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Mosaico de Cumbias Surrealistas

Mosaico de Cumbias Surrealistas

The following is an excerpt from Jose Coronado Flores’ forthcoming second novel Mosaico de Cumbias Surrealistas:

Artwork by Shams Najafi

Look. Listen, I’ve been stuck in this strange existence. I know when it’s a dream, but I never know when I’m awake. Right now, I’m in a dream in some vaguely familiar section 8 looking living room. Maybe it’s a dope house or some bum’s crib; reminds me of home, I think. The paint on the bland blue walls is chipped in some areas and dehydrated to notable stiffness and texture in others. Look: the craters of drywall swell and move like ocean waves. The blue turns algae green, and the walls now resemble lush rolling hills. See, that’s how I know I’m trapped in a dream again. The walls gently breathe, and the overwhelming sound of bugs trained in heavy metal rings in the room. Their ballad intensifies and disorients me. The walls rush closer to me. As the buzzing and the walls close in on me, I blink, and, suddenly, the sound vaporizes, and the walls retreat. In the still, quiet room that’s returned to “normal,” I notice 3 human shadows standing erect about 7 feet in front of me; the 1 in the middle drops down on their knees. A few seconds pass, then the trio turns into 2 tall subwoofers each with 2 giant diaphragms and a small subwoofer with 1 fat diaphragm between them. The couch I’m sitting on is worn out and reeks of sweat.

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

Tuk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tah

 

Tum

 

Tah

 

Tum

 

Tah

 

Tum

 

Tah

The 2 speakers radiate thick yellow and orange waves. The slow and evil rhythm of the guiro and cowbell oscillates all through the room. Crashing against the walls and my ears. The couch I’m on vibrates to the sound of this cumbia rebajada. The sound waves turn into

intricate fractal patterns: flowers within flowers, river deltas within deltas that smoothly contract into infinity without break. I get lost in the concaves and convexes. An image of a person’s form materializes. It’s me, but, in full honesty, I can’t remember my original physical appearance after being trapped in these loops. The slow conga joins the sonora. The juxtaposition from the deep hit and the high hit expand the palate of the orange and yellow waves to the rainbow’s full spectrum. The figure commences dancing. The silhouette crystallizes into a clearer version of me. With each step to the satanic sound, the floor begins to crack. The rhythm infects me, and I rise to dance with myself. I’m hypnotized,

beguiled to my core. We dance out of sync but move with passion and weight. I close my eyes, step harder, and lower my body, letting the cumbia rock my bones. I open my eyes and see the dirty tile floor cracking under our weight. With each step, it cracks more. I can’t stop. The tiles turn into glass covered with webs of damage. Below us is a dark hole. This next paso is going to shatter it. I close my eyes and listen to the percussion. It shatters; my twin fades, the music stops, and I fall.

 

Chsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

 

Chschschsch

I wake up to a familiar version of myself in a familiar room. Feels like Langley Park or Silver Spring, MD. I lived here, even before this curse. There must be some correlation between where my body emerges and who I was, because I spawn here all the time. Sometimes as a chica, sometimes as a chico. Sometimes in an apartment complex, sometimes in a basement of a beat up house in the hood, and sometimes in a ditch: there are versions of me that love to drink. Those versions make it harder for me to keep track of my state: dream or awake.

Mierda, I have to go find work. My daily schedule and the location of my belongings come to me, and I know what to do. I peel off the thick-furry lion blanket from my body and sit on my bed. My cracked Android phone reads 5:30 a.m.. I couldn’t tell, because my room has no windows. I strip naked and wrap myself with a brown-stained towel. I creep my door open so as to not wake up the roommates I presume to have. Maybe a family, maybe other lonely trabajadores like me. I’m just not sure. The house is dark; the sun is still in slumber. I jump into the shower. I grab a random soap bar and some shampoo to cleanse myself of last night’s sweat and the previous day’s labor. I exit the bathroom and notice a man cooking in the kitchen and a little girl with pitch black hair on the couch in the living room.

“Buenos dias, Pedro” she smiles and says to me.

“Buenos dias, Luisa” I reply, then sneak back into my room. How did I know her name? Soy Pedro, at least I know that. I take off my towel and finish by air drying. As I dry, I fold my blanket and arrange my pillows to make my room presentable. I have nothing in this room except my work clothes and some books in a pile on the floor. Hombres de Maiz by Miguel Angel Asturias, La Biblia, and English for Dummies all with white and black barcodes and writing on the inside that says “Property of Prince George’s County Public Library.” I guess I’m a reader. After drying, I get dressed. Put my paint splattered work pants and boots on. My phone buzzes. “Donde estas, te estamos esperando en el 7/11. Apurate o te vamos a dejar” read a message from Ernesto Silvia. I also noticed a message from MetroPCS saying my bill is due on 3/11. Okay, we’re in March, and I need to go. I toss on a long sleeve shirt, pick up my phone, and leave my room. I walk out and say goodbye to Luisa and her dad, Jose. I unlock the door leading to the hallway and realize I have no keys on me, which I will need to enter later today. I go back to my room con prisa. I search all over, tossing my pillows and blanket searching frantically, scared to miss another day of work. I finally inspect my dirty clothes in a pile next to my bed. I shake a beat up pair of denim jeans and hear jingling as well as feel the weight of something in them. My leather black wallet and a keychain with 4 keys are in the pocket.

Listo, I leave my room. Leave the apartment. Running through the hallway, I’m met with the usual smell of mota and pee hit. I go down the stairs, until pushing open the black door leading outside. Mierda, que frio. I leave the red-brick complex and start running down the street. My pocket starts buzzing: llamada de Ernesto Silvia.

“Que onda, ya voy en camino. No me dejen, compa. Perdón.”

“Calmate, wey. Las llantas de la troka del gringo necesitan aire; entonces tienes unos minutos para llegar. Ok, escucho que estás corriendo. Te veo pronto, Pedro,” he said before hanging up. Breathing heavy, holding my pockets I sprinted through the barrio. Mujeres and hombres everywhere walking in the dark to their cars, jobs, or bus, while the sun is subtly making its appearance in the distance.

“Corre, Corre, compa” I heard voices say to me while laughing as I passed people on the street. I can see el 7/11. Ya casi llego.

“Stop right now or I will shoot” I heard a loud American voice say. I kept running, can’t be for me. I’m just going to work. “Fucking stop right now, you Mexican motherfucker in the dirty pants and boots” said another American voice. Fuck, he’s talking to me. Estoy jodido. Defeated, I stop and gaze at the bright orange and green 7/11 sign down the street. I turn back and see a cop running towards me. He tackles me, and his partner points his gun at me while he handcuffs me. La gente hispana around me stare as I get illegally apprehended before they flee the scene. Without the warmth from running, the frigid air scratched at my skin . This thin little short sleeve was not doing the job, and the cold metal from the handcuffs felt like ice on my skin.

“I not Mexican; I Guatemalan. Please let me go; I’m going to miss truck to work at 7/11 right there. Please, dejenme ir” I cried while tears ran down my aching face. This was the first time I heard my voice in English. My accent is heavy. Whose voice was this? It didn’t feel like my own.

“We don’t give a shit where you’re from. Someone down the street reported a robbery 10 minutes ago, and you match the description, ah-mi-go. You think we’re stupid enough not to see you running away from the lady you just robbed. Crazy, how you motherfuckers, want us to respect your nationality, when you’ll rob your own people.” 1 of the officers said while aggressively picking me up by the handcuffs behind my lower back. I didn’t resist. I turned my head to 1 of the apartment complexes and saw a woman dressed in guerilla uniform balancing a sniper out the window on the 3rd floor. She winked at me. I smiled at her. I was transported to the empty room she was in and watched her fire 2 shots in rapid succession. I saw the 2 officers’ heads explode and their bodies fall to the ground laid out on the street. The guerrillera got up and hugged me; she warmed my body. She smelled like fresh laundry, and her uniform was soft to the touch. We hugged each other, until I closed my eyes.

I awoke in a truck and saw Ernesto. How did I keep knowing faces and names? How did I know I am Guatemalan?

“Te miras espantado. ¿Qué te pasa? ¿Dormiste o no? Tus pinches ojos los tienes morados.”

“Si, no dormí muy bien. Mi mente no descansa cuando cierro mis ojos. Mi cuerpo no se recarga” I reply.

“Whetever, puto. Pues levántate y ponte las pilas antes que el gringo te despida por estar durmiendo en su troka.” I start to piece together my surroundings. I’m in a truck full to the brim with landscaping equipment and tools. There is a weed wacker, a box of black heavy plastic bags, nuts and bolts scattered all over the floor, a blue paint-splattered toolbox, and a bunch of other things. The sun was rising, and we weren’t in the barrio anymore. There were many single family homes with green lawns and perfectly painted mailboxes. A lot of gringo kids were outside with mochilas on, probably waiting for their school buses. Kinda reminds me of Luisa. I imagine her adorable carita on the couch saying buenos dias to me so warmly. Looking at my reflection on the window, I notice no abrasions on my face. I touch it and inspect it, trying to see if I’m real. The window is dirty on the inside, like something sticky exploded in the back of the truck. Seems like a soda bottle exploded. I let the explosion of the bottle play out in my mind to locate a possible initial location. The smudges of the liquid lift from the window and reverse to a single point. It doesn’t seem right though. I’m missing something. Changing my gaze away from the window, I turn to the back of the seat in front of me where I notice more brown spots. My gaze leads me to look at the rear view mirror where I see a green eyes lock with mine.

“Pay-dro, you’re up. Good, I’m going to need you cutting grass today. Since, you’re well rested from all that sleeping you’ve been doing, you’re gonna work like the food on your table depends on it” he said letting out a laugh and re-directing his stare back to the road in front of him.

“Jes, sir. I’m gonna work bery hard for ju today. Like I always work.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Kyle and I are going to drop you 2 off at this big property that’s gonna need a lot of landscaping and cleaning on the inside. I trust that you and Ernesto can handle both tasks. Of course, we’ll leave all the supplies you will need, the lawn mower, leaf blower, and weed wacker. Her-nest-oh, sound good with you?”

“Jes, Meester. Michael. We can do ebrything.” The small single level homes start to turn into two story houses with Mercedes and BMWs in the driveways, the 2-level abodes start to turn into wide, 3-story mansions with Porches and cars I never seen before. The houses are surrounded with trees, and the lawns triple in size while still resembling a neighborhood. Our truck stops behind a long yellow bus that says “Montgomery County Public Schools,” and I see a group of kids walk on the bus: diverse but no latino kids like the ones in Hyattsville and PG. None that look like Luisa. All dressed in clean pants, clean shoes, and warm richly colored jackets: some red, some white, some blue.

The red signs protruding from the bus clamp closed against the yellow machine. We start moving. As we get deeper into the neighborhood, something feels strange. The streets are completely empty. The noise of life is gone. The houses look fake, artificial. As if instead of being made from wood or brick were instead edified from plastic.

“Here we are, chee-cos.” We pull up to the only house with character. It’s a foreclosed fortress amidst all these dull dwellings. The property line with the neighbors on the left is clear: the tall unkempt yard of today’s task juxtaposed with the neighbor’s crisply cut lawn.A thin forest lines the back and other side of the home. The trees soared high and extended for about 100 feet. Through the trees and bushes, you can see another suburban development with more houses.

Ernesto and I unload all the equipment and cleaning supplies from the dirty truck. As we pull out the tools, empty bags of McDonalds and gatorade bottles spill out. With all the necessary things laid out on the oil-stained driveway, el jefe came out and inspected that we had everything.

“It seems like you got everything, but I’m gonna take one of these bottles of floor cleaner and these gloves for me and Kyle for our other property.”

“Wait, boss, is there carpet in the house?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because we are going to need more than haf bottle of floor cleaner for the whole house

unless there’s carpet.”

“Make it work or I’ll give you another bottle and pay you for one less hour. You choose,” he states with a patronizing tone.

“No, we’ll make it work.”

“That’s what I thought, and it better be spotless in there. We’ll be back in 4 hours to pick you up and inspect the property.” He gives me a paper with the code for the lock box with the keys to the house and an invoice with all the tasks we have to complete with the amount he’s charging the contracting company. I instantly run some calculations: Ernesto and I make 12 an hour, so we get $48 each for this property while he is charging $1350 for all the tasks. “I’m giving this to you because I know your little friend can’t read.” He laughs, signals to Kyle to get in the truck, and they pull out.

We stand next to each other and watch them drive away. 2 hispanos in this uncharted territory of big houses, nice cars, and a lot of wealth. The sun is gaining its strength and rising higher in the sky. Luckily, the temperature is rising too, because I would have frozen my ass off in this long sleeve. I observe that Ernesto has a thick hoodie on. We look at each other and nod: it’s time to work.

 

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