Chato's Day

by Stephen D. Gutierrez

"I can't hang anymore, honey," Chato sputtered into the prepaid cell phone he had
stolen a few days ago, pocketing it quickly at Thrifty's.

Now he was standing in an abandoned phone booth outside a liquor store. Cars
were passing up and down the street as he talked, but Chato, hanging his head low,
shouted over them. He put his finger in his ear and waited. Chato, feeling out of place in
a neighborhood that wasn't his, let out a long, slow breath. It was so simple, man,
simple. He waited for a response, dangling the keys in his pocket while he looked up at
the sky through the green-colored glass scratched with graffiti: "Honey, do you hear
me?"

"Yeah, I hear you. Wait a minute, okay?" He didn't say anything else, but then,
quietly, on the other end, it came through: "It's Chato, he's drunk."

"Okay, hang up."

"No, I can't just hang up. Like that." She made him wait again, and then
returned, as if she was irritated with him and in a hurry. "Okay, Chato, what d'you
want?"

"I want you, baby, I love you." Chato could picture her so fine in tight black
stretch pants and a glittery blouse with her name or something splashed across the front:
Sophisticated Lady.

"It's over, Chato, I already told you that."

"Okay, babe, if that's the way you want it."

"That's not the way I want it, Chato, you know that." Her voice stopped again,
and Vera leaned against the wall in her kitchen, studying her fingernails. Chato knew her
habits better than she did.

Her fingernails shone black, with bursts of silver. Her sister did them for her.
She was a young chick still with more sense than Vera, who was doing everything
to please her. She wanted her to go away. She got on the line again.

"Chato, come see me then."

"Okay, babe, I'm on my way.'

Chato hopped on the bus pulling up at the curb and sat in the back by an old lady
snoozing over a bag. When he got off at the corner near Vera's, he made sure to fix up
his hair in the window of a furniture store before he headed down her block. He had a
trim mustache, neat but with a small harelip notching it, wore a dark sweatshirt and light
brown pants that folded high on his black suede slip-ons, like mini accordions or
something. He kicked out his legs to straighten them, then relaxed and forgot about it.
He was on his way to see Vera and what the fuck did he care about pants now?

Except maybe getting out of his and into hers! Orale. He still had his sense of
humor after a day like today, so maybe he was going to be all right after all. He got a
move on.



The full story can be found in our current issue, Fiction 56. Please follow the 'subscribe' link for information on ordering.