Scatter-Brains
We need to talk about Kevon.
Lo Que Dijo La Gitana by Ismael Rivera y sus Cachimbos played from a pristine orange Datsun 510.
The blind man’s dog laid its snout on the ground eyes fixed on a boy with a ball. A girl on a bike passed by. Food carts helped layer the space with a sense of place. Next to one, about his business a businessman went by, burying a ketchup-riddled beef hot dog in his face hole. Grotesque.
People walked up and down the plaza. Sweat pancakes painted on their shirts. A Smurf blue Toyota Ke70 1.8 revved up its engine, it rushed the cars in front. Fuego a la Jicotea fired off its speakers. The cars windows, and everything nearby rattled to the sound of the salsa gorda.
A couple at the bus stop watched from across the street a cat climb—graceful, clawing, confident in its on-a-whim leap. It landed on the ledge, slipping to the lower row of apartment balconies. With not a care in the world it knocked a pot of succulents off the safety rail. A succulent smash that cracked the pot upon impact with the random bystander below’s head.
Kevon used to jizz in the ketchup dispenser at the shop he worked at. Glizzelda.
Thick ropes swindled.
Two men at the ends snapped their arms in steady rhythm. Oh my god, gasped a wrinkled woman. Somebody do something. Covered in head syrup, dirt and the almost immortal plants a man grumbled on the ground. Oh my god, that could’ve been me! I’m on my way to meet with my daughter. What if that pot landed on my head? Oh, dear. A small crowd of people gathered around the old lady. The man tried to get up, one knee on the ground, he balanced his weight on the other leg that served as an anchor as his head tumbled. Barks barked as the dog got on all fours, and he barked, barked some more. The leash tensed up. Tightened around the blind man’s fist as he leaned his weight back. Dizzy, ignored, the injured man managed to get up.
Next to the dog, a kid jumped, Wohoo! Get em, boy!
Kenny! What are you doing? Come ‘ere you little shit, said the mother as she snapped the boy by his arm. But the dog wouldn’t stop barking. It pulled. The owner pulled back. Easy, boy, easy, hushed the Blind Man. Calm down, Mao.
Should we call an ambulance?
Somebody must have called already.
He shouldn’t be standing.
People walked around the mess and kept on about.
Hey, sir! You should lay down, a man hollered from the other side of the street, still swinging the ropes.
Scat! Scat! Some teen exclaimed, as he flapped his way down stairs. He busted the court gate open, and hopped on the sidewalk. Scat! Has anyone seen my cat? Scatter-Brains? Scat? Anyone?—Scat!
Call an ambulance, Kevon! That old man just got wacked in the head!, yelled a boy that held a ball tight against his hip.
Have you seen Scat?
The boy dropped the ball to his feet—No!—and turned around, kicked the ball and went after it. Pushing away from the scene. The Datsun pulled in, it parked a few feet away from the mess, music blaring. Kevon now fixed on the dog. Convinced it had something to do with Scatter-Brain’s disappearance.
Nothing nice could be said about Kevon.
He crossed the street. A brunette got off the car. Tight jorts on, hooped earrings, hair up, and a white tube top cinched around her copper skin.
The wrinkled woman basked in the attention pooled around her and her not-even-close accident to be. Traffic continued to clog and flow the road. A syncopated circus show that yearned to live in Fellini’s genius mind.
Damn, shorty. Where’s the birthday at? I have a candle for that cake, cat called some drunk that crawled out La Taverna.
She glared at him, then turned her face away and to the unfolding drama at play.
Kevon chewed the small flaps inside the corner of his mouth. He stared. I’m no moron, that dog knows something. Hey!
A grey Suzuki Vitara slammed the breaks on, causing the SUV to buckle like a horse. It almost hit Kevon, who just continued to address the Blind Man and his dog. Worn, bent flip-flops flapping as the sweaty ass crack of a person pushed forth. The music kept the energy high as the heat waves continued to slap the mortals below the skies, and the humidity pushed away off from the ground up. A hot-spell that burned everyone outside and Kevon’s patience alike. People could block the sun but the sun would not block them. With not a single fuck to give in the world the Smurf-Blue 1.8 dropped the foot on the gas and blasted through the narrow space between the line of vehicles and the cars parked lined up with the sidewalk.
Still tumbling, the man covered in bloody dirt walked towards the street.
Honk, honk, honk—honked the Vitara.
Move the fuck off! What’re you doing? You trying to get ran-over? Come on!
Go around!, looking straight through the glass into the driver’s eyes? You could never tell with Kevon.
Sato, what the fuck are you doing? Why you gotta be so weird?—asked the Boy with the ball.
Oh, yeah? Who gave you an invite to this wake?
The Boy dropped the ball in front of his left foot, and took six steps back.
Not looking at anything else but his two feet as he walked, the Injured Man stepped off the sidewalk into the street—the Vitara bursted in a sway around the defiant kid.
Mao snapped off his leash and dashed into the street.
Mao! Come back!
Com’ere, where’s Scat? Hey!
Mao zoomed past between Kevon’s legs, it caused him to fall on his ass, scraping his hands as he tried to not land flat. It didn’t matter because as he tried to get up the Boy ran and kicked the ball right in the sweet spot and it lunched straight to Kevon’s face, his head tilted, the ball ricocheting off to the Vitara—the Vitara hadn’t paid attention, the ball lands on the windshield, scaring the driver that swerved to his right, towards the sidewalk. It smacked and pinned the Injured Man against another parked car. He coughed red, and groaned as he pushed from the hood of the Vitara, he squiggled, trying to slip from the crushing pain—the Toyota drove right into the Vitara’s rear, and the bump caused the SUV to crop the man’s legs off, and the man driving the Vitara ate up his steering wheel, and the Smurf’s driver boiled in anger. Everyone, the whole crowd at the plaza, continued on. Mao, an acrobat in another lifetime, avoided all the carnage, it jumped straight onto the crushed man’s face. It grabbed it, it drove its fangs in, and it crushed his face as he attempted to yell, but he choked on his saliva and blood, and his eyes got caught with a sharp tooth, and it gushed, squished, ripped.
A shriek sliced through the air of indifference. It was the wrinkled up drama queen. Ready for her second act. I lost my husband in a car accident. This is terrible! Why do this things always happen to me? ¡Ay, Dios mío!
Look at what you did, Pepe!, snarked Kevon at the boy that laughed, as he got up. A crowd gathered around; the Smurf’s driver got out his car and paced up to the Vitara’s driver’s window. He started to pound on the glass. Get out hijo e’ puta, you messed my car up! Come on, pendejo!
¡Pendejos son los pelos del bicho mío, sopla ñema!, yelled someone from the sidewalk.
Inside the Vitara, the man spat his teeth out. Disoriented the yelling and banging on his window triggered a response that comes with the place. He opened the middle compartment and grabbed his Glock.
Hey! Back off!
Soba manguera!
Yeah, my cousin is developmentally challenged and I bet he could beat your Neanderthal ass with his compensated strength, argued another random from the crowd.
Mao finished with the mans face and hopped off the hood down to the street.
Mao! Mao, come back! Now!—Mao scuttled back to his owner.
Kevon, ran his tongue over his teeth and smacked his lips, turning around in one swift motion, in his head the hero that moment needed. Not two steps in and two shots fired off from inside the Vitara.
One bullet hit the Toyota driver in the clavicle and the other made its way into the crowd. Some dispersed, others took cover. Not taking their sight off the scene. Cars far back from the commotion revved and blared their horns, the ones closest, ran out their vehicles, trucks managed to climb atop the plaza and cut through it. Risking the lives of the multitude. The old lady, eyes wide opened, lost her caring ensemble. Reality started to hit her.
Kevon reveled in the moment. Air tasted like courage to him. Running around the teen towards the Toyota, its driver reached under his seat and pulled a 1911 with his good arm. His other arm was limp with no mobility. Kevon turned to the driver who still didn’t acknowledge the young hero that wasn’t. He longed to be respected, but couldn’t bear to respect the longing. Why couldn’t it be instant? Ramen is.
He thought bombs and rifles.
Amped up, sweat trickled down his back, legs lighter than air balloons, dirtbag Kevon planned Scat’s great search in silence, as the world around him screamed. The couple that had seen the cat set this whole scene in motion, ran in separate directions. That is when the Vitara backed up, and the mans body thudded when it fell on the asphalt. The Toyota’s bumper now busted. Its owner raised his cannon to unleash lighting. One eye closed—
Panicked, the plaza played possum. Ambulance sirens could be heard closing in the distance. Before the man with the gun could pull the trigger—bam! The woman in the Datsun slammed into the man; he let a bullet fly into the Vitara before getting trampled.
The woman rolls down her window. Get in! Come on! Get in, now!
Kevon reacted with the velocity of a sloth. He got in the car, and the woman sped off. Cutting through the back roads of the pueblo, the Orange blot escaped the madness.
I’m Catalina, but you can call me Cata.
Catalina la O by Pete ‘El Conde’ Rodríguez played on the radio, as the two drive up the mountains.
