The Water Museum by Luis Alberto Urrea Read Free Book Online Page B

snacks and booze were good.
    The Mustang sat out on the street. Junior kept telling Chango it would get him busted, that it was too visible. But Chango was invincible. Chango told him, “Live, peewee. Ya gotta live!” There was a tin shower rigged up in one of the restrooms. Junior’s stolen iPod port was blasting “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.”
    “Stones suck,” said Chango, swallowing tequila. “Except for Keith. Keith’s ba-a-ad.”
    Junior was thinking about the old times, how, when they’d gather at the bowling alley to play pinball, Chango would smoke those pestilential Dominos and force Junior to lose by putting the burning cherry on his knuckle every time he had to hit the bumpers.
    “Fucker,” he said.
    “You got that right, homes.”
    “So, Chango—what’s next?”
    “We, um, steal a lot more shit.”
    “Shouldn’t we cool it for a while? Let the heat die down?”
    “Heat,” Chango shrieked. “Did you actually say ‘heat’? Haw! ‘Heat,’ he says. God DAMN.” And then: “What heat?” He laughed out loud. “You seen cop one? We is invisible, homie. We just the trashman.”
    “I’m just being cautious,” Junior said.
    “I got it covered, peewee,” Chango boasted. “Chango’s got it all covered.”
    “Covered how?”
    “Next stop,” Chango announced, “Arizona! Don’t nobody know us over there in ’Zoney!”
    *  *  *
    They should have never crossed the border. That’s what Junior thought as he escaped. They didn’t know anything about Arizona. Someone had seen them, he was pretty sure. It was probably at the motel outside of Phoenix. They’d probably been made there.
    Whatever. It went bad right away. They drove around looking for abandoned houses, but in Arizona, how could you tell? All the yards were dirt, and the nice yards looked to them exactly like the bad yards. What was a weed and what was that xeriscaping desert shit?
    In Casa Grande they felt like they were getting to it. A whole cul-de-sac had collected trash and a few tumbleweeds. Junior couldn’t believe there were actual tumbleweeds out there. John Wayne–type stuff. They pulled in and actually rang the doorbells and got nothing. So Chango did his thing and went in the back and they were disappointed to find the first house completely vacant except for an abandoned Power Ranger action figure in the back bedroom and a melted bar of Dial in the bathroom.
    The second house was full of fleas and sad, broken-ass welfare crap. Chango found a bag of lime and chili tortilla chips, and he munched these as he made his way to the third, and last, house. He went in. Score!
    “I love the recession!” he shouted.
    They drained the waterbed with a hose through the bathroom window. Hey—a TV. These debt monsters really liked their giant screens. Massaging recliners. Mahogany tables and a big fiberglass saguaro cactus. “Arty,” Chango said. Mirrors, clothes, a desktop computer and printer, a new microwave, two nice Dyson floor fans, a sectional couch in cowhide with brown and white color splotches. They even found a sewing machine.
    It had taken too long, what with the long search and the three penetrations. After they loaded, pouring sweat except for “Mr. Petrucci,” who sat in his a.c. so he’d look good in case any rubberneckers came along, it was four in the afternoon, and they were hitting rush hour on I-10.
    The truck was a mile ahead. Junior liked to hang back and make believe he was driving on holiday. No crime. He was heading cross-country, doing a Kerouac. He was going back down to National City to find La Minnie, his sweet li’l ruca from the Bay Theater days. He should have never let her go. He hadn’t gone to a single high school reunion, but his homeboy El Rubio told him La Minnie had asked about him. Divorced, of course. Who in America was not divorced? But still slim and cute and fine as hell. Junior knew his life would have been different if he’d done the right thing and stayed on W. 20th