Blood Relations by Chris Lynch

one-dollar bills in the corner of his closet and found out I stole a fistful.
    “That should cover it,” Toy said. “I mean, I hope you didn’t pay more than that for that piece of crap.”
    I stuck the ten in my pocket. “No, come on, what do you think, I’m stupid?”
    “I’m sorry,” he repeated. He didn’t add anything like an explanation, but he’d already said sorry twice more than I would have expected. He stuck an obscenely fat cigar in my hand and sat back down on his milk crate. “Cuban,” he said as he lit one for himself.
    “Here, this is better for you anyway,” Ruben said, popping up and jamming his own hat on my head from behind.
    I spun to look at him.
    “Bueno,” he said, nodding several times and smiling his broad, no-front-teeth smile. “Wanna know what I think, you looked pretty stupid in that cowboy hat anyway.”
    “You were watching,” I said, feeling a new level of stupid.
    “Right over there,” he said, pointing to a mailbox across the street. “Thing is, Mike—”
    “Mick.”
    “Thing is, you gotta be a big persona to gedawaywit wearing something like that.” He pointed at Toy with his thumb. “This one, big. Beeeeeg persona. And you know what? Even he can’t gedawaywidit. Look like a big dope, don’t he?” Cruz laughed and walked up to Toy, who stuck out his hand. “¿ Porqué , man? Acting all mental already, so early in the morning. Beating up on the guy’s sombrero ?”
    They shook hard and Toy blew smoke in Ruben’s face, squeezing his hand harder and harder until Ruben’s knees bent. He didn’t make a sound, though, or ask Toy to stop.
    I took the hat off and checked it out. It was like an old man’s hat, a gray felt fedora with a black band. Inside was a bright yellow silk lining. The hat Ruben always wore. I fixed it back on my head.
    “It fits you nice,” he said, walking up to me to adjust it to about a forty-five degree backward tilt. “There you go. You know, you’re taller than me, but I do have this really big head. Everybody says so.” He bent down to give me the full on-top view of his head.
    “I see,” I said.
    “It’s good on you, Mick,” Toy said easily, like nothing had happened.
    “It feels good,” I said, sliding it off then on again.
    Ruben turned to Toy again. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” Then to me. “If you’re happy, I’m happy. The hat is yours.” He held out his hand. “Ten dollars.”
    “You were watching pretty close,” I said, pulling out the ten Toy’d just handed me.
    “All right ,” Ruben laughed. “Now I can go out and buy me ten more a them cheap-ass hats.”
    To close the deal, Ruben pulled out his lighter and lit my cigar. Toy threw one to Ruben and soon we were all floating in a fog of Havana smoke.
    “ Dios mío, this is freakin’ fan tas tic,” Ruben said, and they both nodded. They made moans and yumm sounds like they were munching chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. The first long pull tasted strong, bitter, but good, burning up inside my sinuses. Then I started going downhill. My stomach jumped, I got a headache, and the back of my mouth started watering uncontrollably, prevomit condition.
    “It’s almost time for school,” I warbled as I stubbed out the ash on the sidewalk. “I’m gonna save this for later.”
    I didn’t wait for any response. The two of them looked knowingly at each other, and I just started walking, weaving like a drunk toward the school, trying to hold it together. The street ahead floated in a heat-vapor wave, making me sicker. In a few seconds, they were there again, Toy on my left side, Ruben on my right, bumping me with their shoulders, keeping me up and steady. They knew. But they didn’t make me say it.
    By the time we reached the school, I was clearer. Not quite lifelike yet, but better. I still needed a minute of air before going into the school, which always smelled like wet smoke and oil paint anyway. Toy was going inside. He stopped to look me over