COMPADRES

Chapter One

Alfredo Fernando Cervantes

CANCER! The most dreaded word in the English language. It has to be a mistake. I feel fine. I don’t feel sick. It must be a mistake. Maybe the x-ray is messed up or something, Alfredo thought to himself as he buttoned his shirt.

He could feel the panic as he asked, “Are you absolutely sure, Doc?”

Doctor Lehman responded, “I am afraid so, Alfredo. There is no mistake. It is cancer, and the bad news is not only do you have lung cancer, but it is also in Stage Four. Regrettably, neither radiation nor chemotherapy can help at this stage of the disease. I am so sorry to say there is no other known treatment available, to my knowledge. You may decide to seek a second opinion if you wish. But, for the record, I believe you will be confronted with the same prognosis no matter whom you see.”

“So, I’m dying. Is that what you’re telling me?” +

“Alfredo, I wish I could say otherwise, but the truth is you should get your affairs in order as quickly as possible.”

“How long?” Alfredo asked, trying to hold back the inevitable tears.

“I truly can’t say. Perhaps a year, or it could be less.”

“A year or maybe less,” Alfredo repeated, still shaken. “That’s what you said, a year or maybe less?”

“I am afraid so. Alfredo, I am so sorry. Are you in any pain? If you are, I can prescribe something for you. But be aware that you should not drive or push yourself when taking it. It is a powerful drug.”

“Oh…that’s okay, Doc. I am not in any pain so far. I will let you know when I need it if that’s okay with you?”

“That is fine with me, but you be sure and let me know when it starts. Don’t try to tough it out. Promise me.”

“Yeah…okay! I promise.” Alfredo said as he reached the door marked “EXIT.”

Outside, as he reached the steps leading to the sidewalk, he grabbed onto the handrail, and the tears he had been holding back gushed from his eyes, ran down his face, and dripped on his shirt. He held on for dear life as his knees buckled. He plopped down on the concrete and sat on the top step, crying it all out. Ten minutes passed before he could compose himself and stand up. He descended the step. Once on the sidewalk, he headed to the bus stop, where he would catch the bus home.

It took exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes for the bus to reach the bus stop nearest Alfredo’s home. The bus driver opened the doors. Alfredo wearily pulled himself up from the sticky plastic cover of his seat and slowly stepped outside onto the pavement. He shuffled down the sidewalk, crossed the street, and entered the gate, arriving at his home. He fumbled in his pocket, trying to locate the key to his front door. His fingers finally wrapped around the key. He pulled it from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. He pushed the door open. It was as if his feet were nailed to the floor. Yet, he somehow managed to drag himself inside and close the door.

He deposited his hat and coat in the chair nearest the front door and made straight for the fridge. He had to have a Schlitz. His nerves were crawling inside him as he retrieved the church key from the cabinet's top drawer. WHOOSH! The pungent air expelled from the can. He took a sip and slowly ran it around in his mouth before swallowing. A second sip evolved into a long drink; He needed to sit down. The weight of the world stretched out across his chest as he eased down into his Naugahyde chair. Setting the beer on the end table, he pulled his right leg up and removed his shoe. He repeated the process to remove his left shoe. He was not about to cry again. He tugged the pack of Marlboros from his left shirt pocket and grabbed his lighter from the table. He flicked the lighter and then caught himself.

“What the hell am I doing?” he screamed out loud. “I may be dying, but I sure as hell am not going to hurry the process.”

The doorbell chimed. Alfredo looked at his watch.

“Damn! It’s later than I thought,” he said. He took the last swig of his beer and tossed the can and his cigarettes into the trash can, yawning nearby. Extracting himself from the comfort of his chair, he made his way to the door. As he opened the door, there she stood, Senora Alvarez.

“Senor Cervantes, I am here,” she announced.

“Yes, Senora Alvarez, I see you are here. Come in. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

Senora Alvarez was there to have her portrait painted. Alfredo scurried to the hall closet and got his palette and paints. A canvas stood ready in the adjoining room. He ushered her in and seated her on an upholstered stool.

“Senora Alvarez, please listen to me. Now that you are seated, understand you cannot move or change position. You must remain still until I tell you I am finished.”

Senora Alvarez nodded.

Alfredo began to sketch, fingers flying, stopping only to check the angle of light and the projected shadows.

He paused momentarily, picked up his brush, splashed it with color, and began to paint furiously. The brush strokes are fast and somewhat agitated while the color splotched on at first begins to take shape as he paints. He's working on her nose, that somewhat distorted protuberance resembling a rocket blasting. It somehow defies the laws of gravity.

He finishes the nose. The rest of the painting is downhill all the way. She has simple features, a round head, a slight double chin, dark sockets for eyes, and a mouth that seems to vanish into a slightly dented wall of flesh, bordered by two large purplish lines representing lips. At one time, her mouth had probably contained a complete set of teeth, but no more. The absence of her teeth has caused her left jaw to realign itself, which is much lower than the right jaw. Her hair is pulled back tightly in an old-fashioned bun like your third-grade teacher. Alfredo guesses that the method employed to arrange her hair reduces the number of wrinkles on her face. He envisions her scalp beneath her hair and imagines it resembles a Kansas wheat field after plowing.

In what seems an eternity to him but is slightly more than an hour, he breathes a sigh of relief, signs the painting, puts down his brush, and announces he is done. Fortunately for her, he has softened everything, and the features that are real are not there. Long live Impressionism.

She smiles as she accepts the painting, paying him the money they had agreed to.

As she shuffles out the door and down the steps, still admiring the painting as if it were a mirror, she passes the weather-beaten sign precariously hanging in the front yard proclaiming “Alfredo Fernando Cervantes – Artista Extraordinario.” One of the support chains has come loose, and it bangs relentlessly against the gate every time the wind blows. Alfredo made a New Year’s resolution in January to fix it, but he is just too damned depressed to fool with it now.

Cancer! Why not? He had been smoking Camels for years. Then he switched to Marlboros because he liked the Marlboro Man. He didn’t want to think about it. Yet he is constantly reliving the moment the doctor brought in the x-rays and pointed out the cancer in his right lung. It was huge. It was in Stage Four. It was inoperable. He had tried not to cry, but he couldn’t help it. After all, he had just been given his death warrant. He had rushed home to keep an appointment to paint a portrait of one of his neighbors. The one that just left.

His mind returns to the present, and he begins to clean his brushes and put away his palette, observing the splashes of color on the floor. He would have cleaned the floor at one time, but now he thinks it adds to his persona as an artist to have the many colors greet his customers.

Finished cleaning up, he shuffles into the kitchen, pokes his head into the fridge, extracts another can of Schlitz, and returns to the front room, where he picks up his copy of the neighborhood newspaper and settles down into his Naugahyde chair. There is a WHOOSH of air as he church-keys the top of his Schlitz. He reaches over and turns on his Hoffman television set. It has a green screen, but the color of the screen is of no consequence. The picture tube burned out long ago. There is no picture, only sound. The aroma of his beer mingles and then merges with the smell of the leftover garbage that lurks beneath the kitchen sink. Since old man Wosnoski got sick, the trash has accumulated in the neighborhood. So far, management has yet to hire a replacement, which has not helped the situation.

The neighborhood is truly on its last legs. The brick consists of dark, darker, and darkest hues of subterranean brown., The dirt of past years clings to each brick, forming a soot stratum.

Alfredo's house isn't much. In fact, it is not a house at all but rather an old bicycle repair shop he purchased and converted into a studio with living quarters when he first arrived in New York. The neighborhood at that time was questionable. But now, in the year of our Lord, nineteen fifty-seven., all questions have been answered. The neighborhood and all who live here are doomed. Everything is being demolished. Parking garages and high rises are replacing the current structures. Alfredo will soon have nowhere to live, and any trace of his existence will disappear. The realization is frightening.

Alfredo is a native of Mexico. Born just outside Veracruz, he spent his early childhood helping his father farm a small piece of land, raising melons and maize to sell in the market in Veracruz. He has three siblings, a brother, Jose, and two sisters, Paloma and Francisca. His mother, Teresa, was loving and devoted but not in good health. Francisco, his father, was a good man and a decent farmer, but he liked to drink too much. He died from liver disease. when Alfredo was twelve. After his death, Teresa tried to keep the farm but found it too difficult, so she sold it and moved to the city near Francisco's brother, Tio Jorge.

For Alfredo, moving to the city was the beginning of a new way of life, an introduction to a new world. Tio Jorge was quite a businessman. He owned several businesses, some legitimate, some not so legitimate. He was a man of the world, a fancy dresser, smooth talker, albeit with a forked tongue, which had smoothed his way into almost every aspect of the city, and he had his finger in every pie imaginable. Everyone knew of him and respected him. For it was he who could solve their problems, no matter what they were. An answer could be found for the right amount, and the problem would simply go away.

Tio Jorge had kept his eye on Alfredo, noticing that the young boy was quite handsome and that the girls and even some of the local women were always hanging around him. Alfredo was less aware of this than Tio Jorge.

One morning as Alfredo was dressing for school, Tio Jorge asked him, “Alfredo, how is your money situation?”

Alfredo answered, “It's okay. I'm trying to find a way to get more, but people say I am too young to get a job. I don’t see it that way. I'm nearly fourteen, but the jobs are scarce, and too many older guys are looking for work.”

“What if I told you I knew of a way for you to make some money, and it doesn't require you to go to work?”

“Are you serious? You know a way for me to make money without working for it.”

“I most surely do,” Tio Jorge replied with a wink.

“How? What do I have to do?” Alfredo questioned.

“What do you know about girls?”

“What do you mean, Tio?” asked Alfredo, his curiosity aroused.

“Girls, ladies, the fairer sex. What do you know about them?” Tio Jorge continued.

“I know they are different,” Alfredo replied, laughing aloud.

“Good. They are different. What about sex? What do you know about sex?”

Alfredo blushed and muttered, “I know a little.”

“A little?” questioned Tio Jorge with raised eyebrows.

“Maybe more than a little,” Alfredo responded.

“Have you ever been with a girl?” Tio Jorge asked. He was trying to pin Alfredo down.

“No, Sir, but I think about this one girl in my school a lot,” Alfredo said with a quirky smile.

“Good for you,” Tio Jorge said with a smile, “Alfredo, I think it is now time for you to become a man.”

Her name was Yolanda. She was twenty-seven with raven black tresses, dark eyes, and puffy red lips. She was one of Tio Jorge's girls, his favorite. Alfredo was mesmerized from the start. He had never seen such a beautiful woman.

She gently took his hand and started up the winding staircase. “Come with me, young man,” she said with a smile. “I have promised your Tio Jorge to take good care of you.”

That was the moment Alfredo began. From that miraculous day, Alfredo was in command. Tio Jorge made all the arrangements for him. All he had to do was be ready. The things Yolanda had taught him in the three days he was with her, at first unimaginable, soon overcame any doubt or uneasiness he had. They became a driving force, taking over his mind and his body. The sex was magnetic, something he had to have, something so strong, he was powerless to say, “No.” His dreams, his conscious thoughts, were all sexual. Something deep within him had been awakened, let out of the box, and it had taken over. The once naive young man was no more.

He knew what every female wanted, and he was there to provide. Age did not matter. Young or old, they all wanted the same thing, and he was happy to oblige them, for money, of course. The relationship did not count. He was in it strictly for the money.

For the next eight years, Alfredo supported his family with his income as an escort. He not only supported them. He also managed to save quite a bit as well.

His mother died when Alfredo was twenty-two. Soon after her death, Tio Jorge began experiencing episodes of vertigo. During these episodes, he often lost his balance and would fall. His most recent episode resulted in him falling down a flight of stairs and breaking his hip in three places. The doctor did all he could, but the hip did not mend well, and Tio Jorge was too ill to undergo surgery for a hip replacement. So it was; Alfredo took over the businesses at Tio Jorge's request. Alfredo would be in charge and manage them while receiving advice and counsel from his uncle.

It was a good arrangement. Alfredo was good with people. He knew how to manipulate and cajole even better than his uncle. His profits increased considerably, and when Tio Jorge passed, Alfredo became one of the wealthiest men in town.

For the next ten years, he was the “man about town,” doing whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted, and with whomever he wanted, his wealth increasing with each successive year.

Among Alfredo's many passions, he loved sitting quietly on the veranda of the Hotel Diligencia in the early evening, drinking a Modelo Negra, and watching the young ladies pass by on their way home from work. There had even been one such evening when he was able to waylay a young lady by the name of Maria and convince her to join him. Later that evening, after dinner, Maria agreed to go to work for him. She became his favorite until that fateful day when his life changed forever.

He was sitting at his special table, drinking his Modelo, watching the young ladies parade by him on their way home from work, when he caught a glimpse of her as she was seated.