head. “We’re supposed to be out getting ice cream.”
“ Jesus might have other things on his mind.”
“ It’s Hay-zeus , dammit.”
“ Same thing.”
“ No, it’s not,” said Sanchez. “For one thing, it’s a completely different language. And considering you date a world renowned anthropologist, you show a surprising lack of cultural and religious sensitivity.”
“ The word you want is ethnocentric.”
“ What the hell does that mean?”
“ Thinking one’s culture is superior to others,” I said. “Most people in most cultures suffer from it. I, however, do not suffer from it.”
“ And I happen to disagree,” said Sanchez. “You are one hell of an ethnocentric motherfucker.”
Shouts and the sound of smacking flesh reached our open windows. It was hard to tell who was doing the smacking.
“ Your kid winning?” I asked.
“ I can’t tell, but it’s a good bet. I told him not to kick his ass too bad. I didn’t want his knuckles scuffed. His mother would have my head if she knew what we were doing. We’re supposed to be getting ice cream.”
One kid staggered to his feet, while the other lay in the middle of the street in the fetal position. Luckily, no cars were coming.
The kid on his feet was smallish. Dark hair. Good looking.
Son of a bitch, I thought . He did it.
Jesus surveyed the street, ignoring the moaning kid, spotted the bike. He staggered over to it, then dragged it over to a trash can by its front tire, sparks flying from where one of the peddles contacted the asphalt. He picked the bike up, and deposited it inside the trashcan, and closed the lid.
“ Very thorough,” I said.
Jesus staggered over, pulled open the door and collapsed inside. I could smell his sweat and something else. Maybe blood, maybe bike grease. Outside, a couple of porchlights turned on, including the one we were parked in front of.
“ Let’s go,” said Sanchez.
“ Anyone feel like ice cream?” I asked.
Chapter Nineteen
Cindy and I were in her condo on a perfect Sunday afternoon watching football. During the fall, I don’t work weekends or Monday nights. Cindy knows this about me and mostly puts up with it.
Outside, through the blinds, the sun was shining. We were wasting another perfect day. Big deal. Most days in Orange County were perfect. Besides, football is worth wasting a few perfect days over.
“ So explain what that yellow line means again? Do the players see it?”
“ No,” I said. I didn’t mind explaining football to Cindy. I took pride in the fact that football seemed an overly complex game for the uninitiated. “The players can’t see it. The yellow line is for the benefit of the fans.”
“ And you are quite a fan.”
“ Yes.”
“ Why?”
“ Probably because I played the game. I know how difficult football is.”
“ I thought you said it was easy.”
“ No. I said football came easy to me. Playing my position, fullback, came naturally to me. However, everything else was hard. The grueling practices in one hundred-degree heat with twenty pounds of pads. Playing when hurt. Picking yourself up off the ground after you’ve had your bell rung.”
“ And pretending it didn’t hurt,” said Cindy.
“ Yep.”
“ You rung a few bells in your time.”
“ That’s how I made my living.”
“ Except you weren’t paid.”
“ Alas, no.”
“ So why is there a yellow line?”
“ It denotes the first down.”
She snapped her fingers. I could almost see the light on behind her eyes. “You’ve told me that before.”
“ Yes.”
“ But you never sound impatient.”
“ No.”
“ Why?”
“ Because I happen to like you.”
Cindy’s condo was cozy and immaculate. She had painted her north kitchen wall red. It looked orange to me, but I have it on good authority—Cindy’s—that it was indeed red. The small kitchen had a ceramic red rooster on the fridge, and lots of country knickknacks. The rest of the house was laced
“ Jesus might have other things on his mind.”
“ It’s Hay-zeus , dammit.”
“ Same thing.”
“ No, it’s not,” said Sanchez. “For one thing, it’s a completely different language. And considering you date a world renowned anthropologist, you show a surprising lack of cultural and religious sensitivity.”
“ The word you want is ethnocentric.”
“ What the hell does that mean?”
“ Thinking one’s culture is superior to others,” I said. “Most people in most cultures suffer from it. I, however, do not suffer from it.”
“ And I happen to disagree,” said Sanchez. “You are one hell of an ethnocentric motherfucker.”
Shouts and the sound of smacking flesh reached our open windows. It was hard to tell who was doing the smacking.
“ Your kid winning?” I asked.
“ I can’t tell, but it’s a good bet. I told him not to kick his ass too bad. I didn’t want his knuckles scuffed. His mother would have my head if she knew what we were doing. We’re supposed to be getting ice cream.”
One kid staggered to his feet, while the other lay in the middle of the street in the fetal position. Luckily, no cars were coming.
The kid on his feet was smallish. Dark hair. Good looking.
Son of a bitch, I thought . He did it.
Jesus surveyed the street, ignoring the moaning kid, spotted the bike. He staggered over to it, then dragged it over to a trash can by its front tire, sparks flying from where one of the peddles contacted the asphalt. He picked the bike up, and deposited it inside the trashcan, and closed the lid.
“ Very thorough,” I said.
Jesus staggered over, pulled open the door and collapsed inside. I could smell his sweat and something else. Maybe blood, maybe bike grease. Outside, a couple of porchlights turned on, including the one we were parked in front of.
“ Let’s go,” said Sanchez.
“ Anyone feel like ice cream?” I asked.
Chapter Nineteen
Cindy and I were in her condo on a perfect Sunday afternoon watching football. During the fall, I don’t work weekends or Monday nights. Cindy knows this about me and mostly puts up with it.
Outside, through the blinds, the sun was shining. We were wasting another perfect day. Big deal. Most days in Orange County were perfect. Besides, football is worth wasting a few perfect days over.
“ So explain what that yellow line means again? Do the players see it?”
“ No,” I said. I didn’t mind explaining football to Cindy. I took pride in the fact that football seemed an overly complex game for the uninitiated. “The players can’t see it. The yellow line is for the benefit of the fans.”
“ And you are quite a fan.”
“ Yes.”
“ Why?”
“ Probably because I played the game. I know how difficult football is.”
“ I thought you said it was easy.”
“ No. I said football came easy to me. Playing my position, fullback, came naturally to me. However, everything else was hard. The grueling practices in one hundred-degree heat with twenty pounds of pads. Playing when hurt. Picking yourself up off the ground after you’ve had your bell rung.”
“ And pretending it didn’t hurt,” said Cindy.
“ Yep.”
“ You rung a few bells in your time.”
“ That’s how I made my living.”
“ Except you weren’t paid.”
“ Alas, no.”
“ So why is there a yellow line?”
“ It denotes the first down.”
She snapped her fingers. I could almost see the light on behind her eyes. “You’ve told me that before.”
“ Yes.”
“ But you never sound impatient.”
“ No.”
“ Why?”
“ Because I happen to like you.”
Cindy’s condo was cozy and immaculate. She had painted her north kitchen wall red. It looked orange to me, but I have it on good authority—Cindy’s—that it was indeed red. The small kitchen had a ceramic red rooster on the fridge, and lots of country knickknacks. The rest of the house was laced
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