Thinner After Thinner

The croaking thunder finalized it. Kico knew that nobody would pay to get their windshields washed for the rest of the evening. The short eleven-year-old drug his feet to a wooden telephone pole where he sat and counted the change in his pocket. Fifteen pesos and twenty centavos. Not nearly enough to get another bottle of Activo. Kico was now regretting that he hadn’t planned ahead to make sure that he had a bottle of paint thinner to replace the one that he had sniffed all up that morning.

Kico could already tell he was going to have a boring evening. The low growls coming from the clouds meant it was going to rain hard that night and there wouldn’t be any fútbol in the park. And no Activo meant that he would have to try to fall asleep tonight sober. Was that even possible?

Drops of water started to change the shade of the cracked sidewalks of Mexico City as Kico gathered his windshield washing equipment. It didn’t take him long. All he had was a bottle of watered-down dish soap, a frayed rag, and a miniature squeegee.

Kico’s stomach woke up while he walked by a taco stand. The frying meat and the greasy smell must have done it. His gut growled at him and the never ending argument between Kico’s brain and his stomach began again. His gut told him to check out the men with collard shirts and kaki pants who were gathered around the stand, munching on the overstuffed tacos al pastor oozing with salsa and limon. But Kico was stubborn and told his stomach to shut up. He was not going to make the same mistake he made yesterday. He was saving for Activo today and tomorrow he would have enough to get another bottle.

By the time Kico arrived at the cement wall that surrounded his home, the rain was pouring. Before he climbed over the wall, Kico let the rain soak him. He needed it. He took off his faded shirt and let the cool water splat on, slide down, curl around, and drip off of his bony limbs. The scabs and scars that spotted the boy’s brown skin welcomed the gentle droplets with shivers. His clothes needed the wash as well. The dust and pollution off the streets had shaded his light blue jeans and red shirt into a gray.

Kico went to the side wall where the highway traffic couldn’t see him. A rusty barrel was located at the base of the wall and Kico used it to climb over, into the property on the other side. He landed in itchy grass that went up to his knees. The over grown lot had been abandoned for an indefinite amount of time, and Kico, as well as several other street kids, had been using it as shelter when it rained. In the center of the small property was an old two story, concrete building. It must have formerly been some sort of factory because it still had a couple big machines in it and the main floor was saturated in some black, oily substance that still reeked even after several months of being abandoned. The structure was a rectangular building about the size of an indoor fútbol court and was the perfect place to sleep in when it rained. Before Kico and his friends had discovered the place, they slept in the sewers underneath the city. Although the abandoned factory had a strong stench, it wasn’t as bad as the toxic fumes of the sewers.

Inside, there was still some grey light left coming through the tall windows that stretched from waste level and almost to the ceiling. But there was no electricity in the building, making it dark and lonely. Kico figured that he was the only one there since it was still early in the evening, and most of the kids would still be making their way to the shelter. After Kico wrung out his T-shirt, he went upstairs where most of the urchins spent the night. The building was completely silent except for the pitter-patter of the rain outside.

In one of the office rooms upstairs, Kico found Frijol, the tough teenager, lying on top of the only piece of furniture in the room: a filthy desk with splintering edges. Kico had met Frijol within his first week on the streets. Just after Kico's papa abandoned the family to sneak into America, Kico ran away from home for multiple reasons. First of all, his mama struggled to get any food on the table for him and his three other siblings. But most importantly, Kico would get beat by his mama whenever she got mad at anything or anybody. He was her tantrum outlet. However, Kico's first few weeks on the streets were worse than living at home--until Frijol found him. Frijol took Kico under his wing and taught him how to get windshield washing supplies and how to pickpocket at the subway station.

Frijol also taught Kico the secrets of bliss on the streets. Real drugs were often difficult to find and expensive to purchase for the young waifs, but paint thinner was a cheap and legal alternative. Activo was the best kind for its price and when Kico breathed the fumes of Activo, he would often watch the images and colors of his surroundings multiply and smash against each other. He would fall back and it was forever before the back of his head hit the ground. Moving his limbs felt like swimming through thick mud. He would close his eyes and see his family living together in a Wal-Mart, free to eat any of the groceries stacked on the shelves. Kico’s mamá would be trying on tight jeans and his papá would be back from the United States, playing fútbol with a brand new, fully inflated soccer ball. His papá would also be laughing his head off and Kico would chase him up and down the aisles.

But right now, Kico was sober and he could see that Frijol’s eyes were closed and that he was holding a plastic bottle in his left hand. The cap was off and he was about to tip the bottle enough to spill the wonderful liquid on the floor. After Kico put away the items he was carrying in a closet, he decided to help Frijol save his paint thinner. Frijol didn’t even twitch when Kico removed the bottle from his hand. The bottle of Activo was such a comforting sight—the way the clear liquid reflected the dim window. Kico could see the drops of rain falling, through the crystal liquid. A whiff of it would be so refreshing. Kico lifted the paint thinner to his nose.

“HAAAaah!” Frijol suddenly sat up. “Dame mi Activo, guey!” He slid to his feet and drunkenly tugged at Kico’s damp shirt.

“Vamos, Frijol! I just wanted one sniff!” Kico explained.

Frijol tried to grab the bottle but Kico held it farther away. Then Frijol sprang his long arms out and ended up knocking the paint thinner out of the boy’s hands. The bottle bounced on the floor and spun all around, Activo splashing all over the floor. Before either one of the boys could catch the spinning bottle, it had drained out completely. A desperate moan slipped out of Frijol’s throat.

Frijol clasped Kico’s neck with one hand and threw a punch with the other. His fist landed in Kico’s lower lip. The inside of his lip sunk into his teeth.

“Estúpido!” Frijol yelled in Kico’s face. “If you don’t get me more Activo by tomorrow morning, I will kill you!” Kico crawled away, spitting the blood that was leaking into his cheeks. “And then I’ll find your mamá and kill her too!” Frijol added, as he bent down to catch the fumes coming from the puddle.

Kico tried to ignore the pain surging from the gash in his mouth as he stood up and stared at his friend, stretched out on the floor with his face in the puddle of Activo. Frijol’s thin T-shirt and torn jeans were a couple sizes too big. The wrinkles in his baggy clothes tried to fool the world into thinking that he had fat or even muscle on his bones. Kico filled out his own clothes much better than Frijol. It was because Frijol had quit eating over the past couple weeks, and he spent all the money he earned from his job shinning shoes to get Activo. Over the past few weeks, Frijol had begun to eat less as he committed himself to getting high. You get some, you lose some. Brave Frijol. This was why he was known as the “Street Prince”. The world around them was constantly trying to get them to return to the environment of strict rules. But the street kids wouldn’t give in. They already knew that the ideals of discipline and cleanliness didn’t work. It only made everybody hate everybody. And after living on the streets for four years, Frijol was setting an example for all the callejeros. He was showing the world how to sniff their way to Heaven and stay there until he deceased.

Kico admired Frijol and his determination to be the best street kid ever. His difficult goal could only happen if he stayed high on Activo. Now with his Activo spread across the floor of the abandoned office room, he needed help. Before long, the fumes would wear out and the high from paint thinner doesn’t last very long. Natural insanity would come from extreme hunger and it would be unbearable this time. And Kico would be the prince’s rescuer.

On his way down the stairs, Kico nearly ran into his friends Gordo and Sintia. Gordo, who no longer deserved his name, asked, “A donde vas?”

Kico explained to them the situation and then stated in a hushed voice, “I think he’s going all the way this time. He could have gone all the way if he hadn’t spilt his Activo.”

Gordo was shocked but nodded his greasy head in understanding. Sintia asked in her high voice, “Qué? Why would he want to die? He makes more pesos than all of us with his shoe polishing caca!”

Sintia was new to the streets and she always had tons of questions. Gordo and Kico ignored most of them but this time Kico answered, “Frijol has been on the streets for four years. It must be hard being a teenager with no future. Do you chavos want to come along?”

Surely they would help, Kico thought to himself. They too, deeply admired Frijol because of his help. Frijol had showed fifteen-year-old Gordo how to blow fire for on lookers at street intersections by spitting gasoline into a torch. He had also been teaching twelve-year-old Sintia what it takes to be a prostitute so that when she was old enough, she could be a professional prostitute. Sintia definitely had a future in prostitution because of her attractive face. Even at her young age, her smiling eyes and genuine grin would often make Kico wonder if she was attracted to him.

They also treasured the day back when Frijol had a lowly job in the Cinemex movie theater and he took them all to see a movie for free. It was in English with Spanish subtitles. It was too bad they didn’t know much English and struggled with reading Spanish. But they all understood the part when the muscular guy said, “Hasta la vista… baby.”

But both Gordo and Sintia shook their heads. “Kico, it’s hailing outside,” Gordo said. “Wait until it’s over. Besides, Carlos is coming tomorrow with a box full of cheep Activo.”
Kico continued past them and down the stairs. “Frijol’s gotten so thin that I think he will go insane when the Activo in his head runs out. Quién sabe? He might even hurt himself! Maybe you two could give him your Activo?”

“Estas enserio? Are you serious? I paid close to a hundred pesos for this bottle! De ningún manera, guey!”

But Kico had a point. It was about time that they return the favor.
Like little soldiers charging into an enemy army, the three kids crouched down and braved the tiny pellets of ice. The hail balls bit at their skin as they jumped the wall and ran across the flooded Mexico City streets. Surely Frijol would be proud of them for charging through a shower of hard ice for his sake; so that he could dream himself to extinction. And as far as Kico knew, Frijol deserved some help from his followers.

~~
On their way to the Pemex gas station, the kids stopped at a subway station. Even though it was still storming, there were a few people trying to reach destinations by subway. The three sopping wet street kids stood by the tracks while the orange subway train rolled into the station. They pulled another “Frijol” move as they moved in behind a man wearing a nice suit coat and a perfect mustache. As he was walking aboard the subway, Gordo stepped on the man’s heel and shoved his palms hard into his back. While the man was falling, Kico reached in and grabbed his wallet. The man obviously didn’t ride the subway often, because his wallet was still in his back pocket, begging to be slipped out. The man tumbled onto the floor of the subway as the doors closed leaving Gordo and Kico outside. Sintia (who watched from a distance) laughed as the upper class gentleman yelled and banged on the windows of the moving subway train.

It was always best to steal money from individuals in the subway than stealing directly from the street shops, because then the owners of the tiendita wouldn’t ever let the kids come back. Kico used to feel bad about stealing and he would always go to the nearest cathedral afterwards to ask for forgiveness. But if God didn’t want Kico to be stealing from others, why wouldn’t he provide an alternative? A little after Kico’s first year on the streets, he quit going to mass and quit asking for forgiveness. It’s not like Kico didn’t consider himself a Catholic anymore, it’s just that he wanted his Activo to never run out and that took all of his time and energy.

The callejero threesome returned to the abandoned building a couple hours after sundown. The storm had passed and the clouds were only spitting a bit here and there. All three of them started to notice little welts appearing all over their brown skin. Gordo was in the most pain because he had burnt his mouth a couple weeks ago while fire-breathing and the hail had aggravating his sensitive lips. But it was worth it. They now had the bottle of Activo that Frijol needed. As they crossed the street to get to the cement wall, Kico wondered about how weird it would feel when Frijol was no longer around. It was probable that by morning the Prince would be in eternal rest because he didn’t give into his hunger, but filled his head with paint thinner fumes. Kico, Gordo, and Sintia would be left to take in the next generation of street kids under the roof of the abandoned factory and teach them how to fight against the forces of order and rules—just like Frijol had taught them.

Kico climbed up the wall and sat on the top. There was a flickering light coming from the tall windows of the building.

“What’s that?” Sintia asked, as she climbed up next to him.
Kico shook his head. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. We need to hurry. Frijol might be coming around.”

They dropped to the ground and ran toward the building. The damp grass slapped against their legs like whips. When they reached the doorway they all halted. Frijol was standing in the middle of the big, downstairs room. His back was facing them and his right arm was stretched straight up. At the top of the vertical arm, Frijol clasped a lighter. The light was piercing and it stung the bloodshot eyes of the kids at the doorway. It was a majestic sight and Kico squinted in wonder. His prince was a human lighthouse, lighting up the world for them so that they could dimly see the cement rectangle that they called their home. Under Frijol, the black oily liquid that was layered on the ground reflected the wavy beams of light all over the room. Kico’s insides suddenly constricted in horror. What was Frijol doing?

Kico spoke up and his voice almost sounded like a high pitched scream that echoed off the walls. “We’ve got your Activo!”

Frijol slowly shifted his feet, turning all the way around to face his little followers. Frijol’s face was shocking and made Sintia gasp. His face was shinning bright with slick sweat and beads of water trickled out of his eyes and off his chin. His mouth was half way open with the corners of his thick lips sagging low. Snot coated the space between his mouth and his navel. His black eyes seemed to be melting out of their sockets.

“I need… I need… I want…” tough Frijol stuttered.

“You want your Activo,” Kico stated as he began to very slowly step into the oil, moving toward Frijol.

Frijol blinked a couple times. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. I want Activo. I need Activo.” He must have been coming around and his body was making a last effort to convince Frijol that he needed food.

Kico was an arm’s length away from Frijol, the human toothpick, and he handed the bottle of paint thinner to the desperate boy. Frijol smiled at the bottle and rubbed his damp cheek on the plastic.

Gordo and Sintia still stood at the doorway watching. Sintia called out, “Kico, get the lighter.” Frijol still stood with his erect arm holding the lighter and his other hand rubbing the Activo in his face, as if he was a stray dog being pet by a loving street kid. But Kico couldn’t do anything. Frijol was too tall.

Then it was time for Frijol to open his Activo. They all saw it coming in slow motion. In order for Frijol to unscrew the lid, he ditched the lighter. The bright cylinder clattered to the floor sending little ripples across the saturated ground. For a second, the light went out. But the heat of the light kicked up a flame and it exploded across the ground under Frijol and Kico. Kico spun around and raced out of the building. He dove through the doorway and started to panic when he noticed that his shoes were being licked by scorching flames. Sintia and Gordo braved the heat and helped Kico get his shoes off. Frijol never made a peep. He stood in the middle of the room breathing the Activo as the fire surrounded him and crawled up his skinny form.

Kico, Gordo, and Sintia stared at the fire for a long time. Their hearts were about ready to tear through their chests and shirts.

~~
After it had stopped raining, business kicked back up at the taco stand. After all, it was only 10:15pm. The owner fired up the stove again and started filling up tortillas with pork, beef, chicken, and al pastor for his late night customers. A short street kid stepped up to the stand. The urchin had small purple welts on his arms, his lip was swollen, and his feet were bare. Fifteen pesos and twenty centavos clattered from the kid’s hand to the counter.

“Is this enough to get me and my friends a couple tacos?” Kico asked. He motioned across the street where two other kids sat on the curb. The boy had a dry, pink scar that stretched across his mouth. The girl was very cute and she had a faded Mickey Mouse shirt which had a couple of mysteriously familiar, yellow stains on it. They looked shook up and scared.
The first thing that came to him was: “What have these kids been through and who is beating them up?”

The normal price for just one taco was seven pesos. But these kids were bones wrapped up in mangled brown skin. They needed food. So he nodded and pilled up six tortillas with extra greasy al pastor meat.