Weird Ronnie's fish guts

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A short magic realism tale about a bilingual teacher and a strange kid from the neighborhood

byRudy Ch. Garcia   

Isaw Weird Ronnie yesterday, the third-grader who lives down the street andaround the block from me.  As hisrotundous, roly-poly shape closes the distance between us, I see he's up to hisusual--kicking at a pit bull through a fence, snagging wasps to pull off theirwings, and chasing first-graders whose legs he's threatening to pull off.  I take a break from weeding discardedwhiskey bottles from my cactus garden and ask him what he's doing, 'cause helooks a little sad."Nuttin."He says that a lot.  Like that time he was in an empty lotburying a pair of red shoes and pink socks and I asked him what he was doing,he said, "Nuttin."  Itake that to mean he's thinking of things to keep himself busy.  Idle hands, you know.Anyway, as I crouch there,yanking prickly pear needles out of my forearm, I ask him if he knows anythingabout the boy over on the street who was reported missing."Nope." "You know the boy,"I say, "the one that use to call you loco.  What'd you do, kill him?"  I say jokingly, before I can catchmyself.I remember too late that thelast time I made a remark like that my car wouldn't start for days.  Whatever I worked on--the battery,plugs, wiring--when I tried starting it, nothing happened.  Except, Weird Ronnie'd be standingnearby, smirking his ghoulish little grimace.  Finally I told him I was sorry if I'd had hurt his feelings,and his beamy little eyes lit up and my car started--all by itself.SoI'm wondering now if I'm in trouble for joking with him about the missing kid,when he says, "Nope, he's okay. I made sure he had enough air and water for a couple of days."Since that kid's already beenmissing for four days, I get distracted, my hand slips off a rock, and Iget a cheek full of cactus needles. While I'm yanking those out, I decide to change the subject.Ialso noticed Weird Ronnie looked a little thinner than usual.  If you've never seen him, well, he'sdefinitely plump, though he wasn't always that way.  When he was real young he was pretty skinny, up until thetime those kidnappers left that scrawled ransom note about getting his littlesister back.  His parents nevercould read the note to figure out where to send the ransom, so they never gother back.  But Weird Ronnie didplump up.  Go figure.Anyway, I say, "You'relooking trimmer.  You been workingout?"  I can't help giving hima nervous chuckle."Nope.""What you beeneating?""Nuttin.""Nuttin?  Haven't your parents been feedingyou?""Nope.""Why not?""Ain't been home sinceTuesday."I'm worried again.  The first time this happened, it tookthe cops a week, a subpoena and two court orders to get them to come back.  I hoped this wasn't going to last aslong because the neighborhood lost a lot of cats during that episode.So, I have to ask, "Wantsomething to eat?""Yup."  (He also says that a lot.)"What would youlike?  How 'bout sometamales?""Nope. Got any fish gutsor chicken lips?"Ilaugh and say I don't think I have either one, but I take him in and fix him apeanut butter sandwich, with a little tuna laid on, and tell him it's close tofish guts.  He gives me a big smilethat shows his cracked, black teeth. While I'm looking for something for him to drink, I ask how school is."Okay.""How the sixth-graderstreating you?"  I always hearthey tease him something awful, for his weight, teeth, and all the rest."Fine."We don't talk much while hefinishes the tun-- ... uh ... fish guts sandwich.Then he tells me,"You're always building things. You got any extra wood?""Yup."  (Sometimes I say that.)"You know how to build across, like a big crucifix?""Sure, that's easy.  What size you need it?""Big enough for asixth-grader."Imanage to think up a quick lie and tell him I don't have the right kind of woodfor that.  I'm not sure about thestare he gives me, but I can tell he's thinking.As we head out onto the frontdeck, Weird Ronnie grabs my hand, jerking me so I have to look into hiseyes.  "You know, I know thatwasn't at all like fish guts, right? It was tuna, huh?  My uncleMario used to give me tuna."Idon't know if it's his clammy hand or his tone of voice that bothers memore.  Like the feeling you get ina nightmare about swimming, when something underwater grabs your leg and youcan't get away no matter how much you try to shake and shake it off.The tone of his words bothersme 'cause I remember his uncle Mario was never the same after he babysat WeirdRonnie one week.  Last I heard, theuncle had been transferred to a federal institution 'cause the state hospitaldecided they couldn't treat him."I'll try to do betterthan tuna next time," is all I can think of saying.  With that he lets go of my hand andstrolls away down the sidewalk.  Heseems to have given my wrist a rash, but I'm glad he at least leaves with ahalf-smile on his face.  I alwaystry what I can to get along with him.AsI watch him turn the corner of the block, I remember the nice house that usedto be on that vacant lot, before all the arsons.  But since most of the adults do pretty much whatever WeirdRonnie wants now, luckily the fires don't happen as often anymore.Just before I go in for theevening, I'm thinking how much could real fish guts cost.  And what could it hurt to make him onemeasly cross?## #