Signal to Noise(19)

He already knew what was coming.

The boys immediately perked up when they saw him, the girls looked at him curiously.

“Look! It’s the faggot! What ya’up to, faggot?” one of them asked.

Sebastian wished he had a Walkman like Meche. Then he might have put on the headphones and completely ignored their taunts, protected by the music. He did not have a Walkman, so he had to listen to the insults.

“Do you thinks he f*cks men or he lets them f*ck him up the ass?”

“I think he lets them f*ck him.”

“He’s going to get butt cancer.”

Sebastian jammed his hands into his trousers, his chin up, shoulders tense. He was taller than the whole lot, but there were four boys and he was alone. He wouldn’t put it past them to try and hit him. They hadn’t done it before, limiting themselves to tossing garbage in his direction—empty bottles of Frutsi, and on one memorable occasion a whole hotdog—but you never knew. They might feel adventurous that afternoon.

“He’s so gay.”

Sebastian walked by, his eyes flitting over Isadora. For a brief moment, Isadora looked back at him, seeming a little pained. Like she was sorry he had to endure this treatment. Then she looked away and he looked away too. Before he reached the corner, Sebastian felt something hit him in the back. The raucous laughter of the boys was now joined by a chorus of giggling girls. Was Isadora laughing, too? He did not dare to look back. He turned the corner.

When Sebastian arrived home, the whole apartment was pitch black. He flicked on the lights and wandered into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. His mother did not have the time nor the inclination to cook and his brother, Romualdo—who was supposed to cook for himself and Sebastian—had barely done so when he was in high school. Now that he was in university, he did not bother.

Sebastian cut a piece of cheese and rolled it into a slice of ham. He ate standing up in the kitchen, glancing at the dirty dishes piling up in the sink. Those were also his brother’s responsibility, while Sebastian was in charge of the laundry. Unlike most Mexican families who could pay a maid— they came cheap in this country—no matter how lowly their social class, Sebastian’s mother could not afford any help. Sebastian and Romualdo were supposed to divide all the chores equally, solving this issue, but Romualdo, full of misplaced machismo, refused to do girls’ chores. Washing dishes was beneath him. In a few days, their mother would scream at Romualdo and force him to scrub the pots but until then they would sit there, ignored.

The cat meowed at Sebastian and he checked its dish. He filled it with cat food, then cleaned the water dish and filled it too. This was supposed to also be his brother’s responsibility, but if it were not for Sebastian the cat would starve.

Sebastian went to his bedroom. It was a small apartment and a small bedroom, and he had to share it with Romualdo. His brother’s side of the room was plastered with posters of women, some in bikinis, some completely naked; stacks of magazines full of girlie pictures, bare flesh spread all over the bed. Sebastian’s side was papered with maps and pictures of Europe, many of which had come from his grandfather, who had lived in Barcelona until his late teens. Europe. That’s where Sebastian was going to go one day, to write great stories in a Parisian café. Or, perhaps, he’d venture to Italy, where he could order an espresso and pretend he was in a Fellini movie, which grandpa had loved. He didn’t have girlie magazines. Instead, Sebastian’s books were all neatly sitting on a shelf. The Ambassadors, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Hopscotch.

He supposed that’s why the boys at school said he was gay. Because he didn’t have big-tittie posters. Because he spent all his spare time reading. Because he drew stars on his tennis shoes with a black marker. Sebastian would have loved to have been normal. He realized his predilection for novels instead of soccer had distanced him from his father, even before the old man and his mother divorced, but he could not help it.

Or maybe his father hated him because he was a measured, quiet little bag boy, packing groceries three afternoons a week, saying “yes miss” and “no miss”, his sneakers squeaking over the floor as he moved to put the plastic bags in the shopping cart. He certainly knew that the boys and girls at school made fun of him because of that, giggling whenever they were in the checkout line with their parents; lofty because they didn’t have to scramble for a few pesos, stretch their hands like urchins, make their money from tips in dirty change. He was a cerillo, a nothing, a thin kid wearing a black vest and a tie as he packed and packed groceries and dreamed of Europe.

Sebastian lay on his bed and stretched his arms, staring at the ceiling, the acid memory of the taunts the boys had yelled at him still fresh, still ringing in his ears. He felt his muscles relaxing in the pleasant darkness, his eyelids fluttering close to sleep.

Romualdo walked in and turned on the light. He was tall, just like Sebastian, but his brother seemed better proportioned, better looking, better prepared overall. He gave Sebastian an indifferent glance.

“I need to phone Margarita, *.”

That was his girlfriend. She was pretty and nice enough, but Sebastian didn’t like it when she came around because Romualdo kicked him out of the bedroom so he could have sex with her. Sebastian then had to wander around the block or take a ride on the motorcycle, and sometimes he really didn’t want to go out but there was no reasoning with Romualdo.