The Empanada Brotherhood by John Nichols Page A

fabulous geography … hasta me encuentro podrida de aburrimiento. Then I move on. But always I learn a lot. I’ve had an incredible education.”
    I asked, “But are you happy?”
    â€œAm I
happy
? Sometimes yes, sometimes no, but that isn’t the important part.”
    â€œYou’re always in motion,” I said. “Maybe you never stay long enough to understand the place you are in or the person you are with.”
    La Petisa laughed. “Aren’t
you
loquacious today, my friend.” Then she bent close to me. “I understand
motion,
blondie. My soul wants to keep
moving.
Like a bee collecting pollen. I’m storing up memories now so that later when I am an old bag with arthritis I can nibble on the honeycombs composed of all my adventures. Capeesh?”
    I said, “Of course,” just as a cardboard box hurled by the wind hit a nearby window. We all jumped.
    Popeye said, “It’s simple, nene. God gave us genitals for a reason. I got laid for the first time when I was eleven years old. My grandpa paid for it. The last thing I’ll do on my deathbed is make some bumptious amazon happy. Meanwhile, I have La Petisa and she has me, a collaboration made in heaven.”
    La Petisa winked at me, reaching under the table as she leaned forward to kiss Popeye: “This man is such a child, blondie. His brains are the size of a fingernail.”
    Popeye grinned. “So what? The last time I checked, my prick didn’t have a cerebellum.”

29. Intellectuals
    When next I visited the dance studio, Cathy asked, “Where’s your communist novio from the Soviet Union?” She grabbed a small towel from her tote bag and wiped her forehead. I had just taken my spot against the wall to watch them practice. Jorge was replacing a broken guitar string.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Maybe in class at NYU. Or grading student papers.”
    â€œHe’s a jackass,” she said. “Mr. Superior. A xenophobe. I bet he hates anything Spanish.”
    I smiled and tipped my head a little, noncommittal.
    Cathy told Jorge, “Hurry up, maestro, I’m getting cold. I’m all wet. I don’t want to freeze to death.”
    Jorge took nail clippers from his guitar case and cut off the end of the new nylon string. He tightened the wooden tuning peg while Cathy walked around impatiently, swinging her arms back and forth to keep them limber. She had put on her overcoat as soon as they stopped.
    â€œI don’t like intellectuals, blondie. They read too many books. They’re afraid of life. They live vicariously.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” I said.
    Cathy put her hands on her hips and regarded me. Something changed. Her eyes brightened and her cheeks suddenly glowed; her demeanor was altered completely. She filled up with light, her skin gleaming, fevered in a way that was almost celestial. I was startled and began to get aroused. After a moment she said, “You’re a very patient person. I like your blue eyes.”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    â€œBut you’re too polite with women, blondie. You act like a scaredy-cat. I want to kick you to wake you up.”
    I said, “I’m awake.”
    Jorge said, “Listo,” and played an arpeggio to prove it.
    â€œOkay, back to work.” Cathy took off her overcoat and dropped it on top of the tote bag. She told Jorge, “Start playing. I’ll come in on the llamada.”
    He began to play while Cathy listened, tapping her toe in compás until suddenly he paused and then hit the llamada with six fast downward strokes and Cathy erupted, shouting, “Watch this, blondie!” as she swirled into the dance with a great lust to be perfect.

30. No Illusions
    I got fired at the Night Owl Café because they were closing for renovations. I also received another short-story rejection slip and a rejection postcard from publisher number two. When I