Chapter 1- That Kid Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario of Avenue 23 were fair and balanced, all-American people and quite proud of it. They weren’t the type to believe in conspiracies or to receive welfare or to skip deductions on their taxes or to miss church or to leave parking tickets unpaid for very long at all.

And they despised anyone who was any of those types, of course.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario was a senior engineer for Rocketwell, a huge public company that made planes and weapons and stretchers, though Mr. Sanchez-Vicario was in a department that focused on making a specific part for bombs that made them much more precise and louder at the same time, a part that looked very much like a very thick rubber band.

While Mr. Sanchez-Vicario was as tall and thin as any “No Parking” sign, he wore a beard that could’ve stood to lose a few pounds.

Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario was short and stout, having what looked like rolls of bread stuffed every few inches all along her most important bones. Because of her roundness, it was very hard to tell which way she was walking, which was very useful to her since she took every opportunity to stop children on the street and tell them to quiet down and/or abstain from sex until marriage. And no matter which way she went, it was quite hard to get out of her way.

The Sanchez-Vicarios had a tiny son named Oswald. They were certain that he was the smartest, most obedient and finest smelling boy who had ever lived. Mr. Sanchez-Vicario believed that if his boy was lucky enough to have received most of his genes from his side of the family that he might even grow up to become the President of the United States.

The Sanchez-Vicarios were certain that they had the best life possible—if not the very best, then definitely in the top five percent, based on their tax bracket.

But they also had a secret, and every day they stopped before they ate their large and tasty breakfast to pray that no one would ever discover it.

If anyone ever found out about the Potreros, they feared they would have to move somewhere very far away and very savage where the natives hadn’t yet figured out any means of communicating with the rest of the world.

Mrs. Potrero was Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario’s sister. But they hadn’t been in contact for decades, of course. Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario never admitted to having a sister and secretly held a desperate hatred for anyone who did have a sister, because her sister and the criminal she married were everything that the Sanchez-Vicarios were not.

They considered installing a bomb shelter in their backyard just in case the Potreros ever arrived on their street. There they could survive for weeks and outlast any sort of inconvenient visit.

The Sanchez-Vicarios knew the Potreros had a son, a baby boy whom they’d never even seen a jpeg of. This boy was an excellent reason to hope the Potreros never arrived at their doorstep.

They couldn’t image Oswald being forced to associate with such an unquestionably un-American child.

******
When Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario woke up on the sweltering Tuesday that begins our story, there was nothing about the triple-digit temperatures, or the chilly effectiveness with which their central air cooled their four-bedroom home, to suggest that dark, evil and foreign things would soon be happening all over the country.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario did his morning toe-touches and then brought four ties into the restroom to see which went best with his plain white shirt.

Meanwhile Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario praised every move and sound Oswald made as she plugged him into his custom-built chrome highchair as she watched a woman trying out a new hairstyle on the morning news program.

And, of course, both Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario were too engaged with morning routines to notice the fat, scraggly crow that was circling their house and stopping for a glance at each unshuttered window.

With three extra ties packed into his briefcase, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario kissed his wife goodbye on the lips and leaned down to place a warm peck on his son’s forehead. He ended up with a mouthful of drool and vomit, since that’s how Oswald stated he didn’t like the cereal he’d been fed.

“Pobrecito!” Mr. Sanchez-Vicario said and took a wetnap from his wife’s doughy hand to clean off his mouth as walked out the door.

He got into his car and backed out of 187 Avenue 23, his car issuing peppy beeping sounds to alert all he was in reverse. He turned on the car’s radio and prepared to enjoy his ride to work by learning exactly what he thought about politics from his favorite talk radio host.

It was on the corner of Figueroa when he first noticed something a bit unusual: a dog seemed to using a Palm Pilot, which was resting on the ground. The image didn’t sink into his brain quickly. When it did, he looked in each mirror then spun his head around. A dog was at the corner, but there was no device in sight.

His Ambien must’ve still been wearing off, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario told himself. Still he was so disturbed that he had to turn the volume on his radio off in the middle of a spirited rant about how illegal people were ruining this country.

As he drove on, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario stared at the dog, which stared back, his black tongue wagging. As he drove on, he continued to study the dog in his mirrors. The dog seemed to be examining the addresses on Avenue 23. Mr. Sanchez-Vicario tapped his head and practiced the best piece of advice his wife had ever told him: Let it go.

Thus Mr. Sanchez-Vicario decided to focus his mind on the most important things in the world as he drove to work. He plotted to stay in front of every other car on the road, not matter how that slowed traffic, and visualizing a new rubber band-like part that would make the explosions of all of Rocketwell’s bombs both larger and louder than any of their competitors.

But as he got off his exit on the freeway, both traffic and explosions were driven from his mind by the abundance of poorly dressed people on the streets. They wore baggy pants and baseball caps so large that they fell loosely across their foreheads. Mr. Sanchez-Vicario couldn’t stand those types. Illegals certainly.

He tried to focus on the GPS system built into his dashboard, though he well knew his way to work, just to ignore the clumps of those aliens.

Go back home, he thought, destroy your own country. But he couldn’t keep his eyes off them and soon found himself enraged. Some of those interlopers weren’t young at all. They were grown men and women! One man was even older than he was and dressed in baggy green pants and a silly hat. That’s what’s wrong with this country, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario thought. What would it take to get control the borders? It was shameful when one thought about it too earnestly, the kind of thing that could make one snooze and extra ten or even twenty minutes a morning. What would happen to America then?

He turned his air conditioner on full blast to cool his emotions.

But then it occurred to Mr. Sanchez-Vicario that some sort of protest must be going on. Some stunt that made people feel guilty about trying to keep America pure and good. What would the poor founders think? he wondered, visualizing mass deportations and a return to good things, like praying in school and at work.

In fact, he was going to pray as soon as he got to work. Just to make a point!

The light turned green and a few blocks later, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario turned, nodded to the security guard and pulled into the finely manicured landscape of the Rocketwell campus.

By then, his mind had completely snapped back to rubber bands.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario always kept the blinds closed in his ninth floor office, which was fortunate. If he could see through his windows that morning he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on his new design. He didn’t see the clumps of crows cawing through the morning sky. But everyone else did. They pointed and took pictures with their phones as crow after crow sped by, occasionally blacking out some of the furious rays of the sun.

Most people had never seen something so closely resembling wildlife in their city’s skies. Mr. Sanchez-Vicario, however with his computer and cell phone off, just in case he did remember to pray, had perfectly crow-free morning.

Occasionally he picked up his office phone to berate underlings and to remind his underlings to berate their underlings. His constant productivity kept him a very good mood until lunchtime when he changed his tie and decided to treat himself to a flurry of desserts at the Hometown Buffet just across the street.

He’d forgotten all about those people until he saw a few of them lingering around the exit of the restaurant. He manufactured his sternest, most American look as he passed. He wished they would make one wrong move, so he could call the police. But all they were doing was whispering to each other, conspiring to take American jobs. And he couldn’t see even one single spray can.

He was leaving the Buffet with a piece of carrot cake stuffed into his pocket when he heard a bit of what those people were whispering, “The Potreros. Oh, yeah. Their son, Hugo!”

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario froze in the boiling heat. He felt the beginning of an anxiety attack, and then realized he was staring at those people like he wanted to say something to them. But that was a terrible idea.

He pressed the button for the crosswalk but couldn’t wait for the signal. Running across the street, he thought he heard more whispers, which made him speed up more.

When he got to the ninth floor, he told his secretary to hold all his calls and hers as well, and locked himself in his office. He turned his cell phone on and was about to press the button to call his wife when he thought better of it.

He put the phone down and grabbed his beard with both hands. He was being crazy.

Millions of those people were named Potrero. Of those, how many had a son named Hugo? Hundreds. Thousands, at least. And who would actually call a boy Hugo? Certainly he must have had a nickname he went by. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario. Especially when she had less than half a dozen Xanax left. Any mention of her sister required her to take at least three to be able to function. And if she was his sister! He couldn’t bear the thought.

Still, those people and their loose pants.

He found it so difficult to concentrate that even changing his twice didn’t help. He didn’t even finish the designs that had begun so promising that morning. When he walked out of the building at after six, he was still so anxious that he walked directly into someone. “Pardon me,” Mr. Sanchez-Vicario grunted as a seemingly drunken woman stumbled and nearly fell at his feet.

It took a moment for Mr. Sanchez-Vicario to realize that this woman he’d bumped into was wearing purple baggy pants. She didn’t even seem to be upset at all that she’d almost been knocked to the ground, rather her mouth grew into the shape of a huge smile. She was carrying on like she was at a Bachelorette Party in the middle of the Rocketwell campus, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario thought. There was nearly nothing he despised more than the idea of a Bachelorette party.

The woman mumbled, “No worries. Nothing could go wrong me today. Today is the greatest day in the history of days for Eh-heh-huh is dead at last! Even you Guerros should celebrate.” The woman tried to hug Mr. Sanchez-Vicario. But he dodged her with sudden agility and bolted to his car.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario sat with the air conditioning running and considered what had just happened. A very strange woman had tried to hug him. He’d also been called a Guerro, something that hadn’t happened to him, or to his face, at least, since high school.

Flustered, he headed home. The whole time he was questioning his own thoughts and swearing off ever using Ambien again since it was leading to hallucinations.

And if there was one thing he didn’t approve of, it was hallucinations and lots of other things, of course.

As he pulled into the driveway of 187 Avenue 21, he spotted the dog that he had seen just that morning. This angered him all the more. Even the pets were wandering where they pleased without any respect for laws or the people who made them.

He was now angered to the point where he was positively feisty, even with all those delicious desserts meandering in his tiny stomach. The dog was sitting by his mailbox.

He was sure it was the same dog, for it had the same too dark tongue.

“Get!” Mr. Sanchez-Vicario snapped.

The dog did not move. It just seemed to shake its head and tongue at him.

Was a dog allowed to behave like this? Mr. Sanchez-Vicario asked himself.

He tried to let it go as he entered his home. The last thing he wanted to do was worry his wife. She was, as many say, far too sensitive for such things.

Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario had a very nice and decent day. She explained how she’d quieted down every child on the block and certainly stopped dozens of unmarried people from ever copulating, all while teaching Oswald a new word: Terror.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario tried to praise his wife as he always did and sat down in the living room, so stunned that he even forgot to turn the television on. When Oswald was in bed for the night, he finally remembered to check the nine cable news channels.

On Mr. Sanchez-Vicario’s favorite and the most American of all the news channels, the graphic on the screen said, “Crow Shock!”

The announcer nearly screamed in a very manly voice, “You may have seen the strange behavior reported all over the country by your local crows: low flying, unnecessary gathering, obsessive cawing. Are these murders of crows plotting to disrupt the American way of life? We’ll tell you after the break.”

He flipped the channel. Another announcer in the same suit said, “And the crows aren’t the only disturbance to report tonight. Have you heard about this? Meteor showers during the daytime! It’s highly inappropriate, an unnamed White House official tells us, especially since Fourth of July isn’t till next week.”

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario sat frozen in his adjustable, massage-enhanced Barcalounger. Daytime meteor showers, inappropriate crows, drunken women in baggy pants and, worst of all, someone mentioning the Potreros. It was upsetting.

In fact, it was beyond upsetting. It was awful close to maddening, bordering on appalling. Terrible. That’s it. It was terror!

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario came into the living room carrying two steaming cups of some medicinal concoction she’d seen on a commercial and then asked her doctor to prescribe.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario knew he’d have to tell her something, if only to stagger the shock his wife was certain to experience. He cleared his throat and turned the massage setting on his chair to the lowest possible setting. “Rosario, mi amor, you haven’t heard from your sister. Have you?”

Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario looked stunned, just as he expected. She was not used to even the word sister being mentioned in her home.

“No!” she said, looking at the floor. “Why?”

“Just something I saw on the news.” He mumbled, “Crows, daylight meteor showers, and troublemakers on the streets.”

“So?” his wife asked, still not looking up.

“I just wanted to ask because maybe I thought it had something to do with her and them.”

Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario lifted her bulbous arm, sipped her concoction and gargled it like they did in the commercial.

Mr. Sanchez-Vicario wondered if he should even mention that he’d heard the word Potrero. He decided against it. Instead he said, “That son of theirs, would he the same age of Oswald?”

She swallowed angrily and said, “I assume so.”

“What was his name? I forget. Humberto?”

“Hugo. A terrible name. Sounds like a poorly constructed, foreign car.”

“Yes,” Mr. Sanchez-Vicario said, his throat tightening to the point where air could barely enter. “Terrible.”

He then dropped subject completely. They both watched some real life car chases that ended happily—the criminals were all caught, injured or dead. They caught most of Jay Leno’s monologue and eventually went up to bed repeating some of the funnier punchlines to each other in whispered tones so Oswald could sleep.

As Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario used her water pick to cleanse all of her orifices, Mr. Sanchez-Vicario peeked out of the window at his front yard. The dog was still there, tongue wagging, staring at the street as if it was waiting for a bus to come.

It had been more than twenty-four hours since Mr. Sanchez-Vicario had taken his last Ambien and he was beginning to think that all of the madness could very well have something to do with the Potreros. And if it did, and his favorite news channel found out that they were related to them, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He’d have to take sick days!

The Sanchez-Vicarios got into bed, and Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario immediately began to snore. Mr. Sanchez-Vicario played the whole day through his mind as he wished he could take just one sleeping pill. That would erase everything for a few hours, at least.

But then, how would he know what was real?

He consoled himself with the thought that no matter what happened the Potreros would not bother him and Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario.

The Potreros knew what he and Rosario thought of them and everyone like them. They wouldn’t want to have anything to do with them. Never. Anyway, he’d call INS, and they’d take care of everything.

Satisfied, he reached into his nightstand and took out an Ambien. It has nothing to do with us, he thought.

But, of course, he was very, very wrong.

While his trusty pill friend was ushering Mr. Sanchez-Vicario’s brain to sleep, the huffing dog on his lawn remained steadfast and wide awake.

Over it’s dangling tongue, the dog stared down Avenue 21 ignoring everything and anything going on around it—doors slamming, Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario’s medicinally enhanced snoring, helicopters flying by barely evading huge clusters of cawing crows.

It was after midnight when the dog moved again.

A man had appeared on the corner. Appeared from nowhere as if he’d been dropped in from the sky or deported from the ether.

The dog’s ears stood up.

No one had ever seen anything like this man on Avenue 21 before. He was over seven feet tall, bone-thin and covered with gray hair from both his head and his face. He was wearing baggy purple pants, loose tennis shoes and a cap that covered his entire forehead. His eyes were blue and bright even so late at night. He was wearing glasses with perfectly round lenses and his nose was nearly as wide as his mouth, as if a small steamroller had flattened it.

This man’s name was Albertus Rodrigoose.

Albertus Rodrigoose seemed perfectly oblivious that he’d arrived on a street where everything about him was completely out of place. He was instead focused on digging into the depths of his pockets for something. But he was aware enough to notice he was being watched, for he looked up suddenly and made eye contact with the dog, which was staring at him from its spot in front of the Sanchez-Vicario home.

For his own reasons, the sight of the dog made Albertus Rodrigoose smile. He chuckled and muttered, “Of course. Of course.” He pulled out the silver lighter that he’d been looking for in his pocket and flicked it open. He held it up into the air and clicked it. The streetlight above him went black. He clicked it again and the light in front of him went out. He clicked a dozen times until there were no artificial lights shining down on Avenue 21 at all. Then the only lights that could be seen were the glare from the eyes of the dog, still staring at Albertus Rodrigoose. And the shine of televisions inside the homes, of course.

If anyone looked out at Avenue 21 now, all they could see would be pitch black as if they were trying to film out of a camera that still had its lens cap on.

Rodrigoose slipped his lighter back in his pocket and began to stroll toward number 187 where he finally sat down on the curb next to the dog. Without looking at it, he spoke, “We always meet in the smelliest places, Professor Santialgo.” He turned toward the dog, but it was gone. In its place was a very serious and very sweaty woman with large ears that sat very high on her head as if tuned to hear all around her. She too was wearing baggy pants, emerald colored with bright orange stitching. Her dark hair was tautly pulled into a bun. She looked noticeably agitated and her dried mouth could barely closed.

“How did you know who I was?” she asked.

“I’ve never seen a dog with such a long tongue.”

“Your tongue would be drooping to the floor if you were out in this heat all day, believe you me,” said Professor Santialgo.

“All day? So, you’ve missed the parties. I must have passed over a hundred on my way here.”

Professor Santialgo shook her head, sharply. “Everyone loves to celebrate. All of sudden, caution is out the window. It’s disgraceful. Even the Guerros have noticed. It’s all over their news.” She nodded toward the Sanchez-Vicario’s house. “I heard all about the crows and the meteor showers. Do they think those things can just go unnoticed? Even their pets noticed I’m sure. Daytime meteor showers in San Dimas! That must’ve been Salvadon Soto, still a goshdamed fool.”

“Do you blame them?” asked Rodrigoose, gently. “When was the last time there was any cause to celebrate? Eight years. Eight terrible years.”

“Right, right,” Professor Santialgo said, with no give in her voice. “But that’s no reason to act like a bunch of fools. It’s careless. And unacceptable, I might add, during more reasonable times. Not even trying to look like Guerros, gossiping all day long.” She stopped there and looked at Rodrigoose, hoping he might have something to tell her. But he didn’t. “Wouldn’t it be perfect that on the day we get rid of Eh-Heh-Heh the Guerros find out about us all?” She paused again. “I assume that he really is gone. Right, Rodrigoose?”

“I believe so,” Rodrigoose said. “It is a great day. Would you like a Milky Way?”

“A what?”

“A Milky Way. A Guerro candy I like.”

“No, thank you!” Santialgo contemptuously. “Even if Eh-Heh-Heh is gone…”

“Professor, Professor. Can’t we finally use his name? All this Eh-He-Heh nonsense. Eight years of it! All that time, I’ve been trying to convince people to just call him by his name: Mendoozle.”

Professor Santialgo shuddered. But Rodrigoose was too busy licking chocolate off his candy’s wrapper to notice.

“I just get so confused by all this Bleh-Eh-Heh nonsense. I have never seen any reason to be scared of just saying Mendoozle’s name.”

“I know. I know,” said Professor Santialgo, who at once admired Rodrigoose’s courage and feared it. “But it’s different for you. Everyone knows you’re the only one Eh-Heh-Heh—OK fine—Mendoozle was frightened of.”

“No reason to shine my rear,” Rodrigoose said, dryly. “Mendoozle had talents I will never have.”

“Only because you don’t go, you know, that way.”

“I’m glad it’s dark out. I haven’t blushed this much since Senora Velasqueeze complimented my new scarf.”

Professor Santialgo became twice as serious. “The crows are nothing. Have you heard the rumors? Do you know what there saying? What they think finally got him?” Professor Santialgo had hit directly upon the issue that was dearest to her heart and the reason she’d spent a sweltering day on Avenue 21.

Never, not as a dog or as a Professor, had she ever stared at Rodrigoose with such intensity. And never in her life had she sweated so profusely. Whatever the rumors she’d heard were, none of them mattered until she heard them from Rodrigoose himself.

Rodrigoose, instead of answering, was opening another Milky Way bar.

“What I’ve heard, and correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, hoping he would and quickly, “is last night Mendoozle appeared in Quexacoatall looking for the Potreros. Well, the rumor is that Eugenia and Jamie Potrero are… are… That they’re… Dead?”

Rodrigoose’s head sank deep into his chest.

Professor Santialgo gasped. “Eugenia and Jamie? I hoped it was lies. I didn’t even want to imagine believing it. Oh, Albertus!”

Rodrigoose reached his lengthy arm out just a bit to pat her on the shoulder. “I know. I do know,” he said, from the saddest place in his heart then wiped his hand on his own baggy pants.

Professor Santialgo kept speaking through the trembles in her voice. “But that isn’t all I’ve heard. I heard he tried to kill the Potrero’s boy, Hugo. But… But he couldn’t! He couldn’t kill that kid. No one can explain how or why. But they say when Mendoozle went to kill Hugo Potrero his powers broke and that’s why he’s gone.”

Barely moving his head at all, Rodrigoose nodded.

“Then it’s true!” Professor Santialgo wheezed. “After the dozens, no hundreds he killed, he could not kill a little kid? It’s crazy. Of all the things that could have stopped him. How, please tell me, how Hugo could have survived?”

““All we have are guesses,” said Rodrigoose. “And conspiracy theories.”

Professor Santialgo pulled out a bright red bandana to dab the tears from her eyes.

Rodrigoose sniffed with all the sadness he could sniff with as he pulled out a cell phone from his pocket to examine it. It wasn’t a normal cell phone. There were no numbers just little planets rotating in perfect ellipses. Rodrigoose got the information from it he needed and put it back in his pocket. Whoombert is late. I suppose he told you I was coming, right?”

“Yes!” Professor Santialgo exclaimed. “But I assume you won’t be explaining why I’m here, of all places.”

“I’ve come to deliver Hugo to his aunt and uncle. They’re all he has left now.”

“You can’t mean them,” Professor Santialgo barely able to tolerate pointing at 187 Avenue 21. “Rodrigoose, you’re joking! I’ve watched them all day. They’re the densest, most inane, small-minded fools I’ve ever seen. And their son! A nasty child. I saw him throw his own feces at his mother. And she praised him for it! Hugo Potrero is coming here?”

“It’s the best choice,” said Rodrigoose certainly. “They’ll explain everything to him when he’s old enough. I’ve written it all in a letter.”

“A letter!” Professor Santialgo said, gritting her teeth.

“I’ve incorporated nearly a dozen PSs including several on the proper care of a child and what to tell him about sex and God, etc,” Rodrigoose explained.

“Do you really think a letter is good enough? They’ll never understand whom they’re dealing with. A hero, a legend. These people will never see that. They’re already calling this Hugo Potrero day. Movies will be made about him, maybe even books. Every child will know his name.”

“Exactly,” Rodrigoose said. “Do you want to ruin the child with all that attention? Can you imagine being famous for something you won’t even remember? It’s worse than being famous for blowing Rick Solomon. Can you see how he needs to be protected from all that, until he’s old enough, old enough to take it.”

Professor Santialgo clenched her teeth, shook her head, was about to speak then changed her mind. “Yes. Yes. Fine. You’re right, of course. But how will the boy get here?”

She glanced all around like the child might be hidden anywhere.

“Whoombert is bringing him.”

“Do you really trust Whoombert with that boy?”

“I would trust Whoombert with my life or most of it,” said Rodrigoose.

“He’s as kind as anything, of course,” said Professor Santialgo. “But he is a bit, you know, clumsy. He does… What was that?”

A rumble, like that of a small engine, purred in the periphery. It grew louder as they looked up and down the Avenue for a headlight. The sound inflated to a roar as they both turned their head toward the night’s sky.

A giant low-rider motorcycle fell from the air to the ground right in front of them. Twice as big as the motorcycle, a man lifted his leg to get off the machine. He was nearly twice as tall as Rodrigoose and three times taller than Professor Santialgo. And he was as wide as four full-sized humans waiting for a bus to stop. He was far too big to belong on Avenue 21 or anywhere, for that matter. His hair was a giant afro that looked like a small moon. His hands were as big as car doors and his boots were the size of baby carriages. Surrounded by the muscle and skin of his vast arms was a bundle of blue blankets.

“Whoombert!” Rodrigoose said. “Thank goodness. And where did you find that motorcycle?”

“It’s a hybrid, runs on my own gas. Lent to me by the owner, sir,” said the giant man. “Young Serio Negro lent it to me. The boy is with me.”

“Any problems?” Rodrigoose asked.

“No, sir. The house was leveled, but I got the kid out before the Guerros even got close. He fell asleep as we were flying over Barstow.”

Rodrigoose and Santialgo leaned into Whoombert’s arms. Just visible was the face of a baby boy. It was fast asleep but on his forehead was a tiny scar shaped just like an upside down exclamation mark.

“Is that where…?” asked Professor Santialgo.

“Oh, yes,” Rodrigoose said. “It won’t go away. Por vida, as they say.”

“Can’t you do something about it, Rodrigoose?”

“Not if my life depended on it. Scars can be very helpful. I have one above my left nipple that lays out all the freeways in Los Angeles updated constantly with current traffic conditions. Well, let me have him Whoombert. We’d better do this.” Rodrigoose lifted the bundle and felt a soft swish of water inside the boy. “Oh, I’ve forgotten about his heart. Just like his father’s.”

With Hugo in his arms, Rodrigoose turned toward the Sanchez-Vicario’s house.

“Could I give him a little goodbye, sir?” asked Whoombert. He lowered his giant afro over Hugo and gave him a very long, very scratchy kiss. Suddenly, Whoombert began to cry. His cries echoed down the block and into the surrounding valleys.

“Shh!” Professor Santialgo said. “You’ll wake the Guerros!”

“So sorry,” said Whoombert, burying his face in a giant bandana. “But his dear parents. Eugenia and Jamie dead! And poor little Hugo, off to live with Guerros. He’ll starve.”

“Of course it’s sad, but get a grip, Whoombert!” Professor Santialgo whispered, patting Whoombert on his arm and leaving sweat prints in the shape of her hand as Rodrigoose stepped down the driveway toward the Sanchez-Vicario’s front door.

Rodrigoose placed Hugo on their doormat, which read “Love It or Leave It” and was adorned with cheerful red, white and blue flowers. He tucked his letter inside Hugo’s blankets and returned to his two comrades.

They all stood together and stared at poor little Hugo on that doorstep for a full minute. Whoombert’s giant insides shook his giant outsides. Tears melded with sweat on Professor Santialgo cheeks. And the usually cheerful, knowing glow of Rodrigoose’s eyes was dimmed to its lowest setting.

“Well, I guess it’s time to party,” Rodrigoose said.

“Yep,” said Whoombert. “First I’ll bring Serio his bike back. Late, Professor Santialgo, Professor Rodrigoose, Sir.”

Whoombert wiped the tears from his eyes, creating a small puddle, as he stepped on to the bike, gave it kick and awoke the engine. It peeled into the air and off into the night’s cratered sky.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure, Professor Santialgo,” said Rodrigoose.

Santialgo nodded, blew her nose and then swiped the sweat off the outside of her nostrils.

Rodrigoose turned and walked down Avenue. As he walked, he took out his lighter and clicked it once and every light on the street was back on.

He looked back at the orange of the lit avenue and saw a dog with a very long, very black tongue wandering away. He could still see the bundle of blankets on the porch of 187. “Good luck, Hugo,” he said. With a sudden turn on his toes, he was gone.

A warm breeze swayed through the All-American concrete, steel and mostly manicured landscapes of Avenue 21.

It was the very last place you’d ever imagine anything interesting to happen except on the televisions.

Hugo Potrero shifted inside his blankets without opening his eyes. Near his little hand sat the letter explaining his whole, little life. He slept on, not knowing he was special or legal or illegal or famous, not knowing that in just a few hours he’d be woken by the very disturbed snort of Mrs. Sanchez-Vicario—checking to see if her tray of customized diet meals had arrived on her porch yet. He didn’t know he’d spend the next few weeks being bitten, scratched and poked by his cousin Oswald.

He had no idea that all over the country people were meeting in secret to tip their forty-ouncers and say, “To Hugo Potrero, one bad-ass baby.”

This story was inspired by Jeff Hurlow’s Myspace Portrait Project and the first book of a very famous fantasy story you might know.

Browse Timeline

• « I Lost You in The Light
• » There’s No Design; No Flaws to Find

Comments ( 6 )