Date: Sat, 30 Apr 2005 22:54:48 -0700 (PDT)
From: Ray <yaalc@yahoo.com>
Subject: sebastian chapter 4

     "Get out of my way you little prick"

     I knew those words would be followed by a fist.
Either to my gut or kidneys, depending on the way I
was facing. So I scrambled out of bed as fast as I
could, making way for my brother Pablo to get out.

     The feeling of the cold dirt floor on my feet
always sent a shock wave up my body. It left me
feeling like my nuts had been shoved back up inside. I
scrambled madly in the dark for my shoes. They weren't
much but they did offer some protection from the cold.

     I hated sleeping with my brothers. They were both
older than me and made me sleep on the outside edge,
where the cold would be felt more fiercely. It also
meant I had to get up as soon as they did so I didn't
get in the way of their morning piss.

     "Shut the fuck up," roared my dad from behind the
blanket that separated the small hut into two rooms
"shit I could have slept for 20 more minutes if it
wasn't for you, you little piss ant."

     Tears of frustration found their way to my eyes.
I wasn't the one who'd made all the noise, but I was
always the one to get the blame. I knew better than to
say anything though, the last time I did dad smacked
me so hard I couldn't see anything but stars for close
to half an hour. And to top it off, both Pablo and
Jorge had added their say with a fist to the gut.

     Dad, Pablo and Jorge all worked out in the tea
fields. It was brutal work and the pay was for shit.
They all started when they were 14 and were royally
pissed at me, just because I hadn't hit my growth
spurt and was too scrawny to work in the fields. It
wasn't my fault mom had fucked her boss and had me. It
wasn't my fault that they were dark haired and I was
blonde. It wasn't my fault they were built big and I
wasn't. It wasn't my fault that the government had
ceded all this land to the Pollock's, Ukraine's and ex
Nazi's at the end of World War 2. And it wasn't my
fault that the Pollock's had all the money and they
had none. So if none of this was my fault why the fuck
did they have to take it out on me?

     I don't know why I even think about it. The same
thoughts have roamed my mind for most of the last 14
years, nothing's changed and nothing ever will. I'd
just have to keep trudging along until I could get
away from them or until I got hit by a truck, either
way I would be free.

     Dad lit a candle on the other side of the
curtain. And I scrambled to find my clothes. If I
wasn't out selling papers by 5 am there would be hell
to pay. I grabbed the set of clothes I had that wasn't
out hanging on the line to dry. I'd be able to wear
those ones in another 3 or 4 days if the weather
cleared up a bit. I pulled my sweats on being careful
not to snag my toes on the holes in the knee, they
were already big enough, and I didn't need them
bigger. I put on the socks I'd worn for the last 5
days, they were getting hard to put on, and they
scraped my calves as I pulled them up. One of them had
a big hole that let my big toe hang out. The other one
had a hole in the ankle. I tried to switch feet every
day so the same toe wasn't cold all the time. I pulled
the old sweater that didn't quite fit me anymore over
my head, and tried to line the holes up so they didn't
match the holes in my t-shirt. It got really cold if
that happened.

     Seeing moms shadow behind the curtain I knew time
was short. I grabbed my coat and fled the house as
fast as I could. It wasn't hard to leave. It was just
a wooden door without a lock. I carefully laid the
door back in its place and turned to look around me.
The winter mist that was more moisture than fog had
settled in hard this morning leaving the streets muddy
and slippery. I'd have to be careful where I walked
today. The red dirt that's given distinction to our
corner of Argentina was pretty when it was dry but
when it was wet it was like glue. It clung to
everything. Mom hated having to wash clothes that were
covered in that grime. Bringing home something like
that for her to wash was sure to earn a backhand
upside the head. But only if it was me, if the workers
came home with dirty clothes that was just part of the
job.

     I trod carefully along the side of the street
where some vegetation grew. I had fled without eating
breakfast so I had a little extra time before I had to
pick up the papers that I would try to sell that
morning. I reached the point of the road where the
dirt ended and the cobblestone began. I breathed a
little easier. I really didn't give a fuck about
whether my pants got dirty or not, but I really didn't
want to deal with "those people" today.

     I'm not sure when I started referring to my
family as "those people." But I think it had something
to do with a lesson I'd been taught in 4th grade. The
lesson was about families and the teacher made it seem
like a family should be some sort of loving unit or
some bullshit like that. Mine never was so I decided
we weren't really a family and they became "those
people."

     I had a lot of time to think while I walked
around with the newspapers. I kept my head down to
watch for mud, and let my mind roam wherever it
wanted. I reached the newspaper distribution point,
picked up a stack and off I went.

     I tried to vary my route, I had a certain area to
cover, but I know how much people hated being woken up
by someone shouting "newspaper" at that time of
morning. Several times someone's come out on their
porch and thrown something at me, bitching at me for
being to loud. And it's those same bastards that
complained to my boss if they didn't have an
opportunity to get the paper in the morning.

    That morning I headed up to the nicer area of my
route. I tried to avoid going there first as much as
possible but I tended to sell more papers there. And
the sooner I got done and out of this drizzle the
sooner I could get home. I loved going home after my
paper route. The "men" were all gone to work in the
fields, and mom was off at her job. She worked as a
maid for one of the Pollock families. I've never met
her boss but someday I'd like to see him. He is my
real father after all. With everyone gone to work I
could go home and take a nap. I had the bed to myself.
I didn't have to worry about which one of them was
going to smack me. It was the only time of day I felt
safe.

     I shuffled up the street shouting out the
occasional.

     "Diario, DiariOooo.

     I would glance around to see if anybody was
around that might want a paper. Mostly they just
yelled to me but sometimes they were busy talking to a
neighbor or something and just waved me over. I hated
when they did that. They'd grab the paper out of my
hands and drop the 50 cents assuming I'd be able to
grab it. Half the time I had to crawl around looking
for the coins, while they looked down their noses at
me like I carried the plague.

    For each paper I sold I received 5 cents. They
gave me 40 papers to sell in a day. That left me with
a whopping 2 pesos to take home. If I sold them all
that is. I tried hard to sell them all. My dad didn't
like it when I didn't contribute as much as he thought
I should. I hated giving him the money. Most of it
went for cigarettes and beer anyway. The least they
could have done was make sure I had something to eat
every day. But I guess I wasn't as important as the
booze and smokes were.

    Although the weather was lousy it turned out to be
a good day to sell papers. I was down to 5 when I
happened across a boy who looked my age standing there
looking at me.

     "Do you want a paper?"

     "I don't speak Spanish" and he shoved a couple of
pesos at me.

     I reached up to sweep my bangs out of my eyes so
I could see him better. He didn't look like he
belonged here. He was wearing clothes like I'd never
seen before. And his coat looked thick and warm. But
at the same time he was still shivering, weird. He had
coal black, wavy hair. And his eyes, they were the
lightest blue Id ever seen on someone. I couldn't
understand what he was doing here. He obviously didn't
belong.

    I was feeling a little mischievous this morning,
and was ready for someone else to be at the receiving
end. And since it was obvious he didn't speak Spanish
I decided to have a little fun. I couldn't keep the
shit eating grin off my face.

     "Suck my dick" I told him.

     He just looked at me confusion evident in his
eyes. For some reason it cracked me up. It wasn't
really that funny but the look on his face was
priceless. I'd had enough fun with him so I handed him
his paper and tried to give him his change. He refused
and I wasn't about to insist. A dollar fifty tip on a
fifty cent newspaper was more than I would ever see
again.

        It was then I realized I'd probably have to
turn it over to "those people" my shoulders slumped
and I turned and trudged away. I heard someone yell to
the boy but I didn't understand a word they were
saying.

     Thirty minutes later I'd sold all the papers. My
stomach was pissed at me for skipping another meal.
Fuck it I used the buck fifty to buy me a small
breakfast then went home to nap. I was more content at
that moment than I'd been in a long time.

	Constructive criticism and comments gladly accepted.
Please email me at yaalc@yahoo.com.

Copyright Notice - Copyright 2005 by yaalc.
This story is copyrighted by the author and the author
retains all rights. This work may not be duplicated in
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