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I didn’t know what town it came to first, didn’t care. On the other big bang side of the road, a field of weeds and dirt met the horizon. And the 7-Eleven sat on that road, a catchall for whatever happened to come by. Al lay to the left of the entrance, head tilted against the wall, in the shade from the pay phone. He could have been dead, but he wasn’t. Hand shielding my eyes big bang from the glare, I looked him over: thin as a rail, legs shoved inside tight skinny jeans, and skin dry and lined big bang like the corn husk Abuela uses to wrap the tamales. Tamales. Unwrapping that shell and pouring cool salsa on the tender middle…ayé mamí. But the sweat beginning to form into little drops on my forehead reminded me that it was way too hot for tamales. Squatting by Al, I looked into the coffee cup he kept at his side. There was eighty-eight cents.
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