DINNER

Fabiola is at the stove and I give her a soft whack on the ass. "Stop that!" "That's what it's for." "Is your mother going crazy?" "She's okay. This is the worst crisis for both my mom and dad. You know how much they adore my brother." "You have never felt jealous?" "Jealous about what? I love all my children the same even though I may love them differently. My parents had that special gift when we were children to make all of us feel that each of us was an only child." I stare at Fabiola as she moves about the kitchen. She is attired in tennis shoes, jeans and a sleeveless blouse. She has lost ten over the last six months. Those who haven't seen her take a second look and ask her for her secret. I look at her ass and want to know how many have touched it, how many have jammed their fingers up her cunt, let alone their cocks, and how many have sucked her tits? How different this relationship might have been if she hadn't been so promiscuous and if my sons hadn't exacted their revenge. Or would I be in the same predicament...an endless series of cheap thrills? "How much longer until dinner?" "Fifteen minutes." "I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and sit in the backyard. Do you want a glass?" "Sure." I uncork the bottle, pour two glasses and set Fabiola's on the counter next to the stove. I take a slice of cheese from the refrigerator, call the boys who follow me outside. The Gulf breeze has begun to blow. It is going to be a beautiful night even though the sun won't set for another hour. Adrian kicks the soccer ball and Marcos pushes a four-wheel vehicle across the concrete slab. "I'm starting you in the midfield. Oscar is hogging the ball so I'm leaving him alone as a striker. Do you think you can handle it?" "Sure, Daddy-O." Adrian is ten-years-old, but I've placed him in an under-twelve league. He has played well. He began his career six years ago as a forward and scored more than 20 goals that first year. His mother couldn't understand his relocation to the defense because she's more interested in the glory rather than the guts. I want him to feel the pressure that he can't make any mistakes or the other team scores and I want him to gain a feel for the game from the back. I've tried him at midfield previously, but he was lost. "You need to move and you need to stay behind the ball. If you follow the ball, scoring opportunities will come. Most importantly, don't let anyone pass you with the ball." The backyard is an expanse of green grass with annuals climbing the fence. It's the perfect sward for kids to run wild. I consider returning to my room to grab from my six-inch stack of unread New Yorkers, Sports Illustrateds and Newsweeks. I'm presently reading two world histories, a book of Zen and another of astronomy, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry as well as two books of French and Portuguese grammer. I finished a Charles Bukowski novel last week. I need more books like his that are short and easy to read and leave me with a sense of accomplishment. I'm too unsettled to read for any length of time. I enjoy reading about Zen practice and philosophy, but I can't meditate. I accept my nothingness, particularly when I read that there are a 100 billion galaxies with a 100 million stars in each one, and therefore go from day to day navigating as carefully as I can. I crave nothing materialistically. I've reached a point where the essentials arrive as long as I keep my job and maintain my health. The sexual cravings are beyond my intellectual control. I'm not a monk nor was meant to be. I am an animal. It's not my needs that convince of that, but my inability to accept Fabiola's past. The wild animal roars. I cannot reason my way through her past because the beast won't let me rest. The end is coming and it will be sooner rather than later. If six decades have zipped past in the wink of an eye, then my remaining years are doomed to a flash in time. We are fascinated by our birthdays. What about our deathday? I wouldn't necessarily be interested in the year, but I would be curious about the day. It's much like my last name Tamaulipas. I never gave much thought to Thompson, my mother's maiden name, until I thought about Latins who honor both parents by including the two names in their surnames. I grew up never thinking of myself as a Tamaulipas even though I am as much a Thompson as I am a Tamaulipas. If I follow that concept to its logical conclusion, then the same thinking in a parallel fashion must apply to my deathday. "Marcos, stay away from those bushes and stay on the concrete!" I feel a gust of air sweep past me. The bats are early tonight. "Dinner's ready," shouts Fabiola. "Let's go, boys. Mommy says it's time to eat." The table is set. The nightly ritual commences. "What time is your game this weekend, Adriana?" "Seven." "Did you call up the team and remind them?" "Not yet." "Make sure that you do." "They have a schedule." "That doesn't make any difference. You have to call them and remind them. And make sure that you tell them to be at the park by 6:45." "You're the coach. Isn't that your job?" "I put this team together so that you would have the experience when your school season begins. You need to call them." "Do what Daddy-O says," intercedes Fabiola. "And what time is your game, Adrian?" "It's at five, Daddy-O." "That's good. At least the two games won't conflict." "Is Adrian going to call his team?" whines Adriana. "I'm going to call them. He's too young." "That's not fair," whimpers my step-daughter. "Just eat your dinner," Fabiola reminds her daughter. "And next year it will be Marcos' turn to play on a soccer team," I say as he consumes his spaghetti as if he were a bird pulling a worm from the ground. "Isn't he too young, honey?" asks Fabiola. "He'll be four." "I don't think they can play until they're five," continues Fabiola. "That's right, Daddy-O," echoes Adriana. "He's too young." "If I'm the coach, he can play," I rule. Adriana talks about a movie she wants to see, Adrian talks about his video football team winning, 105-0, and Fabiola talks about her father's birthday party planned for our house on Sunday. "Who's going to be there?" I ask. "Just my parents. Why?" "I want to make sure. You never know who is going to show up from Mexico. What are we eating?" "I was thinking you could barbecue steaks as well as prepare your shrimp salad." "I can do that. What time?" "About two." "This spaghetti is delicious. You're including onions." "Onions!" whelps Adrian. "I don't like onions!" "You've been eating your spaghetti and you didn't even know there was onion in it," reprimands Fabiola. "Onion disappears once it's cooked." I finish first and take my dish to the kitchen. Fabiola and I have a tradition regarding meals and dishes. The person who cooks, cleans. Once I start in the kitchen, I like to do everything. I want to provide the complete culinary experience. Besides, when I cook, I'm cleaning my mess at the same time while Fabiola piles everything up and returns later to clean. "Do you want any more wine?" I shout from the kitchen. "I'm fine." I take my glass and exit outside. I consider smoking a joint, but I decide to let the food digest before I hit another one. I swish the wine around in my mouth. Somebody's barbecuing in the neighborhood. Beyond waving to them, we don't know any of the neighbors well. On our cul-de-sac there must be ten families and everyone appears to be relatively successful. The neighbors next door have grandchildren and there is a young family with small kids across the street. It is understood that everyone drive slowly. If a maniac were speeding, we would rise as one and hang the bastard from the nearest ebony. Life has changed since my upbringing in West Brownsville when parents sat on their porches and kids ran everywhere. I had unlimited freedom to roam. My parents never asked me where I had been, just that I be at home at a certain hour. My friends and I would have rock fights with kids from other neighborhoods as well as compete against them in football, basketball and baseball in sandlot games. We lived lives right out of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. We resided near the river where adventure lurked. Whether it was traffic or contraband, there was activity. Wildlife abounded. Coyotes and bobcats moved through the high grass and there were lots of birds. Somebody had a b-b gun and sometimes somebody would lug along a shotgun. Our parents supervised us, but we learned from our peers. In our Catholic family where nobody mentioned the word sex, my dad would have been the last person to sit me down and explain the facts of life. That wasn't his style. We still have difficulty discussing medical conditions that might involve prostate problems or breast cancer. Our conversation thickens when we drag genitals into the talk. I seldom see kids in the streets unless I'm driving through the barrio where the urchins treat a car as if it were a bull and deftly step aside as the vehicle narrowly passes them. There are no spontaneous games at the schoolyards. The gates are locked so the kids can't enter. Everything is organized. Fabiola, and Iliana before her, won't let the kids play in the background unattended. And that's when the kids even want to go outside. Adriana closes her door, receives calls on her cell, texts, listens to music, surfs the computer and watches television. Adrian retreats to his room where he plays video games for hours. He occasionally grows tired of the activity, choosing to roll up in bed and watch TV. Everyone has his own space and wants to remain undisturbed.