Call It Dead Weight

The sun burned like a bastard. It had been hot since midday– always was– and our clothes hung heavy with sweat, clinging to us like dead skin. Horses’ legs grew weak under the weight, but they weren’t real horses, just these hulking machines– big-boned, big-wheeled, and bloated with metal, carrying us from place to place. No money in us for real horses, but Mom called us cowboys, so cowboys we were.

The heat rippled off the asphalt, thick and molten like it couldn’t hold itself together anymore, melting into the air. The ground was alive, fevered, like it couldn’t forget it was burning, and it just wanted to spill its guts out. Cowboys drifted in and out of the corner store, their steps dragging, shadows trailing behind them like dead weight. There were barely any cars in the lot, just the owner’s and some employee’s, meaning everyone else walked– no better than us.

One guy looked at me funny as he passed, and I started to stand, but he quickened his pace. A group of old women strolled in next. I kept an eye on them, ready in case someone got stupid, but I knew better. They didn’t need me. Women like that were iron-willed– stronger than me. I’d learned that when I tried to play hero once, years back. Some punk from school tried robbing one of them, and I did what felt like taking a stand– fighting and chasing them. She smacked me across the head for getting in her way, told me I was a fool for trying to fight her battles.

As she scolded me, I focused on her eyes, deep green and sunken, with that look of someone who’s been folded inward by time. Eucalyptus trees behind her fanned out, spindly and crooked, their thin branches clawing at the sky. I could almost see the roots under her skin, the way the leaves framed her head. It wasn’t real, but my brain kept slipping back to my teacher’s lecture on perspective earlier. She looked like she’d been here for decades, standing still while everything decayed around her. I wondered how many decades she’d been alive.

The trees were awkward things, like boys stretching into their bodies, cool looks sharp against the sleepy heat– absorbing it. Despite their awkwardness, they felt like a little canopy of protection from the dead weight constantly pressing down on us– a feeble canopy, but a canopy nonetheless.

I watched some sway in the wind, balanced on a curb stop. I stayed out of their shade, and mourning doves perched in them, chirping out reminders I didn’t want. Everyone around here carries our share of dead weight, shitty memories– family dead, family deported, friends hooked on all kinds of things. My own dead weight was Mom, who smoked herself into a crumpled heap. Her lungs had finally given up in March.

When I thought too much about it, I’d throw rocks at the birds, hoping I could knock the memories loose. They’d never reach the trees, let alone the birds.

Mateo liked to bother me in the parking lot, too. He always had this lazy way of kicking up rocks or sitting on the parking blocks like they were thrones. Today, his hands were shoved so deep in his pockets I thought he might turn himself inside out. He didn’t look right.

“What's up?” I asked, squinting against the sun.

He stood there for a moment, like he was bracing himself, rolling a small rock under his shoe before finally saying, “Listen– Cami and I talked... we figured I should be the one to tell you. Since, you know, we’ve always been tight.”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at him, waiting.

“She’s pregnant,” he said, the words dropping like a stone into water. “We did everything right, man. Used protection, pulled out– everything we could. But... it still happened.”

It hung in the air between us, a weight neither of us wanted to touch. My mind fumbled with the words, tripping over them before they sank in.

My head buzzed, the words floating somewhere in the heat, not quite sinking in yet. It could be some fucked-up joke, maybe, but I knew it couldn’t be. “You’re serious?”

“I’m telling you, man, it wasn’t supposed to happen. We didn’t want this.”

My stomach twisted. It wasn’t the fact that it happened– it was that it had been going on behind my back. “How long?” I said, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be. I wished I could sound strong, and pissed off, but that strength just wouldn’t come to me. “How long have you been fucking her?”

“Alex, it wasn’t like that.” His voice cracked, desperate now. “We didn’t mean for it to be like this. I didn’t want to hide it from you, but we didn’t know how to tell you.”

I stood up, my whole body tensing, anger building like heat under my skin. "You didn’t know how to tell me?” I sneered. “God– I knew she had a thing for you, but I didn’t think you’d actually go there. And now this? It’s not that fucking hard to tell me you’re dating before you get her fucking pregnant!"

Mateo looked down at his shoes, kicking at that same pebble he’d been grinding under his foot. “I know. I know, man. I’m sorry. But I swear, we didn’t plan this. We did everything right, Alex. I’m not running from it. If she wants it, I’ll find the money. If she wants it gone, we’ll figure that out too.”

I clenched my fists, every part of me ready to snap. "That’s all you’ve got? Money?" My voice was rough, struggling to stay even. "You think that fixes it? You think offering her cash makes any of this easier on her?"

He looked up, eyes wide, but I didn’t stop.

"It’s not about the money, Mateo. She’s going through all of this alone, and all you’ve got is your wallet? You didn’t even have the guts to come to me until now. You didn’t think about her, about what this means for her– her body, her future. And what? You think you can just throw money at it and make it go away?"

I stepped forward, close enough that I could see the nerves twitching in his face. "You should’ve thought of her then, not just now."

Mateo’s shoulders tensed, and before I could say more, he shoved me, hard, knocking me back a step. “Don’t act like I don’t care about her,” he snapped, eyes burning. "I fucking told you, dude– I’m not running away from this."

The words barely landed before my fist did. I swung at him, but he ducked just in time, and suddenly we were grabbing at each other, stumbling over our feet. He shoved back, his elbow hitting me square in the ribs. It wasn’t some knockout punch– it was just clumsy, desperate, the two of us too tired and angry to do much more than wrestle like kids on a playground.

We scuffled like that for what felt like minutes, but was probably seconds– just enough time for us both to end up on the ground, breathing hard, sprawled out in the dirt and heat.

I rolled over, chest heaving, staring up at the blistering sky. "This fixes nothing," I muttered, more to myself than him, and pushed myself up– stumbling– then tripped.

-------------

I woke up later, the heat still clinging to my skin, the room sticky and airless. My muscles ached, stiff from the fight. The sun was lower in the sky now, slanting through the window, casting long shadows across the bed. I didn’t need to hear her footsteps to know Cami was coming—she stormed down the hallway like a force of nature, the door swinging open before I could even sit up.

“You’re such a piece of shit, Alex.”

Her voice hit me harder than Mateo’s shove, sharp and bitter.

“Nice to see you too,” I muttered, rubbing my face.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed tight across her chest. “You had to fucking make things worse, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t–” I started, but she cut me off.

“You think fighting Mateo makes any of this better?” Her voice was low, but shaking. “You couldn’t just let it be. You had to act like you’re the only one who gets to decide what happens– like you know everything. Jesus– you really never think about anyone but yourself.”

“That’s not fair,” I snapped, sitting up. “I was looking out for you, Cami. He got you pregnant, and all he’s offering is money. Like that’s going to fix it.”

Cami’s expression hardened. “You think I need you to look out for me? I’m not some helpless kid, Alex. I’m dealing with this. It’s my problem, not yours. I don’t need you to go fight my boyfriend and then trip, fall, and pass out so he has to carry you home to me. Do you know how embarrassing that is?”

My chest tightened at her words, heat rising up my neck. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, Cami– I was trying to protect you,” I shot back, the frustration spilling out before I could stop it. “I didn’t know what else to do. He got you pregnant.”

She scoffed, and threw her arms up in frustration. “You just don’t get it. This isn’t something only he did. Y’know, we decided he should tell you ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t fucking listen to me if I told you, and I told you that I wanted it. We both made the choices we made, Alex. And I’m going to live with them.”

I paused. “You’re not going to keep him.” It was a statement, but more of a question– a hopeful accusation.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I miss something? Are you the pregnant one?”

I let out a sigh. We were silent.

“You’re not going to keep him, right?”

“I don’t know.” She sounded exhausted and exasperated, and I wanted to say something good for her, but I was too empty for that. She tossed herself onto the foot of my bed, and her voice grew softer. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. This kid is mine, Alex. He’s growing inside of me. I can feel my body churning for him to fit, to exist. He’s my body’s little creation. And he’s here despite everything we did to make sure he wouldn’t be. Don’t you feel like that’s a sign of some kind?”

“No.” My response was confident but desperate, and I don’t know how much I believed myself.

Cami sighed. “No, of course you don’t.” She stood up, hands on her knees as she rocked herself forward and off the bed. I saw my mom in her, and thought for just a second that she would make a good mom. “Just sleep. You look like shit.”

-------------

I had a weird fucking dream. It started in my room, floorboards starting to churn and fold. I could only stare at them like anyone might as they stretched and molded into these huge sand dunes, and I looked up and the sky was moon-purple and the moon itself was this small and cold, white coin hanging too low– too bright– but it felt so big, like it was driving right up to me. It was so blinding I wanted to say it couldn’t be our moon– ours too dark and dirtied, just like us. But all things have sides, I guess. Maybe it’s mixed.

The sand was cool under my feet—too cool for a desert. It made my skin crawl, like something bad was about to happen, had to happen, or I would live the rest of my life in fear that it would ‘cause of that one day the desert was cooler than it should’ve been. But it didn’t; not yet. Nothing changed.

Something about the desert felt like a trap, like all of it was just a painting on the walls of a room, but I knew somehow that there was no place I could walk where I’d hit a wall telling me I’d reached the end. I knew that, even though I’d just been in my room, I wasn’t there anymore. It hadn’t been covered— it’d been changed.

I stood there for what felt like five seconds and an hour at the same time, and spun around at the feeling of a rush of cold wind against my back. There– cowboys, riding out of nowhere, their laughter sharp and broken and louder than any I’d heard, echoing across the dunes.

They sent me stumbling back, wide-eyed in shock, and my lucky-fucking-self stumbled into the long, unyielding horn of a freight train. I waved my arms frantically in an attempt to pull myself out of the fall, forward and out of the way again, but I just couldn’t make it; the force of the metal train slammed into my shoulder blade. Suddenly, I was staggering down to the ground in front of me.

Fuck. Jesus Christ, that hurt.

The cowboys on their high horses circled me, towering like my city above me. Their eyes were small and red like some supervillain laser-eyes, burning into my back, neck, arms, chest– even the very top of my head. They felt bigger than people— greater beings like mountains or the sky behind them, and I was fully exposed to them and their height. I felt small, and, fuck, I was scared.

Their faces flickered, shifting under the moonlight, like they were made of the same stuff as the desert.

“Please, stop.”

It came out as a sort of whine, and I felt almost embarrassed, but too terrified to really be. It was a useless cry, though; there was nothing for them to stop. They just stood still, and their horses stood behind them. We were silent, and then the sounds of the desert started to drown out, too. The wind quieted, and the sand that blew stopped shuffling in my ears, and animals didn’t sound.

One by one, they leaned in– their faces growing more and more distinguishable.

Huge, hooked nose and a smirk.

Big forehead; small, mean features.

Flattish nose; full, burnt red cheeks. (Like the sun.)

Wide, unsettling grin.

Square, clenched, angry jaw.

Sharp teeth. (He licked them as he bent toward me.)

Cold doe eyes; small, fake smile. (Strong features of a good Mexican man.

Fuck. My dad. Why is he my dad? Jesus.)

“WHY IS SHE TAKING CARE OF YOU?” They spoke in chorus.

“SHE SHOULD BE TAKING CARE OF HERSELF.” No– not a chorus. All their lips stayed still.

“SHE SHOULDN’T BE CLEANING UP YOUR MESS.” How did their lips keep from quivering? They only stretched into grins and stayed stuck like that.

“YOUR MESS. WHY IS SHE CLEANING UP YOUR MESS?” I didn’t like it– didn’t like how they didn’t move. They weren’t making sense. Please, stop. Stop.

“WHY IS SHE TAKING CARE OF YOU?” I don’t want her to— I’m sorry— I never meant for it—

“YOU FOUGHT HIM FOR YOU. ALL YOU’VE DONE IS MAKE IT WORSE.”

Please, please. Please.

“Why am I taking care of you?”

The voice revealed itself— Camila’s voice, or it sounded like it. The cowboys parted, the horses sauntering back, leg by leg, side to side. They formed an aisle, and Camila walked forward, her white dress dragging behind her, catching the sand in its folds. She didn’t look at me right away. She just kept walking, her eyes fixed on the altar at the end of the aisle.

“Get out of the way, Alejandro,” she said, her voice low but cutting.

I looked down for a moment, then saw my dress shoes and pants, and then that I was in a wedding aisle. To my sides, plastic folding chairs– everywhere. They stretched on for miles, full of sweating distant relatives, fanning themselves. I stumbled to the right, letting her pass me by. The heat was unbearable.

“Why am I still taking care of you, Alex? You’re not a kid anymore.” She turned her head as she walked, keeping her eyes on me.

“You could never take care of yourself. You could never grow up, and now what?” She stood at the altar, craning her body slowly to face me. “My child will never know you.”

“Please,” I begged, weakly– always weakly.

“Always weakly.”

I could never be real.

“You could never be real.”

What if I’m not?

“You’re not.”

I’m not.

Fuck.

-------------

She carried the child to 4 months, then miscarried.