“¡Blanco mirón!” I took off my Chancla. “Asomondo!”
“Ow!” He covered his shame.
“¿En semana santa?”
I caught him looking in the window, and poking out his pants. At the girls, young girls, not little, but too young, and did he ask them?
Even if he asked them, and they said yes, on Holy Week? No sir, not in my house, and I thought to myself, many times before. If he were my boy…
He is not my boy, but I took off my sandal anyway. If his father and mother did this, then he could learn some manners.
“Ow ow ow!” He covered it up, so I hit his hands. “Stop, I don’t know Spanish!”
“¿No one teach you manners in English?”
“Stop, you’re hurting me!”
“¿You rather I hit the front?”
“No!” He covered it up., So I could hit the back.
“Then pull up your pants, no one wants to see your culo hanging out.”
“I thought penis was Verga, as in A la verga?” That was no hanging, it was still poking out, the last I had seen it.
“¿Oh so now you speak Spanish?”
“Yeah, the Puerto Ricans.”
“Puerto Ricans speak Inglés.”
“They speak Spanish too, and you speak English, when you’re not pissed off.”
“¡Boca sucia!” I had put my sandal back on, so I slapped it with my hand. He rubbed it. “No, culo is bottom.” I pointed behind him, where I hit him when I caught him with his pants down. And his little pecker sticking out.
“Is that why they call you Auntia?”
“No, they call me aunty, Tía.” I shook my head, “That means aunty aunt, they are young. Too young for you to be sneaking around looking in windows when they are changing.”
“Even if they’re not your nieces, like the black girls.”
“¿No? I don’t know these Negra.”
“Don’t let them hear you call them that, but you know, the sistas?” I shook my head. These blancos, it’s hard to tell when they’re asking a question, or saying the answer, until they are done.
“Y don’t try to talk your way out of this.”
“Or what, you’ll call the cops? Go ahead and call the cops, you think it’s okay to hit me? That’s assault on a minor, so if I go to jail, you go to jail.” He ran back, so I had to catch him, in one slipper. “If you’re not deported!”
“¡Te mostraré deportado!” I caught him, “¡Tu boca!”
“Ah!”
“¡Haciéndome enojado!”
“¡Uhn, hm! Nmh!” Now I can hear it in his voice from the start.
“¿Ooh, he likes that?” Mi jia.
“¡Vuelve a casa! Y ponte ropa.”
“I’m already dressed.” I looked up, and as she said. She put on her dress. “He likes it, Mama. He likes the chancla. Give it to him, give him some more.” They all did, crowding out on the porch, and climbing up on my counters, to look out the windows. At least they were wearing their dresses.
“¿You do?” His face was red, on both sides. The side I beat even redder, of course. “¡Santa Maria!” I crossed myself, but mi jia.
“See? He likes it.”
“¿Chankla?” He looked at me, curiously.
“Yes, this.” I waved it.
“Your flip-flop?” He shook his head.
“Yes, it’s called a Chancla, en Español.”
“Huh, yeah. I like it, when you spank me with it.”
“¡Pequeño demonio asqueroso! ¿Estás poseído? Get out of here, get out of my yard, and you! Todos ustedes volver a la casa.” I waved my sandal at all of them.
“Eeihihihihn!” They ran in, the little ones that were out on the porch ran in, and the ones in my kitchen vanished like ghosts. Got off my counters, as if I didn’t see them up on my counters. My clean counters, I keep my kitchen clean, and they know not to get up on my counters. If I want them to have something sweet, I will get it down for them, they do not have to get up on the counters, but that boy.
That sick little boy, is he possessed? First, I catch him in my gate peeking in windows, with his little pecker poking out, and his red little ass showing, his pants down. Has he no shame? I don’t know what to do with him, I spank him, and he is still poking out. I slap his face, and he tells me, he likes the chancla. Red cheeked, he practically begged me to hit him some more.
“Espero que vuelvas, pequeño. Chicos asqueroso con tu polla fuera y tu culito rojo. Vuelve después de los Semana Santa, después de la Pascua, y te lo mostraré. Oh si, te lo mostraré, ¿Quieres la chancla? Te lo voy a dar.
Perdóname Jesus, sé que esto está prohibido. La semana antes de tu muerte, tu resurrección. Ha pasado tanto tiempo desde que se fue mi pobre Ignacio. Dios descansa en su alma y sé que está contigo. Simplemente me enoja mucho, y si lo envías al infierno, solo se reirá del diablo y le rogará por más.
¿Quieres más? No tienes que rogarme, niño sucio. Te lo voy a dar. ¡Te doy aún más la chancla! Ya verás, te lo mostraré después de Semana Santa, si vuelves …
;
Author
Sorry about the garbled Espangles. It’s mostly inspired by something another poster wrote, and partially by the ending of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Rats in the Walls.” In different languages, of course. You should get the gist off of Google translate, because that’s what I checked it on.
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