This being the situation, my father took his compass and, together with my mother (me inside her) and the Four Fuckups, organized first their jobs within the generalized unemployment in order to survive until we won the Christophers Contest in October, when we’d live it up and up and up, oh don’t be perverse, universe, or as Dad says, “Avoid the mess, avoid the mess…”
This is what they managed to do in the merry month of May:
Egg was hired as a TV weatherman for the Tlalpan district, but he was fired because his powerful resolve led him to scorn storms, hurricanes, earthquakes, and other forms of excitement that traditionally and officially were suggested to make the programs more pleasant. He was content to say, “The weather today is the same as it was yesterday,” or “Yesterday’s weather was a little better than tomorrow’s will be.”
Fired from this job, he managed to get a job as cleanup man in the Sanborn’s on Avenida Universidad. When the restaurant and the stores were finally empty, our buddy Egg would first clean up all the trash and mop the floor, and then he would take down from the book rack a volume published by Alianza Editorial in Madrid (prohibitively expensive books) and would sit down to read in the solitary café until dawn. He thus became something enormously secret: the Sanborn’s Reader. Without knowing it, he took the same book that Angeles, my mother, never finished reading: Plato’s Cratylus, that dialogue where all they talk about is names: What is a name? Does a name exist because the thing demands to be named? Is a name merely a caprice? or, perhaps: Was it God who named us?: Egg and Angeles, that book connected Egg to the world of Angeles and neither one knew it.
Hipi Toltec was, successively, a tobacco spitter and fire-eater out on the streets, dresser (or tailor) for fleas, fireworks expert, and a walker of elegant dogs. But he contaminated all the dogs he touched with rabies; one of his skyrockets went so high that it proved convincingly that the dome was nothing more than a fairy tale; the fleas abruptly formed a union; and his longest tobacco expectoration hit the license plate of Don Ulises López’s black Transnational limo and no one could ever get it clean: what Hipi spits, I think, is the liquid equivalent of the fire in the Fifth Sun.
The Orphan Huerta began by going to Cuernavaca as a pool digger, but he gave up the job because every time he finished digging, it was dead bodies instead of water that flowed into the hole, right on his head. He didn’t want to find out any more about it, so he went back to Mexico City, where his new look, that Chaplinesque air of innocence, guaranteed him a certain success as a house sitter. That’s how he came to be taking care of the immense house that belonged to Don Ulises López and his wife Doña Lucha, when they went to Taxco on vacation in May. He also informed my father that Miss Penny López, whom we thought killed in Ada and Deng’s nightclub in Aca, was alive and kicking (that’s kicking, not screwing): all alone in her mansion in Las Lomas del Sol, under the protective eye of her somber duenna, Ms. Ponderosa.
Dad filed that precious bit of information and offered his services to SEPARVE, which was looking for a translator of Mexican sayings, since — to everyone’s surprise — they’d found a European market for Mexican folk sayings: such was the hunger for certitude and wisdom in the Vecchio Mondo.
Among the most celebrated of my pop’s exports are these, which were received with open arms, even in London and Paris:
You left me whistling on the hill
A qu’elle est naine ma fortune, que est-ce qu’elle grandira?
Thou hast made me muffins with goat’s meat!
La prudence, on l’appele connerie
Here only my fried pigskins crackle!
Aux femmes, ni tout l’amour ni tout le fric
We only visit the cactus when it flowers
Faute de baguette, mangez des tortillas
Don’t call me uncle, we haven’t met yet
Les amours à la distance sont pour des cons à outrance
This clean industry (except when Angel had to translate “Aguacate maduro, pedo seguro” and came up with “Art Is a Fart”), devoid of problems (even “rosario de Amozoc” had illustrious equivalents in “Donnybrook” and “Branlebas”), yielded a nice income which, in accordance with the Tlalpan pact, my father divided up with my mother, Egg, Hipi, the Orphan, and (possibly) with Baby Ba, not to mention your humble servant.
At the same time, my mother was hired by the Secretariat of Culture, Letters, and Literacy (SECULELA) to devise ordinary-language versions of Shakespeare that could be understood in the proletarian neighborhoods (are there any other kind?) in the D.F., DeeEff, DeeFate, DeeForm, De Facto, Defecate, Dee Faculties. Her greatest success was her translation of Hamlet:
“To be or what?”
But then she had to revise everything because perhaps she should have begun:
“To be here or not?”
Not all members of the group knew such success. The Four Fuckups were deeply demoralized by having their musical vocation frustrated, enervated by their absence from the space preemptively occupied by and divided up among the affected intellectuals in the Immanuel Can’t group.
The critique of reason puuure
For madness a sure cuuure
To say nothing of the crude, gross violence of the Baboso Brothers:
Last night as I watched yer daddy screw yer mom
Ah jes had to puke my guts up, the grits an’ eggs an’ ham
which was all you heard on the radio from morning till night, while the Fuckups had to hide their great nineties lyrics under a bushel for a year:
If ah stay, ah’l jes forgit her,
So it’s better that ah go.
Oh, Lady Disdain, do not
Let me be your Swain:
If ah stay, ah’l jes forgit her,
So it’s better that ah go.
which they composed at night, exhausted, in the Tlalpan house, at which, one day, the following note from Uncle Don Homero Fagoaga inevitably arrived: