in M a y is as soul-sucking
as y o u ’d expect. B u t th a t’s w hen I learned M exican beer’s best, since
m ost othe r guys were M exican and they came prepared, little g rills
and chicken and limes and cabbage heads and enorm ous tom atoes,
and they’d cook it all up fo r lu n c h , toss back a few, lis te n in g to
banda m usic on th e ir little portables. Being civilize d is a good way
o f fig h tin g the heat. O n e tim e a k id , this high school d ro p o u t, fell
o ff the roof, deadw eight. Landed in the w h ite -ro c k law n. Just lay
there. The w hole th in g was q u ie te r tha n it sounded in m y head. I
alm ost tu m b le d o ff once, too. You get dizzy up there, all th a t sun.
A M exican reached o u t, reeled me in. I hey never fell. H e saved me
a concussion and a life tim e o f ugly face. Sat me in shade and made
me sip water.
"N o cerveza,” he said, w agging a finger.
1hat was m y last day on the ro o fto p , and w h a t fo llo w e d was
bliss, a dream y tem p gig th a t comes along once in a life tim e : steady
and interesting, m oney good enough I co u ld b u y D os E quis at the
bar after w o rk . You factua lly need to d rin k beer in Tucson. O th e rw ise
just shoot yourself, because there’s n o th in g like w a lk in g in to a little
bar like G e ro n im o z (lo n g gone now ) do w n by the u n iv e rs ity after ten
hours in air so searing you can a ctu a lly see u n d u la tin g waves m o vin g
across the earth like some hellish shadow. N o joke. A n d you w a lk in
28
the b ar and feel that cool conditioned air and the blinds are drawn,
no more squinting against overw helm ing whiteness, your eyes ease
up, you get a Mexican draft and break a lime wedge over the m ug
and sit quiet, slipping back into normalcy. Your skin ripples with
pleasure. I hat glassy twinkling o f pool balls in the back. Ihe drone
of early innings baseball, Dodgers starting up, Vin chatting away.
And you drink into darkness and if you’re hungry you stop for tacos
on the way hom e, and back at your a partm ent open the windows,
turn on a fan, sleep naked and sheetless because th a t’s the only way
to keep from sweating all the life out.
W ater’s this thing in I ucson. Ihcrc’s an angry m inority w ho
think it’s some precious comm odity. If you leave the faucet on when
you brush your teeth, they get pale and in their heads they start
shrieking, Wasting! lucson breeds nuts w ho w ant to hoard water,
probably so when m ankind dies they can be the last to drink a cool
glass. I’ve always gotten a kick out of pestering these idiots. My
crazy high school English teacher practically invented Earth Day.
“Here,’ he’d say, “wear these buttons in support o f the earth!
Ihe
earth! He rode a bike and ate carob cookies and had this water bottle
that looked like a sack of I.V. fluids. O n m ornings I wasn’t sure the
world could handle all his good intentions, I’d sneak in the faculty
bathroom and leave all the faucets and toilets running. H e ’d come
into class furious at his coworkcrs. “They keep doing it! Wasting
water! Almost shaking with anger. It was pretty funny.
Anyway water isn’t vanishing. It just moves around. T h at’s
scientific. Look it up.
But my cushy tem p job p ut me smack in the middle of the
water wars: 1 worked for the county, giving tickets to people who
violated watering policy. Ihe policy was ridiculous. N o watering
after eight am. N o watering before eight pm. O n ly water on days
starting with I if you lived on even num bered streets. Never water
Bernard
on w eekends unless it was a new m o o n . If a rattlesnake leaves the
d o w n to w n bus station at seven an d a ro a d r u n n e r leaves M esa at four,
y ou’re allowed 20 ccs o f w ater on the fo u rth S u n d a y of May. O f
course everyone broke the rules because the rules were to o s tu p id
to follow. It was all a b o u t money. T hat was the year the city n eeded
revenue to beautify d o w n to w n . (T h a t’s a joke T u cso n a n s get. Every
year is the year the city needs revenue to beautify d o w n to w n .)
E n forcin g the rules m a d e m e act like an asshole, w h ich was
fun. O n e good th in g a b o u t living in a big w orld is th a t you can get
paid well to he an asshole. You d o n ’t even need any training. Plus
they gave m e a nice truck, a D a k o ta w ith ac an d a u to w in dow s. M y
first day I picked u p m y m o r n in g ro ute a n d they h ad m e d o patrols
in Sahuarita, a c o m m u n i ty s o u th of Tucson. O ld retired folks living
by golf courses (we d i d n ’t regulate golf courses). I drove th ro u g h
this su b-d e v elo p m e n t w ith fake red adobe-style houses, m o st w ith
approved w hite rock lawns. In o n e yard this old co d g e r was sitting
ou t in his a lu m i n u m chair, w a tering to m ato es. H e re m in d e d m e o f
m y uncle (dead, kidneys): w earing jeans a n d a d e n im shirt b u t t o n e d
at the wrists, big straw hat. Ten in the m o r n in g a n d it’s 9 7 degrees
an d this guy’s dressed like it’s w in te r in O h io . His eyes flickered as I
parked. H e kept watering.
I grinned.
As I walked across his driveway, I dragged m y forearm across
my forehead to get the sweat off. " H o t day.’’ I h e old guy just sort o f
chewed on the inside of his lip. Kept spraying. “ N ice to m a to e s ,” I
offered. Ihey were, too, a mass o f hairy green plants cu rlin g on wire
cages. Five feet tall. Ihe fat red globules were so ripe I c o u ld smell
their sugars.
"Son, I d offer you one, he said, c h o o sin g his w ords, “h u t I
th in k you an a-hole.”
I w rote the ticket a n d told him he h ad tw o weeks to pay
before penalties kicked in.
Bernard
H e set his hose d o w n . “Your d a d d y raise you to harass honest
h a rd -w o rk in g people?
wM v d a d d y d i d n ’t raise me. ' I h a n d e d h im th e ticket. Two
h u n d r e d dollar Hne.
H e looked u p at me, his face twitchy. “ I served in wars. I his
ain’t right!
he yelled.
H e was u n d e rs ta n d a b ly upset. B ut the n e ig h b o rh o o d was
quiet. N o kids. N o cars. His sh o u ts sort o f trickled away a nd he
obviously felt em barrassed a b o u t yelling.
I shrugged again. “ I’m just the m essenger.’
H e looked at the ticket in his h a n d , at me. “ People like you
kill this w orld.
I n o d d e d somberly.
T hen 1 w ro te h im a n o th e r ticket, said, “O h , luck you,
threw it at him , a n d drove away.
I always liked m o n s o o n season, T ucson, late s u m m e r, w h e n th e rains
com e. M o rn in g s the skies are clear blue, b u t m id d a y these fortresses
of w hite clouds m arch u p Irom the so u th , a n d by a fte rn o o n pitchblack sto rm s are b o m b a r d in g the city. It’s fast a n d crazy, an inch o f
d o w n p o u r in ten m inutes. L ightning, w ind, b o o m in g th u n d e r, like
the w o rld ’s brea k in g apart.
M v m an a g e r was the c o u n ty w ater supervisor, a slim w hite
lady, Celia. I saw her twice a day, at eight to get m y m o r n in g route
a n d back at lunch for th e a fte rn o o n route. She c o u ld n ’t let m e k now
in advance, in case I ’d w arn people. She n e e d n ’t have w orried. I liked
giving tickets. O v e r lu n ch o n e day, Celia said I c ould m ake extra
cash, “ lax free. Buv so m e cds. Take y o u r girlfriend o u t .” She pulled
a b lo n d s tra n d from her eyes. “W h a te v e r you kids d o .’
W e were eating taq u ito s b u rie d in cre m a a n d g uacam ole
from Los Bctos. I bit into a shell a nd the c hicken o r b e e f o r w hatever
had s o m e th in g hard in it that I had to spit in to m y palm . C elia m ad e
Bernard
a face. “Sorry,” I said. “So, w h ar now, I o v e r tu r n ra in b u c k e ts ? ”
I figured she was lying, teasing m e. She was c u te a n d flirted
a little. A little o ld er th an m e, five years o r so. S h e’d g o n e to th e city’s
private C a th o lic school: she had her h ig h school d i p l o m a fram ed
above her desk, next to her U ofA d ip lo m a . I h ere w ere p ictu res o f
h er a n d tw o d aug h ters, a n d also a p h o t o o f h er a n d h u s b a n d d o w n
o n the Sea o f C o rte z , h e ’s o n a d o c k lifting this h u g e fish a n d sh e’s
h o ld in g a beer a n d lau ghing. She was a g o o d boss. Jo k e d a r o u n d . She
got th at life was pointless. S o m e tim e s she c o m p l i m e n t e d m y sn ap b u t t o n shirts, w h ich I was p r o u d of, I s p e n t serious tim e at Buffalo
Exchange. “ 1 like the blue o n e ,” sh e’d say.
It m ak es y o u look like
so m e sort o f d e sp e rad o .” I liked that. A n d s o m e tim e s I im a g in e d her
at h o m e , g ettin g ready for bed. P u ttin g cold cream o n her face. H e r
h u s b a n d reading in bed, o r already asleep, sn o rin g . F artin g u n d e r the
sheets. D u m b h u s b a n d stuff. M a y b e every n o w a n d th e n s h e ’d look
in the m irror, t h i n k h o w e m p t y life was. Kids, h u s b a n d , dom esticity.
A n d for th a t m o m e n t sh e’d ra th e r be s o m e w h e re else, s o m e w h e re
real. W ith a guy like me.
It was a childish delusion . Kids— a n d t h a t ’s w h a t I was— are
hopeful th at way.
C elia said, “You have a look th a t says, I k n o w an o p p o r t u n i t y
w h e n 1 see one.
I sm iled. Like I said, I was p r o u d back th e n .
"In C o lo ra d o , it's against state law to collect rainw ater, a n d
we re startin g to explore just th at type o f t h i n g in A rizona. IFiere are
gro u p s in M aric o p a C o u n t y .” She lowered h er voice. “ It’s u n h ealthy .
I he acidity, I m e a n , ask s o m e o n e at the hospital h o w m a n y ch ild re n
c o m e in because th ey ’ve been p o is o n e d by acid rainw ater? d h is
kid, I read last week, he needs a new kidney. Because o f d r i n k i n g
rainw ater!”
I s h o o k m y head. It all s o u n d e d like bullshit. “So h o w m u c h
do I get paid?”
Bernard
“A h u n d r e d dollars a week. All you d o — well, you d o n t need
to p rovide an y evidence, n o t h i n g like that. Just be discreet, is all.
D o n ’t get ca u g h t. If you d o get c a u g h t— ’’
I m a d e a q u ie t sign, finger to m y lips. She n o d d e d . “ Exactly."
I h e p h o n e rang. “N o , I d i d n ’t m a k e th eir d in n e r, she said to it, “you
were su p p o s e d to m ak e th eir d in n er.
She rolled her eyes at me. She
was w earin g a red b u t t o n - u p blouse w ith these little fiaps o n the
shoulders, all m ilitaristic. Ih e t o p c o u p le b u t t o n s o f th e blou se were
u n d o n e . H e r cleavage was tru ly w o n d e rfu l, a n d all she gave was a
h in t. She was a nice girl.
As she k ep t talk ing , she passed m e an envelope. Ih e w h o le
th in g s ee m e d easy, a n d C elia was sort o f h o t, a n d I w a n te d to im press
her. I never s to p p e d to t h i n k ahead.
I o p e n e d th e en ve lo p e in th e tru ck . A o n e h u n d r e d dollar
bill. First in m y life.
Listen: I'm th e type o f guy w h o r e m e m b e rs his first h u n d r e d .
N o t so m a n y peo p le can d o that. It’s a way o f s e p a ratin g th e Celias
from th e M es o f th e w orld . It’s a s h arp d is tin c tio n .
Sam H u g h e s is th e fancy university n e ig h b o r h o o d w h e re A n a lived,
old M ission-style houses w ith leafy trees a n d grassy yards, so m u c h
green a n d shad e th a t y ou can forget y o u ’re in th e desert. M o s t o f
th e houses even have c u s t o m - b u i l t pools. O riginally, rich w h ite
Spanish p eo p le lived there. N o w it’s just an y rich w h ite people. Ih e
backhouses, like th e o n e A na re n te d , were b u ilt for M ex ican m aid s
w h o co o k e d , cleaned, raised th e kids. A na babysat a n d I teased h er
th at she was th e m aid . She d id n 't laugh.
Ih e first tim e we m et, A na was jo gging a n d b re a th in g hard.
She was w e arin g a lo n g w h ite t-shirt a n d jo gg ing shorts. Ih e t-shirt
was so sweaty y ou c o u ld see a b lue bra b e n e a th .
I was s ittin g o n th e curb, s m o k in g a cigarette.
She jogged past, slowed d o w n , sto p p e d . W alk ed back.
Bernard
“W h a t are you d o in g , m ister?”
T h at cracked m e up. Mister.
“ N o t being Ht a n d h ealth y like y o u ,” I said. “G u ilty as
charged!”
She fro w ned . She had these s w o o p in g b ro w n eyes. “You
were staring at m y hou se.”
We b o th looked at th e big w h ite h o u se d o w n th e block. It
was true, I d been staring.
But it was C elia’s house, n o t hers. “ You live there?” I said.
“You do n't live there.”
“ In the g u e sth o u se I do. Seriously, w h a t are y o u u p to?” She
was lo oking a r o u n d lor help. I h a t was the year w ith all the stories
a b o u t M exican im m ig ra n ts k i d n a p p i n g a n d ra p in g jogging girls.
Really. It always tu r n e d o u t to be th e girls’ boyfriends, b u t th e fear
never faded.
I m ash ed the cigarette. “W a lk in g h o m e fro m w ork. G o t hot.
It’s hot. You're hot, to o .”
She co n sid ered this. She w asn’t s tu p id . I saw h er smile, even.
“ I definitely m e a n t it b o th ways,” I said.
She laughed in th e way peo ple ca n ’t help. D e sp ite k n o w in g
she sh o u ld be suspicious.
“W e m ig h t as well get a d rin k s o m e tim e , d o n ’t y o u think?
You d rin k , d o n ’t you?”
She was g rin n in g now. “ Beer’s bad , d o n ’t y o u k n o w h ow
m u c h w ater it wastes?”
I said she co u ld explain it all to m e at a bar. Inside I t h o u g h t,
Jesus C h rist, a n o th e r one.
A na was fine, of course, b u t even now adays I get a n n o y e d a b o u t water.
People co nse rv in g it. Like h ow th e ice caps are m elting. I h av e n ’t seen
any ice caps m e ltin g w here 1 live. You have to tru s t experts, I guess.
Ih is w o rld now, its th e k in d of w o rld w h e re y ou have to have faith in
Bernard
people you d o n ’t know if you w ant to avoid s o u n d in g like an asshole.
1 prefer o th e r kinds o f w orlds h u t no o n e asked my o p in io n .
I hat first evening I was buoyant: this g o o d -lo o k in g sm art girl gives
you her num ber? Ihe desert is singing yo u r nam e. 1 looked at the
little slip o f paper a b o u t fifty tim es as I drove in to the western part
o f T u c s o n , the far side o f the freeway, past the c o m m u n it y college. It
was after sunset. M y first incursion. I was in barrio savaco, this po o r
old M exican c o m m u n ity , m ostly g ra n d m o th e rs a nd grandfathers
who'd lived there for decades. N o d r u n k y o u n g guys sitting a ro u n d
pissed at the w orld, just old folks w ith tin y backyards and gardens o f
peppers a n d epazote, cilantro an d tom atoes. Beans. Squash. As Celia
advised, I covered u p the c o u n ty m arkings o n the truck. I waited
until the sky was that blood red it only gets in the desert, an d then
I jogged d o w n alleys a n d sw ung over stone walls and discovered
worlds I d never k n o w n existed, e n o rm o u s and intricate systems of
tubes and trash bags a n d woven b a n a n a leaves th a t cascaded into
ceram ic cisterns, these people o f the desert preserving the w ater like
the very ancients. It’d rained three tim es that week. I nu d g e d the
cisterns a n d heard thick splash. I du ck ed m y nose to the hole a n d
smelled the water, musty, a little sweet.
E n te rin g o n e backyard was like ste p p in g into a new country:
a green globe h u n g above the door, a bu lb inside it, radiating soft
light. It was a Japanese glass b u o y (at the tim e I had no idea w h a t it
was, a fish bowl, m aybe). Ihe g r o u n d was beaten s m o o th , a n d red
bricks were fitted in to the earth in a spiral path, d h e porch was like a
sailboat: beam s n o t purchased from a store b u t g e n u in e saguaro ribs,
polished a n d lacquered, h o ld in g up an airy canopy. It sighed w ith
storm breeze. I here was a fo u n ta in that g linted kaleidoscope, stuck
all over w ith bits o f glass, pottery, Jaritos and Yoohoo bottles. Bottle
tops. G u m w rappers. A n y th in g that gave off a little light. Each step I
to o k a dded to the radiance. Som ew here far off in the desert there was
Bernard
th u n d e r. Inside a w o m a n was co o k in g , I h ea rd oil sizzling, sm elled
garlic a n d o n io n s. Baseball o n th e radio, in S panish. T h a t w o n d e rfu l
crack o f a beer can b ein g o p e n e d . T he to p o f th e f o u n ta in was cru s te d
a little w'ith pigeon shit, w h ite sp latter w ith d a rk shapeless splotches.
I looked d o w n th e c e n te r hole. Water.
1 was a b o u t to break it w h e n 1 h ad th e s u d d e n aw ful sense
th at s o m e o n e was w a tc h in g me. N o o n e in th e house; m o re like
outside. N o t a n y o n e specific. Just everyone, everyw here.
But guilt passes fast w h e n yo u feel a h u n d r e d b u ck s in y o u r
pocket.
T h e first n ig h t I got twelve in o n e h our. It was easy: pick u p
a rock, sh a tte r the cistern.
A few p eop le h ad ten gallon w a te r buckets. N e x t tim e, I
th o u g h t, I’d b rin g a knife.
A na a n d I m et o n a F riday at G e r o n im o z . I w o re o n e o f m y spiffy
western shirts a n d she h ad o n a d e n i m m in i-sk irt. Days lo n g gone.
W e split a p itc h e r a n d played shufH eboard. S he p u t a w h o le T h e
C u re a lb u m o n the juk ebo x a n d I p re te n d e d to like it. She was a
typical T u cson girl: M exican paren ts b u t she w a sn ’t M exican , n o way.
W o u ld n 't cross th e b o rd e r to see her abuelos, w o u l d n ’t eat b u rrito s,
n o t even Taco Bell. She was a university s t u d e n t a n d b abysat for
money. She called it s o m e F ren ch n am e. I t h o u g h t , b a b y s ittin g ’s
babysittin g, b u t k ept quiet. I w a n te d to stay o u t, go d o w n to the
p o p u la r bars o n F o u rth Avenue, see the h o u s e b a n d at O ’M alley’s,
b u t she k ep t c h e ck in g h er w atch. “C u rfe w ? ” I joked.
'M y landlord gets w o rried. S h e’s nice, t h o u g h . She lets m e
sw im in the p o ol.”
I re m e m b e re d Celia, suddenly. “She? Is she single?”
A n a n o d d e d . “ H e r h u s b a n d d ied a few years ago. T h a t ’s w h y
I babysit so m u c h . ”
I told her h o w k in d th a t was. T h e n I said it was sort o f
Bernard
late, and I’d walk her home. It wasn’t a huge revelation, that Celias
husband was dead; but it was. It embarrassed me. Lusting after a
single mom, that’s no good. I was quiet as we walked. It hadn’t rained
all day so it was dry and warm. We strolled across the university
campus. Ana pointed at the buildings her classes were in. I asked if
college guys were as awful as they seemed and she laughed and said
yes, absolutely. She talked about how she hoped to be a corporate
lawyer and would live in Seattle all her life. She looked at me. "And
you? W hat do you want from life?
I thought about telling her how I felt things inside that I
couldn't explain. The sense that I needed to move and keep moving,
and one day I’d be tired, and that’s where I'd stay.
Instead I said, “Mostly I want to plant a garden. Bullshit. I
knew it sounded romantic.
She looked at me a long m om ent with those dark eyes. It was
the right thing to say. We crossed Campbell Avenue hand-in-hand,
trying not to get hit by drunk-driving college kids. At the house she
stopped, stepped close to me. I heard splashing in a pool out back,
Celia, probably, cooling off in the warm sum m er evening. Ana kissed
me and said I should call her and she went inside. I crossed the street
and sat down. I hoped to see Celia, to be honest. But soon enough
the splashing stopped and no one appeared and I walked home.
Ihe next day was all sun and Celia was on the phone in her office,
gabbing with a friend, I could tell because she was laughing and
lowering her voice when she talked. I stood in her doorway and gave
a big thum bs up. “Hold on, she said. She looked at me. “What?
“ Ihe water,” I whispered. “G ot twelve buckets.
“That’s really great, good work!
She gave me a high-five
over the desk. I saw the picture o f her husband and felt bad again.
I wanted to linger a minute, tell her how great it was, her working
and being a mom at the same time, all that. But you try to be nice to
Bernard
37
people you do n’t know well and it makes them think you’re a creep.
Crazy world.
lhat afternoon my patrol area was the suburbs on the
northwest side of town. I drove through the cheap new housing
developments and wondered if there’d ever been anything other
than cheap new housing developments in lucson. Kids swam in
a com m unity pool. I found six people breaking the law: watering
yards, washing cars. A kid who m ust have been twelve started crying
when 1 gave him a ticket. “But my dad told me to water!” he said.
“I’m so busted!
I told him not to worry, it was his dad ’s fault. That
didn’t cheer him up.
O ne tattooed guy had a pressure-hose going, cleaning oil
stains off his driveway. Ihere was a huge puddle o f runoff in the
street, all rainbow-shimmery with grease. The pressure-hose was a
loud machine. You could barely hear the Sepultura playing in his
garage.
“Fucking say that to my face,” he said. “C om e and tell me I
have to pay a fine.”
1 put the citation on the ground. “You have two weeks or
penalties kick in.”
1 ran to the truck and sped away as he lasered the citation
with the hose.
His temper made sense. Ihe heat was excruciating for a
while: for two weeks it d id n t rain. Over 1 10 degrees every day. Ihe
weatherman said, I said it would be like this.” Ihere were billboards
of him, smiling above those words: I Said It Would Be Like This. A
dry summer, the first year o f a drought, they said, and every day 1
drove around the city, passing out tickets. People yelled and cussed
at me. I learned when to keep the truck running, just in case. I was
rarely sent to nicer neighborhoods and one day 1 asked Celia about
it. She was paying bills over lunch, which tor her was some celery
slices and a little tub of peanut butter.
Bernard
“ H e re ’s so m e advice,
she said, glaring at her calculator.
“ D o n ’t be a single m o m .’
“I ’ll try m y hardest to avoid it.’ I laughed. She d ip p e d celery
in the p e a n u t butter, c ru n c h e d loudly. She offered m e one. I shook
my head. 1 tap p e d m y a fte rn o o n route. “S ahuarita again? Second
tim e this week. H o w are the routes chosen? D o you choose them ?
She was Hipping th ro u g h a pile o f yellow receipts. “Sure as
hell ain’t the governor.”
“ But, I guess. W h a t I m ean is, w h y d o 1 only go som e places?
A nd avoid others?”
She p u t the receipts d o w n . “Seriously? W h y d o you th in k r
M o n e y m o n e y m oney.’
1 shrugged, stood, a n d h eaded o u t for Sahuarita. I drove
a ro u n d th e n e ig h b o r h o o d a n d no o n e was w atering. N o t a soul. I
sto p p e d at a fam iliar house. Ihe old guy’s t o m a to plants were on
his fro n t lawn, b ro w n , crisped, sagging, dead. Ihe c u rtains m oved
inside. 1 drove on.
A n d t h a t ’s h o w it w ent. D ay after day, driving a ro u n d ,
ticketing. 1 felt official. A part o f the bureaucracy. I d i d n ’t like it
m u c h b u t it wasn't so bad. T he pay was solid. Regular paychecks
never h u rt. I had a shirt w ith a badge sewn in. I h a d the truck, its
official m arkings.
A nd nights the m arkings vanished, 1 d u c k e d low, struck
deep, loosed waters into earth.
It was exhilarating a n d it paid well. I was b u m m e d w h e n
m o n so o n s were forecast again. All people w a n t is to feel special. Just
every now a n d th en is e n o u g h .
Late nights m e a n d Ana talked on the p h o n e . I'd look o u t
m y a p a rtm e n t w in d o w a nd w o n d e r w h a t she was doing. I sat in front
o f a fan in boxers, d r in k in g beer. Irving n o t to sweat. Ihe air even
smelled hot. She liked talking o n the p h o n e , in th e d ark like that.
She’d just go on a n d on. S o m e tim e s I dozed off. You s h u t y o u r eyes
Bernard
and listen to a voice an d it’s late an d dark, like dream s, an d th ere’s
s o m e th in g natural to it, soothin g, that I h a d n ’t felt in years.
I he storm s really are su p p o s e d to c o m e back," I said. “ Big
ones, too.
“ Ih e rivers will r u n ,” she said. “ W e cou ld sail to the Pacific
from River Road.
It’d hit 115 degrees th at day. N o t a d ro p of rain.
I w a n ted to see her again an d said as m u ch .
“ I have to babysit this w eekend," she said. “ I told yo u .”
I said I'd co m e over. W h a t did kids know? Kids d i d n ’t k n o w
anything.
“W e’ll lock th e m in the closet a n d swim in th a t big fancy
pool y o u r landlord has.”
She laughed. “ You can’t c o m e over. S he’d kill m e, kick m e
out! Tomorrow, she said.
“ Promise, to m o rro w .”
“ Tomorrow," she prom ised.
So o n a Friday ev en ing A na ca m e o u t beautiful a n d sm elling
of soap. I d i d n t see Celia inside b u t it d i d n ’t m atter. W e w e n t to
Rosas u p on C am p b ell, w h ic h isnt that expensive, ten bucks a plate,
but for m e it was a splurge. A na w ore a w h ite s u m m e r dress a n d had
this yellow butterfly barrette in her hair an d we were in a well-lit
place with h ap p y adults. She looked sexy, I m e a n even her th ro a t was
sexy, it was like the first fem in in e th ro a t I d ever noticed . W e o rd ered
margaritas an d guacam ole an d carne seca plates a n d b o th go t a little
d ru n k .
“ I’m a h a p p y c a m p e r right now,” she said, laughing. H e r
voice was low, m eaningful.
Ihe bill cam e an d I pulled o u t a h u n d r e d dollar bill a n d
asked the waitress if it was okay, if she c o u ld ch ang e it. She shrugged,
no big deal. Ana looked at the bill an d I c o u ld tell it im pressed her. I
asked if she w anted dessert. She sh o o k her head a n d sort of sm iled at
Bernard
me and I t^ot the hint. It was the best meal I d eaten in m o n th s, and
I was just a little d r u n k , and w hen we got back in the truck 1 w a n te d
to drive, and with w indow s d o w n 1 felt jubilant, floaty the way you
get in the desert at night, and we drove th ro u g h the rich foothills
that overlook the city, and lucson shim m ered below us, like a city of
amber, we could sec the little veins and arteries of late traffic, and for
once the city was mine.
Ana said we could go to m y place a nd I lied a nd said a cousin
was in tow n, visiting, it w o u ld n ’t be private. She was quiet. I drove
back in to the city a nd she slid her ha n d over and we to u ch e d fingers.
'Ihat truck d id n ’t have bucket seats, I k now that m uch. At her place
1 idled the engine a n d she invited m e in. She told me I had to keep
quiet. We passed th ro u g h a sidcgate a nd she m ade m e wait while she
'
unlocked the guesthouse. Ihcn she beckoned m e in. I tip-toed past
the pool and I couldn't resist, I leaned over, to u ched m y fingers to
the waters. They were w arm , w hich disa p p o in te d me. Ana shut the
door, cleared books of poetry off her bed. She said, Just d o n t use the
b a th ro o m , the pipes are b roken, ok a y '
a n d she tu rn e d off the light
and we started kissing, a n d she u n s n a p p e d the b u tto n s on m y shirt
and p ut her hands on m y skin, my ribs, and suddenly I felt sad, and
for no good reason at all.
I hope I’m not m aking all this s o u n d like she was just
som e girl. She was m ore than that: if you grew up how I grew up,
struggling, you cam e to a m o m e n t w here you could for the first tim e
see a better future. You could see that people w h o weren’t so different
from you actually m ade it— over to the o th er side, that w orld you
th o u g h t existed only on 1 V.
Ana. She had that aura to her, so real it alm ost spread o ut
from her b o d y like fire.
I w oke up to early m o rn in g rains. Ana was dead in sleep beside me.
1 had to piss.
Bernard
I let myself out. It was still darkish, before the first lightening
o f dawn. The guesthouse was at the back o f the yard, and between it
and the main house was the pool. Rains splashed against the water.
I went to the side o f the guesthouse, behind a wooden shed, and
relieved myself. I was naked and thirsty. The rain was warm against
my skin. 1 closed m y eyes and just felt it, even tasted it a little, but
there wasn’t so m uch to quench. I started back in and then in the
pool someone appeared from underwater. I froze as they dipped
back below, a form just beneath the surface, a ripple beneath the
pockmarks of the rain.
For a m inute I stood watching, mesmerized.
Then a lightning bolt Hashed.
Ihe swimmer swam quickly to the side and climbed out. It
was Celia. She stood dripping on the concrete, grasping for a folded
towel. I crouched into a ball behind the shed.
I must have made a sound.
She turned and looked toward the guesthouse. “Ana?”
I held my breath.
“Ana? Is that you? Ana?”
She was scared. I could hear it plainly. I’d heard it in the
voices o f m any o f the people whose cisterns I’d broken. Stepping
outside at a strange sound, their voices fragile, Hello?
I waited until she went back into her house.
I hen I went into the guesthouse, grabbed my pants and
shoes, and got out o f there.
I called in sick in the m orning. No biggie: Celia said there was no
sense in giving tickets in the rain. At ten I called Ana. She d id n ’t
answer. I ate another bowl of cereal. I watched Ihe Price is Right. I
did push-ups and sit-ups. I had a book o f poems I ’d taken from Ana’s
and tried to read it but the words were just confusing. I tried her
again. Nothing.
Bernard
I was at G e r o n im o z by n o o n . Rains were pissing d o w n and
it was supposed to worsen. East C oast baseball games h a d n ’t started.
I blew a few bucks listening to the jukebox. Pool was free, I played
alone, kept scratching. 1 bet the b a rte n d er the M ets w ould beat the
C ardinals. I w on a n d he p o ured m e a beer. 1 w a nted to talk to him
a b o u t all the shit in m y life. 1 tried to start a conversation. I said, “ It's
crazv, the way people feel a b o u t water. Isn’t it?'
H e was w iping o u t beer mugs. H e shrugged.
I tried Ana on the pay p hone. N o answer. I ordered a n o th e r
beer a n d nursed it.
T hen I th o u g h t she was trying to avoid me.
So I walked over.
Every few years in Tucson, floods c o m e ru sh in g d o w n the m o u n ta in s .
Flash floods, they say, b u t that n a m e ’s misleading: there’s a b u ild ­
up, a slow an d gradual force— it’s n ot like five m in u tes o f rain, then
boom ! It’s an hour, a day, tw o days. All this w ater collects an d collects
in streams a n d arroyos a nd washes, rising higher. A nd in the desert
the g r o u n d is hard as concrete. M oisture is foreign so the desert
rejects it, denies it entry, a nd if it rains hard en o u g h a nd long e n o u g h
there’s n o th in g for all th at water to do b ut move a n d keep m oving.
It tears th ro u g h riverbeds and canyons. It washes o u t underpasses
and gardens a n d even stone bridges in the canyons, bridges p u t
into place by p o o r workers in the thirties, old Roosevelt’s guys. I've
seen pictures of those m en, sm iling tiredly on their finished bridges.
Swigging beers in black a nd white. Ihey look hot. But they’re gone,
the bridges are gone, the Hoods got th em .
It’s strange, that in a desert, water destroys.
I walked d ow n Speedway. It was eight p m , usually a quiet
hour, but that night was m a y h e m , as if the rains were driving
everyone crazy. G u tte rs overHowed with frothy black water. Plastic
grocery bags swirled in m in iatu re m aelstrom s. W itter stream ed
Bernard
throug h intersections. Cars were h o n k in g , stalled, or d riving at five
miles an hour. People leaped the torrents w ith their pants hitch ed up,
t-shirts over their heads. N o o ne had an um brella. It was still ninety
degrees out. It was quieter at Sam H u ghes, b u t by th en I was soaked
thro ugh .
I let m yself in the sidegate. As 1 passed by the lit living room ,
I saw Ana a n d Celia sitting inside on a couch. Tw o little girls sat on
the Hoor, coloring. C ray ons everywhere.
Celia was talking to Ana. M y shirt in her hands. It was th at
blue one, the o n e she liked.
She looked pissed an d sad an d scared at once.
M aybe I could have in te rru p te d , fixed it all. I d o n ’t know. I
d id n ’t kn ock an d try.
I w ent into A na’s guesthouse. Ihere was a tw in bed a n d a
card table an d o n e o f those ten-dollar labric armoires. T h at was it.
The table had piles o f books a n d papers. Ihere were m o re books
piled u n d e rn eath . A n o te b o o k on the table had “ B u d g et” w ritten
across the top. A n o th e r had “G oals.” N o TV, n o t even a radio. I
w an ted to lock the doors. S pend the n ig ht there. Read her books.
Lay in her bed. She could co m e back and we w o u ld talk, even a b o u t
the future, I w o u ld n ’t say nonsense a b o u t gardens, I ’d tell her w h o I
really was, find o u t w h o she was, too. I only lingered for a m in u te ,
tho ugh . I was too wet, I d i d n ’t w a n t to leave a stain.
I left the boo k o f po em s on her pillow.
Ih e n I th o u g h t, m ig ht as well go ov ertu rn som e rain buckets.
1 w ent back to the first n e ig h b o rh o o d in a drizzle. C a r
headlights were blurry, an d I was a little d r u n k b u t relaxed. 1 h o p p e d
on e wall, then another, excited to be o u t again. But at o n e house after
another, nothing: no new w ater-g ath ering systems, no new cisterns. I
cursed.
I w a n te d to break things.
I w an ted so m eo n e to c o m e o u t alter me, to chase m e d ow n .
Bernard
I w a n te d to run, I w a n te d to get caught, I w a n te d to explain
myself.
I saved the house w ith the Japanese glass buo y lor last: there,
at least, I k n e w I c ould destroy s o m e th in g — the canopy, the green
light. I c ould tear th e bricks u p o u t o f the m u d .
I started to pull m yself over the wall a n d heard a voice in the
yard. S o m e o n e singing.
1 stood in the rain a n d listened carefully, b u t I c o u ld n ’t
u n d e rs ta n d .
[
W h e n the voice s to p p e d a n d a d o o r closed, I grabbed hold
o f the wall, ready.
But m y fingers were shaking a n d 1 couldn't move.
M y last stop that n ig h t 1 d r o p p e d the truck oft at the office a n d slid a
n ote u n d e r the d o o r for Celia, asking her to mail m y last check (and
an y o th e r m o n e y 1 deserved, 1 added).
A c ouple days later the girl at th e te m p office grin n e d . “Two m onths!
A new record.
1 d i d n ’t t h in k it was funny, b u t I still laughed. She was kind
of cute.
• • •
lucson. W h a t a place.
I left o u t how so m e old M exican w o m e n w o u ld screech at
m e a nd bran d ish b room s.
It’s n o t me, it’s the law! That's w h a t I told everyone. I said, I
have kids to feed, too!
I d i d n ’t. But I th o u g h t to myself, They d o n ’t k n o w that.
W h ic h m ad e m e feel better.
It’s a m a z in g how awful a person you o nce were, ho w long
ago it seems, ho w foreign.
Bernard
A couple nights ago 1 o p e n e d m y eyes a n d there was Ana,
stan d in g in fro n t of the bed.
H e r arm s were crossed. She was glaring at me.
I was alarm ed by this. “W h a t the fuck?” is w h a t I said.
She blew a kiss at m e is h ow I knew I was dre am in g . Just m y
m in d playing tricks.
I d o n ’t re m e m b e r this h u t everyone tells m e it h a p p e n e d far
outside Tucson, in the original chapel. T h a t ’s w h a t m y uncle called
nature. The family priest g athered m e in his arm s (priests never hold,
they always gather) a n d laid m y skull into a basin o f w ater collected
from desert rains where there are n o rains, hardly at all, an d you
kno w then that the w hole ritual has a lot of m e a n in g to it. T h a t ’s how
1 was baptized. I he o th e r night, after d re a m in g o f Ana, I d re a m e d
I was alone in that place o f baptism . A desert, b u t n o t the ugly o n e
a r o u n d Tucson. This desert was w h ite and em pty, like a cathedral.
There was a s o u n d o f d r ip p in g w ater a n d 1 needed to d rin k b u t the
water was h id d en , I w a nd ered over e n o r m o u s w h ite rocks, d o w n
sandy gullies. 1 d ro p p e d to m y knees a n d tore at the earth, I to o k off
m y shirt an d laid it d o w n the way y o u ’re s u p p o sed to, so w ater w o u ld
seep into it, an d finally my shirt filled. But w ith sand.
Bernard