Drowning Tucson by Aaron Morales

Stella shook her head. It was always the same terrible jokes. But every morning Justin and Manny acted as if it were the first time they’d heard them.
    Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt your improv routine, but I need a favor. Manny tipped an invisible hat in her direction, winking at Justin. At your service, m’lady. He listened intently, like a true gentleman, as she told him about her hair appointment on post and wondered if he had time to drop the boys off this morning. Justin’s little foot kept bumping against Manny’s knee, trying to draw his attention to the butter knife clenched between his teeth and the egg he held over his eye like a pirate’s patch.
    After breakfast Manny buckled his sons in the backseat while the carwarmed up. Stella waited until he was finished, then kissed him goodbye. She didn’t see him flinch. See you tonight, baby.
    When Stella was gone, Manny reversed out of the driveway and started singing Blow the Man Down, gently swerving the car back and forth. His sons loved it.
    When they reached Justin’s school, Manny pulled up beside the pole where the principal was hoisting the flag. Justin got out and saluted his father, then turned and walked inside. The principal saluted Manny too.

    Inside the PX hair salon, three black women were cutting hair. The waiting list was already seven names deep and there were still appointments coming in, but it was like that every day, so the waiting wives of airmen and the few enlisted women sitting in a row didn’t mind.
    But girl, you shoulda heard this muthafucka go on bout Cap’m Torres. Talkin bout how he was drunk off his ass and some stripper come up to him.
    You let your man go to the strip club?
    Shit, I don’t give a damn as long as he comes home to me and I gets mine.
    Laughter. Hair fell to the floor and snipping scissors stopped and waved around, barely missing the heads beneath them. The waiting customers pretended not to be listening, reading their magazines.
    Both a yall crazy, and you need to watch whatchou talkin bout up in here.
    Shit. We got free speech, right? Aint that why our men out there flyin them damn planes and shootin at stuff? I aint come all the way from Atlanta to sit up in here and not say what’s on my mind.
    That’s RIGHT girl. Spill it.
    Yeah. So Torres is throwin money around, gettin titties in his face and drinkin beer while his woman at home watchin the kids and he runnin up in the Loveboat talkin bout I’m gonna get mine while all the other guys is there tryin to enjoy themselves and have a drink, maybe look at some titties. You know how Rodney is.
    Shit, you know he a lyin bastard.
    Whatchou know about that?
    Girl, I just call em like I see em.
    You both some silly bitches.
    Who you callin bitch? So Rodney says Torres, the same guy who usually have a stick up his ass, is yellin and carryin on and gettin all cozy with the strippers.
    And what’s Rodney doin the whole time, coverin his eyes?
    Girl, he was probably wishin he could afford to do the same thing, with his broke ass.
    Everybody laughed again, putting down their magazines and watching the three women banter back and forth.
    Why don’t you both talk about somethin else?
    Oh I got other stories, but lemme finish this one about Torres.
    Yeah, now I’m all interested and you know yall are too, so quit trippin.
    So, I guess the dudes figure Torres drunk so they just ignore him and watch the girls, and when it’s last call, Torres ordered himself a couple shots and took em and went trollin for hoes.
    Scandalous muthaFUCKA.
    Yeah. And he went and found him this one name Satan or some shit and offered her money if she went in the back with him and gave him some head.
    That’s it?
    Nah. Guess he took her ass to the back of the club and a buncha guys followed him out—
    You mean Rodney went out there too?
    Nah, he came home before the club closed, and his boys told him about what happened next.
    Sure.
    Girl, don’t make me—she pointed her scissors at the