An Evening in Kermit

 

 

I resent being here. We closed on the house last Tuesday. We need to be moving. Because of this trip, we have a single weekend to transfer our belongings from the rented apartment to our new house. Still, my companion decided to attend his aunt’s 73rd birthday in Kermit and begged me to come along to sit in disgruntled silence with the similarly annoyed sisters-in-law that are married to his many brothers. At least the legitimate couples can dance unabashed. Most often I sit sober in a corner and watch the proceedings of these large family events. I have been to weddings, rehearsal suppers, quinceañeras, birthdays, graduations, marching contests, football games, memorial services. Visits to prisons. Sometimes I occupy myself with the camera. I don’t feel like doing either this evening, so I threaten to drag he and his brothers onto the dance floor for some same-sex two-stepping or bailando ranchero: they big and handsome; I the short ‘gringito.’ In particular, I would like to shock the sanctimonious brother who howled charismatic church songs all the way from Odessa, and who no doubt will caterwaul drunken mariachi songs all the way back. We will be a captive audience at 3 am and he needs to pay for this injury. I have worn the diamond rings given to me through the years. All six of them. I am proud of all the guido bling and I am pleased that they seem to embarrass everyone except the sweet generous man who gave them to me. My taunting to dance all nelly and joto before the assembled guests goes unheard as he and his brothers have closed ranks and sit opposite their spouses, completely absorbed in family reminiscence. I can’t hear any of the sisters-in-law–a towering woofer is immediately behind me, blasting puffs of air against my skull. This is hell.

After brisket, beans and introductions (‘a friend of the family’ though everyone knows better), I choose to sulk in the Suburban outside the west side community center, listening to the pitter-patter of light spring rain and the still very audible rented karaoke crooner through the cracked windows. Patronizing and ungrateful, there are times when I feel saturated with Spanish. Saturated with poverty and strangeness and self-inflicted alienation. I imagine I have become exhausted by the human condition. Worn out by the complex nuances of communication and association. Overwhelmed by rich sentimental bonds and human subtlety. I wonder if I am having what some might call an identity crisis. The sun is setting, everything outdoors has been rinsed and seems to glow internally. The theatrical West Texas sky becomes peacock blue; orange clouds retreat to the northeast. The Suburban is stuffy. It is time to take a walk.

The west side in Kermit is mostly made up of abandoned clapboard houses. It is hard to know how long the town has been in decline. Behind the lively community center, buried in the leafing mesquite is one such house. An upright piano rots on the porch. Intrigued, I examine the instrument. An ivory key flakes off as I depress it. A soft jangle comes from the sound box. The door to the house is wide open. The interior is dim. Cautiously I enter the house, watching for snakes, rodents, insects or worse. The ceilings are low and large sheets of sheetrock have come down revealing dark stained ceiling joists and old cloth-insulated wiring. The floor is littered with costume jewelry. A huge gaudy broach of fake emeralds sparkles beneath the dim grit. A dirty mug with the name ‘Doris’ sits on a dusty side table with a plaster of Paris toreador. The carpet, where it can be seen, is dark olive green. I gingerly walk through four rooms like this before I smell a cigarette burning.

He stands in the abandoned kitchen, the orange ember of his cigarette a pinhole of brilliance. He is not startled and he says Hello, Frank.

It is my companion’s uncle, Juan.

Hi, I stammer.

Que estas haciendo por aca? I think he is grinning at me in the darkness.

Pues nada. Escapando los hermanos Carrascos y sus mujeres. Escaping the family.

He laughs out loud. He offers a cigarette and he goes on to tell me about the widow who lived in this shack and died here ten years ago. Died alone in this skeleton of a house. He picks an envelope from off the floor. It is a Sears credit statement dated November, 1997.

She owed nearly $3000 dollars to Sears alone. Pobrecita. It is not easy for anyone to come to these events, he says. But this poor little gringa viuda died alone. She died alone. What a great sin. Thank you for bringing Oscar to my sister’s birthday. She doesn’t have long, you know. She is in dialysis three times a week.

I look at him in amazement, my purpose clear, my anxieties and awkwardness and resentment gone. We walk back to the community center where the windows glow and the rented crooner sings the Pepe Aguilar song “Por mujeres como tu.” For women like you.