The Devil Takes You Home

by Gabino Iglesias

“You are either going to have to find some other way to live or some other place in the world to do it in.”

“Wait, man, what are you saying? Don’t talk so damn fast,” Brian said. Nothing makes a monolingual gringo as nervous as not knowing what those around him are saying. Not all white people have the same level of privilege, but they all share an aversion to being forced to step momentarily into otherness.

“Las cuentas claras conservan amistades.” It was something I’d heard all my life. The translation would be something like clear accounts preserve friendships, but there is an idiom that approaches its true meaning better: Good fences make good neighbors.

The worst part of saying you no longer believe in God is knowing that God is still there, listening to you. That’s why the praying sneaks back in when shit goes south. That’s why not believing is just standing on the opposite side of the same room you’ve always been in.

I turned and walked to my car, already thinking about the sharp, cold silence that would slice me open the second I got home.

The majority of people always want to think life is worth living, that we must do everything in our power to keep going, to stay alive. They don’t grasp that the value of their life is much lower than they imagine. Think about it. How much is your life worth? I’ll tell you: the value of your life is less than the craving of a desperate junkie who breaks into your house to steal your shit and finds you there. Your life is worth less than a jealous husband with the wrong idea and a gun in his trembling hand. The value of your existence is much less than that of your life insurance in the eyes of a dejected spouse. If you’re Black or brown, the value of your life is less than the fragile masculinity of a cop who wants to feel superior or a racist who wants you out of the way so they’re not forced to face someone they don’t understand. El valor de tu vida es lo que vale el segundo en que alguien aprieta el gatillo, el segundo en que alguien pone toda su ira en su mano y te clava un cuchillo. Not enough? Think harder. The value of your life is zilch to most people. That’s why they sell you food that will kill you. That’s why they put poison in the water and don’t care if you get cancer. That’s why they allow you to rely on our shitty health system and allow insurance companies to deny you coverage based on a ridiculously long list of preexisting conditions, one of which is probably being alive. Your life is precious to you but disposable to others. That’s the rule of the game, ...

“Good. From now on, we ride con Diosito,” he said and lifted his left forearm to show us the tattoo of an agonizing Jesus, his face covered in blood, right above a large gray cross with a cloth wrapped around it that read EN LAS MANOS DE DIOS. He finished while pointing to the Satan tattoo I’d already seen on his other arm. “Then, when it’s time for things to get ugly, we ride con El Chamuco. You know, because sometimes God is your copilot, but it’s the Devil who takes you home.”

It’s like whichever deity was in charge of the terrain just gave up and copied and pasted the same mile over and over again all the way along I-10.

“Fucking wetback.” The words came from somewhere behind me. They cut through the noise in my head and stopped my thoughts cold. Something about racial slurs has that effect on me. It’s like someone yelling fuck at church. The idea that someone can think being a certain color or from a certain place makes you better or worse than anyone else is a level of stupidity I can’t wrap my head around. Sadly, it’s also the kind of profound stupidity I’d been surrounded by since coming back from Puerto Rico.

“Un placer conocerlo, Don Vázquez.” What the fuck was I supposed to say? Don Vázquez laughed as he approached me, hand outstretched. “Conocerme nunca es un placer, Mario. Conocerme a mí es una oblicagión, el resultado de una mala decisión o una pesadilla. ¿Tu amigo habla español, Mario?” “No, señor, Brian entiende un poco, pero no habla español.” “Ah, then we will speak in English. I want everyone to feel welcome and I want everyone to understand exactly what they have to do.” Brian knew we were talking about him. He also knew the man had switched languages for his benefit. He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Pleased to meet y—” “Thank you, Brian, but I was just telling your friend Mario that meeting me is never a pleasure; meeting me is something that happens to people because they have made a bad decision.”

“There are things in this world that have no explanation,” Don Vázquez said, pulling my eyes from the creature. “When you come across these things, you have two options. Option one is to try to make things make sense. This is what most people do. They experience something and they try to mold the event to their experiences, to understand what happened using the filter of what they already know. This never works. It only leads to confusion and frustration, yes? The second option is to accept that strange things happen, that the impossible sometimes is real. When you accept it, you can move on with your life. Our ancestors invented gods for this reason and they were happier because of it.”

The idea of killing Brian slowly drifted away, pushed by thoughts of how much blood there would be to clean up after all was said and done. I didn’t want Margarita to find a dead gringo in her living room.