I'd immediately look away from his stare.
I'd feel a kick in my stomach each time he'd call me by name.
He terrified me... yet, I couldn't hate him... my heart felt PITY for him.
My grandpa, the crazy one, was an asshole... a dude with a horrible temper, a dude who'd beat the fucking shit out of anyone for any fucking reason, a dude who would fuck ANYTHING with a vagina, regardless of how that vagina was related to him.
But those crazy moments were just that-- moments.
The older I became and the more I learned in school, the more I suspected his temper flares to be due to his time in the US Army-- his time in the Korean War.
I also learned about Gramps' incredibly rough upbringing... and so... I began to understand him.
His rough upbringing made him have a soft spot for the destitute. He NEVER told a beggar to go away. He ALWAYS bought something from the little kids selling bubblegum on the side of the road. He'd buy random people clothes and shoes, and then treat them to lunch.
He'd sometimes cry (for about five minutes at a time) when he'd see really young kids begging for money... or just walking around in raggedy clothes, shoeless.
My Gramps was the wealthiest man in Hometown, but he'd spend the majority of his dough on others (yeah, I guess PROSTITUTES can be included here. It's the truth).
Grandpa could be such a horrible monster one minute, and the most selfless, generous soul the next.
Gramps always had a peon.
In my memory, the ones I remember most were two extremely loyal peons: Ivan, whom I've spoken about previously, and Marcos.
Both were young guys from the poorest families in Hometown, who Gramps hired as a way to get out of the misery... to help them put food on their family's table.
Ivan always played with me... even if he was so much older than I... but Marcos NEVER paid me ANY mind.
Marcos always scared me, he'd just stand there smoking his cigarette, criticizing Ivan for being such a child... and ignoring me as if I were invisible (he did like my sister. I remember him holding her, flashing a huge smile. Who could blame him? She was a motherfucking porcelain doll... the epitome of a beautiful baby).
I could be skipping around the backyard, happily feeding the horses or playing with the kittens, but the moment I'd catch his eyes on me, it was as if a weight were placed on my head... or if I had been touched by Jack Frost.
Paralyzed by fear.
He had blue eyes... sky-blue eyes... that were hard to miss... especially when they'd be focused on you.
His hair was black... he could only grow the measliest mustache, no beard.
His skin was red-- he wouldn't tan under the sun... just turn that lobster-red white folk turn when sunburned.
He was always sunburned.
Or drunk.
Or smoking weed.
Or chain-smoking his cigarettes.
He was around 5'10" and built like a bull.
I guess he could be considered handsome... if he were ever fucking sober for more than three days.
But like I said, something about his eyes freaked me out. He could have looked like motherfucking Ryan Gosling, but I'm sure I'd still shit bricks the moment I'd make eye-contact.
Once I grew up, hit my late teens, we'd be somewhat cordial. He'd sometimes mumble my name... usually only after he'd greet my mom at the park. He'd greet Mom as if greeting a sister.
Then he'd go back to being his usual sourpuss-self.
When we'd play volleyball, he'd often leave pissed off after a bad call. He'd fight with everyone, everyone but Mom. The moment would argue, he'd just "PSHHHH!" throw his right arm into the air, and storm out of the park.
Whenever Mom would fail to join me at the park, I'd come home early if Marcos was at the park. When I'd overhear him mention my name... I'd feel my erector pili go CRAZY. I would no longer freeze, but I would pause momentarily.
It was during this time that he gained his fame as the town's only thief.
I never saw him break into my house, but I DID recognize a pair of my Etnies on one of his nieces... my very fucking particular Etnies... with my MOTHERFUCKING NAME WRITTEN ON THEM.
Did I ever say anything? HELL NO. Fuck getting on Marcos' bad side! He already didn't tolerate me... didn't want to further aggravate that shit.
When Gramps died in '07, Marcos cried a river. He confided in Mom how he was going to miss him with all of his heart, and how he was going to need him...
When my grandmother died in '09, I don't remember much... everything was a blur... I felt as if the world were going in dizzying slow-motion, being rewound, then fast-forwarded, then once again in slow-motion. During one of my few moment of clarity, I remember looking over to my left as we were getting ready to put Grandma's coffin into the ground... and I caught a glimpse of Marcos-- his eyes swollen, pink, tears rolling down both cheeks, his hand over his mouth.
Marcos... the... terrifying bad guy... is a fucking wreck over my grandma? He has feelings?! Wow. Th...ank you...
Today we got word Marcos was murdered in TJ.
He was one of the ringleaders of abductors in our home state.
Mexico's military got him during some sort of operation sting.
This doesn't surprise me in the least bit, it was obvious he was up to no good.
Still, I have this bizarre sense of sadness in my heart.
I couldn't focus on anything today, because all I could think of was Marcos.
I felt pity... and scared... sort of relieved... then sad.
Such a bad guy... a guy who'd nearly get me to piss myself with just one glance... a guy who did not care about anyone or anything, and who was willing to do anything for a buck... never did anything to me or my family besides steal a pair of my Etnies to give to his niece. In fact, he showed my family an odd version of respect.
We flirted with disaster... with grave danger... it was right there, for so long... but nothing ever happened... if anything, I dare say we were protected.
Jesus Christ...
The summer of 2010, Alo, D, Jaz, and I were playing in a volleyball team that was turning out to be invincible for the evening. We only had two guys on the team: my godson and Marcos.
We were cooperating so well, we were kicking ass so hard, and we were laughing SO MUCH.
At one point, one of the guys on the opposing team spiked on my head. Angry, I cursed and threatened the guy.
Marcos let out a roar. He quoted me... and burst out laughing, uncontrollably.
"Ayyy, AnoMALIE. You're so fucking silly, kid."
I laughed... I fearlessly laughed... and felt good for finally managing to amuse him.
That was a good day.
I'm sorry Life turned out this way for you, Marcos...
I'd feel a kick in my stomach each time he'd call me by name.
He terrified me... yet, I couldn't hate him... my heart felt PITY for him.
My grandpa, the crazy one, was an asshole... a dude with a horrible temper, a dude who'd beat the fucking shit out of anyone for any fucking reason, a dude who would fuck ANYTHING with a vagina, regardless of how that vagina was related to him.
But those crazy moments were just that-- moments.
The older I became and the more I learned in school, the more I suspected his temper flares to be due to his time in the US Army-- his time in the Korean War.
I also learned about Gramps' incredibly rough upbringing... and so... I began to understand him.
His rough upbringing made him have a soft spot for the destitute. He NEVER told a beggar to go away. He ALWAYS bought something from the little kids selling bubblegum on the side of the road. He'd buy random people clothes and shoes, and then treat them to lunch.
He'd sometimes cry (for about five minutes at a time) when he'd see really young kids begging for money... or just walking around in raggedy clothes, shoeless.
My Gramps was the wealthiest man in Hometown, but he'd spend the majority of his dough on others (yeah, I guess PROSTITUTES can be included here. It's the truth).
Grandpa could be such a horrible monster one minute, and the most selfless, generous soul the next.
Gramps always had a peon.
In my memory, the ones I remember most were two extremely loyal peons: Ivan, whom I've spoken about previously, and Marcos.
Both were young guys from the poorest families in Hometown, who Gramps hired as a way to get out of the misery... to help them put food on their family's table.
Ivan always played with me... even if he was so much older than I... but Marcos NEVER paid me ANY mind.
Marcos always scared me, he'd just stand there smoking his cigarette, criticizing Ivan for being such a child... and ignoring me as if I were invisible (he did like my sister. I remember him holding her, flashing a huge smile. Who could blame him? She was a motherfucking porcelain doll... the epitome of a beautiful baby).
I could be skipping around the backyard, happily feeding the horses or playing with the kittens, but the moment I'd catch his eyes on me, it was as if a weight were placed on my head... or if I had been touched by Jack Frost.
Paralyzed by fear.
He had blue eyes... sky-blue eyes... that were hard to miss... especially when they'd be focused on you.
His hair was black... he could only grow the measliest mustache, no beard.
His skin was red-- he wouldn't tan under the sun... just turn that lobster-red white folk turn when sunburned.
He was always sunburned.
Or drunk.
Or smoking weed.
Or chain-smoking his cigarettes.
He was around 5'10" and built like a bull.
I guess he could be considered handsome... if he were ever fucking sober for more than three days.
But like I said, something about his eyes freaked me out. He could have looked like motherfucking Ryan Gosling, but I'm sure I'd still shit bricks the moment I'd make eye-contact.
Once I grew up, hit my late teens, we'd be somewhat cordial. He'd sometimes mumble my name... usually only after he'd greet my mom at the park. He'd greet Mom as if greeting a sister.
Then he'd go back to being his usual sourpuss-self.
When we'd play volleyball, he'd often leave pissed off after a bad call. He'd fight with everyone, everyone but Mom. The moment would argue, he'd just "PSHHHH!" throw his right arm into the air, and storm out of the park.
Whenever Mom would fail to join me at the park, I'd come home early if Marcos was at the park. When I'd overhear him mention my name... I'd feel my erector pili go CRAZY. I would no longer freeze, but I would pause momentarily.
It was during this time that he gained his fame as the town's only thief.
I never saw him break into my house, but I DID recognize a pair of my Etnies on one of his nieces... my very fucking particular Etnies... with my MOTHERFUCKING NAME WRITTEN ON THEM.
Did I ever say anything? HELL NO. Fuck getting on Marcos' bad side! He already didn't tolerate me... didn't want to further aggravate that shit.
When Gramps died in '07, Marcos cried a river. He confided in Mom how he was going to miss him with all of his heart, and how he was going to need him...
When my grandmother died in '09, I don't remember much... everything was a blur... I felt as if the world were going in dizzying slow-motion, being rewound, then fast-forwarded, then once again in slow-motion. During one of my few moment of clarity, I remember looking over to my left as we were getting ready to put Grandma's coffin into the ground... and I caught a glimpse of Marcos-- his eyes swollen, pink, tears rolling down both cheeks, his hand over his mouth.
Marcos... the... terrifying bad guy... is a fucking wreck over my grandma? He has feelings?! Wow. Th...ank you...
Today we got word Marcos was murdered in TJ.
He was one of the ringleaders of abductors in our home state.
Mexico's military got him during some sort of operation sting.
This doesn't surprise me in the least bit, it was obvious he was up to no good.
Still, I have this bizarre sense of sadness in my heart.
I couldn't focus on anything today, because all I could think of was Marcos.
I felt pity... and scared... sort of relieved... then sad.
Such a bad guy... a guy who'd nearly get me to piss myself with just one glance... a guy who did not care about anyone or anything, and who was willing to do anything for a buck... never did anything to me or my family besides steal a pair of my Etnies to give to his niece. In fact, he showed my family an odd version of respect.
We flirted with disaster... with grave danger... it was right there, for so long... but nothing ever happened... if anything, I dare say we were protected.
Jesus Christ...
The summer of 2010, Alo, D, Jaz, and I were playing in a volleyball team that was turning out to be invincible for the evening. We only had two guys on the team: my godson and Marcos.
We were cooperating so well, we were kicking ass so hard, and we were laughing SO MUCH.
At one point, one of the guys on the opposing team spiked on my head. Angry, I cursed and threatened the guy.
Marcos let out a roar. He quoted me... and burst out laughing, uncontrollably.
"Ayyy, AnoMALIE. You're so fucking silly, kid."
I laughed... I fearlessly laughed... and felt good for finally managing to amuse him.
That was a good day.
I'm sorry Life turned out this way for you, Marcos...
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