Arturo Soto

1962

My grandma Esther would ask if we were hungry immediately after crossing the bridge to run errands in El Paso. My siblings and I always answered affirmatively, aware that it was our complicity she was after. We usually went to a fonda run by a charismatic woman who was always happy to see us. However, it was difficult to understand my grandma’s enthusiasm for the place. Their comida corrida — red rice, beans, fideos, and beef stew — could be found in any fonda in Juárez. What made the trip exciting for us was the bakery next door, which sold a dozen donuts for a dollar. Keeping her company was well rewarded. Even if we had eaten right before crossing, my grandma insisted on getting us chocolates or popcorn. She unfailingly knew what ‘we’ wanted.

1964

Kiko was, undoubtedly, a bully. His constant lack of consideration made getting along tricky, especially since his ingenuity often got the best of me. A friend once recommended a place that, in his opinion, served the crunchiest beef flautas in town. We started going regularly, but less often than I would have liked since I usually picked up the bill. Tired of sponsoring him, I went by myself one day but ran into him along the way. He questioned me with his usual cunning. Though I lied as best I could, he smirked as we parted ways. I kept checking to see if he followed me while visualizing the feast I could now afford. I reached the restaurant safely and was about to order when his sneer snatched me out of my fantasy. “You lied to me, compa! Now you have to spot me some flautas!”

1964

I often capitulated to Kiko’s insistence on playing football in the streets, where my limited sporting abilities landed me the position of keeper. Nobody really minded our cascaritas since we used the back wall of the municipal jail as the goal. I liked the banter after the games when we discussed our life plans and the girls we liked. At some point, I shared with them what I wanted to study. It didn’t surprise me that they started calling me El Abogado Ciego. My friend Rosbel, who claimed to be the best at everything, disputed my position one afternoon when he was eager to win. He slipped in an attempt to block a tricky shot and hit his head so hard that he passed out. We took him to the hospital, but the injury wasn’t serious. No one tried snatching my position from then on. The nickname, however, remained popular for a few years.

1966

Some mornings, a musician stopped at La Estrella, the grocery store where I worked over the summer. Since he addressed everyone as compa, the nickname stuck to him. Always in the company of his guitar, he told stories about the downtown cantinas where he played for days without eating or sleeping properly. Unlike other customers, he consumed his purchases on the counter. The menu was consistent: a cluster of bananas followed by a big tin of sardines, a can of jalapeños, and several packs of crackers that he downed with a liter of Coke. I don’t know why El Compa got such preferential treatment, but the owner, Mrs. Cabello, would fix him scrambled eggs with beans in the rear kitchen, which she did for no one else. Dessert consisted of at least two pieces of pan dulce and a carton of milk. He played a few romantic ballads for us once he had regained his energy. Julio Jaramillo’s Flores Negras was a favorite. His spirited performances made me realize that his meals at the store were an extension of his show.