Local Observation / Tenotch
By Christina Oxenberg
Uninhibited as a child, he danced with his eyes closed. In tight black pants he snaked his narrow hips. A billowing shirt flashed a wall of muscly torso. Early 20s tops. He took her by the hand and spun her toward him. She let him and then he led her out of the club and into the cool air of the wide quiet street.
Tenotch, He slurred at her, I’m from Mexico.
That’s a big country. Can you narrow things down?
Tijuana Baby, heard of it?
She wanted to like him, she wanted to lick him, he looked succulent as a caramel. He was so sozzled as they walked he was stumbling into her.
I built a house in South America.
Really? You built it? He stared coldly at her.
Ok, no, I didn’t build the house. Campesinos built the house.
He looked away and shook his head, as if to calm himself.
He pulled her to him and tried to kiss her but lost his balance and both were falling slowly, awkwardly, against a red convertible. She could not save herself and inexplicably she was beneath him. They crash-landed noisily and they laughed as they lay there in the gutter wedged ‘twixt curb and whitewall tire. Her shin was bruised.
I didn’t feel a thing! Tenotch roared as he effortlessly bounced to his feet and extended a hand to her.
That’s because you landed on me.
Ha ha! I owe you one. I’ve always been lucky; really, I should be dead a hundred times over. But here I am.
He smiled like a predator might and instantly she knew everything about this fellow. She didn’t have to ask. But she did anyway.
You ever killed anyone?
His eyes narrowed.
How? With a gun?
No, baby, and he dragged an imaginary blade across her throat. With a machete.
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