A New Injustice, Pt. 2
By: Steven T. Bramble
Tags: Short Story, Abortion, Relationships, Ethics And Morals, México

She felt suddenly dizzy, the reality of her situation throwing itself across an ocean of denial and sinking its teeth into her neck.

Over the course of the previous month, while working six days a week at Galatea and doing her best to convince herself she wasn’t pregnant, Itzap had had the sudden feeling she was going to have a full-scale emotional meltdown if she didn’t vent her problems to someone, so she’d confided in her best work friend. She now found herself in a similar state, pressure threatening to burst her apart if she didn’t find some kind of release-valve. She grabbed her phone out of reflex, typing a frantic message to Lupe.

wey i don’t believe this but pinche Leo just told me he doesn’t want me to get an abortion. he wants to meet me at clave azul tonight to talk about it and i have no idea what he’s going to say. my emotions are all over the place and i just wish i knew what to do.

She hit the send button, reread the message, waited a few minutes for Lupe to reply but there was nothing. She laid down on the bed and fell asleep.

—

Toño groaned to life at 5, still dark out. Went to the kitchen groggy and boiled water for the Nescafé. He opened the fridge with willful ignorance to reassure himself there were no leftovers. The world outside was quiet and sleeping, refrigerator light pitching the kitchen with soothing yellow glow. Filled a plastic mug and went quietly as possible out the front door, conscientious of his mother and sister.

Settled into the driver’s seat of the cab, stole a look at his half-dead eyes in the rearview while running his thumb across the slick sticker-chrome ridges of the Nissan logo on the steering wheel. Batted at the small wooden rosary dangling from the mirror, crossed himself and kissed his fist. Yawned loud as he turned the ignition.

He drove into the centro to Diaz Ordaz and parked in a long line of identical cabs extending along the curb in front of an Oxxo. Six or seven taxistas drinking out of styrofoam coffee cups were already grouped around a cab straining out scratchy norteño. Toño got out and loped over sleepily.

One of them called out, “Oye pinche flaquito ya tardaste!”

They burst into laughter. They all had round stomachs and august mustaches, the characteristics of more advanced age. In the context of the taxi profession, Toño was comically young and unfat.

He sipped from his plastic mug, rubbing his eyes.

Another taxista laughed, “Pinche flaquito, güey, no mames, este cabrón nunca llega a tiempo.”

Toño made a smacking sound with the side of his teeth. “Pues con razón, cuñao, your sister’s house is all the way on the other side of town.”

More laughs. Across the street the tianguis were setting up tarps and arraying merchandise in dawn light the color of mango. Buses began to bellow past and dump people onto the sidewalk. Bit by bit the cabs filled up and went off on their first fares. Toño leaned against his car, chirping taxi at passersby.

It was taking longer than usual to get his first ride.

Finally a girl wearing a heavy black jacket over a white hotel staff blouse came up to him. “Can you take me to León?”

“León?” Toño said. “I’m not doing colectivo.”

“Just me.”

He thought about it a second, deciding if he really wanted to drive more than an hour out today. The fare was big, though, he’d be dumb to turn it down. He threw out a slightly higher price than normal and was surprised how quickly she agreed. He opened the door for her, sat down in the driver’s seat, batted the rosary one more time before crossing himself, and slung the Tsuru into traffic.

They drove almost to the freeway without speaking. At a stoplight Toño looked in the rearview. She was looking down at her phone, bored and pensive. Maybe just because it was morning, but she had very tired eyes and a jaded air about her. The shape of her face was interesting, a jaw somewhat more pronounced than usual with largish teeth.

He asked her, “What’s the address where you’re going?”

“Plaza de los Mártires.”

“Neta? You work in one of those hotels?”

“It’s all right,” she shrugged.

“Don’t they pay really good?”

“Not as well as they should. But I’m not complaining, it could be worse. Especially with everything going on right now.”

He didn’t know what she was referring to.

“You always take a taxi into the city?”

“No, the bus. I’m doing this today because of the demonstration. That’s why I didn’t argue your price.”

He looked in the mirror and she met his eyes with minor triumph.

“Demonstration?”

“Mm-hm, the autoworkers union called it against the hotels because of the water shortage.”

“Oh,” he said. “What does the water shortage have to do with the hotels?”

“Because the government incentivized the water companies to sell to them without limit in order to prop up the tourism industry.”

“I guess that makes sense. They can pay the price hike.”

“Exactly,” voice taking on a combative edge. “All they care about is who can pay. Rich foreigners get all the water they want, and everyone else they let go thirsty. They’re doing this to prop up tourism, but when the factories closed down they didn’t lift a finger.”

“So it would be better,” he asked, “if they let the hotels go under, too?”

He saw in the mirror she was glowering, trying to decide what she should make of the question. He gave her a smile that even he wasn’t sure what it meant.

She winced. “You’re not a PRIista or anything, right? Because if that’s the case I’m not sure I can talk to you.”

“No. I don’t vote.”

“Chale. That’s almost worse.”

“Really? I’d be interested to hear why. I could be wrong, but you look a little younger than me. I’d bet your first vote ever was MORENA.”

“A ver,” she said, sitting forward in her seat, “it isn’t about them not letting the hotels go under. It’s that the government affords rich foreigners more rights than its own citizens, and all this while there are record numbers of unemployed. Not to mention the thousands of caribes they won’t even let work. That’s why they’re protesting.”

“But the tourism industry runs on rich foreigners. Why organize a protest against the hotels? What can they do to fix the problem?”

Nothing but scathing silence.

“And if they don’t take steps to incentivize tourism, another industry might fall, and those hotels employ mexicanos. I don’t get it.”

“Apparently not.”

“I mean, it’s not the responsibility of the hotels to make sure everyone’s employed.”

“But it is the government’s.”

“There I agree with you,” he said, twisting the wooden beads hanging from the rearview out of habit, letting the cross at the end spin out wildly like a little kid on a swing. “But the government doesn’t control the auto industry. GM’s a gringo company. And it didn’t go under, if I remember right. All the workers lost their jobs to robots.”

“What’s your point?”

“Just that the government doesn’t control private enterprise. And even if it did, one group of workers yelling at another doesn’t make sense to me.”

She laughed. “I wonder if you’ll be singing the same tune when you get replaced by a robot.”

“Good point,” he ceded. “I’m not saying they should be happy. But if I lose my job, I won’t be protesting someone else’s. How will that bring mine back?”

“So basically they shouldn’t do anything, because in your view life’s just not fair, and it’s their own fault if they can’t handle that.”

“No, it’s not their fault. But sometimes life isn’t fair. I mean, look at me. I didn’t always drive a taxi. I was studying to be a lawyer in Guanajuato when my father died and I had to drop everything because there wasn’t enough money for school anymore. Someone had to step up and support my family. What happened to me wasn’t fair, but I did what I had to.”

“Wow, güey,” she said, voice unimpressed, bitter even, “are you sure you don’t vote? Because you talk like a politician.”

He looked in the mirror. She seemed fed up, arms crossed and looking angrily out the window. He narrowed his eyes.

“You’ve got a strange way of talking to someone who tells you about a dead parent. But you know what, I won’t take it personally. After all, I’m not the one who serves all those rich foreigners you hate so much, am I? If you’re so opposed to the hotels, why don’t you quit?”

He sped up to get around a bus and realized she hadn’t responded. He looked in the mirror again. She was still looking out the window, but her face had changed. Rather than sulking, she’d taken on a pained look, like a prisoner staring out at the world through bars.

They didn’t talk again until half an hour later when they were passing into the heart of the city.

She spoke up meekly to say, “You’re probably better off if you drop me a few blocks from the plaza.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take you right up to it.”

They got closer and he noticed a chopper circling high above the sprawl, along with a high number of police, military and guardia nacional trucks moving in their same general direction. He took her all the way to Belisario Dominguez and pulled over to the curb by the park. She dug in her purse, handed the fare up to him. He made change and handed it back. She opened the door and started to climb out.

“Hey,” he said, turning around in his seat.

She looked at him.

“Sorry.”

She got out and shut the door.

Toño watched her meld into the crowds of families, workers and ski-masked policía carrying machine guns.

He shifted into gear and moved a short ways down 5 de Febrero before taking a right on Emiliano Zapata, but before he could get even a block he was stopped by a contingent of federales as a pair of trucks swung sideways to form a roadblock. When the maneuver was finished he leaned out the window and tried to get their attention.

“Señores! Disculpa, señores!”

They ignored him, moving into a state of urgent, organized activity. Traffic had already piled up behind him, an uneven chorus of horns arising.

“Verga.”

He got out to go talk to them.

“Señores!” he called out again.

One of the officers guarding the trucks finally noticed him and threw up a hand to stop him where he was.

Toño shouted, “Will traffic be able to move soon?”

“Go back to your vehicle, now.”

He went back and waited five minutes before resigning himself to his fate and killing the engine. He laughed through his nose. He should’ve taken the girl’s advice to drop her off farther away.

He sat almost twenty minutes messing around on his phone before realizing the chopper had reappeared overhead, lowering to hover only a couple hundred feet over the buildingtops. A riot squad started to flush into the avenida on foot, assembling into formation just beyond the truck barrier. He could hear faraway chanting and drums. A few minutes later he saw, through the gaps in the trucks and bodies, an immense column of workers bearing signs and banners marching up Emiliano Zapata, thrusting fists into the air in rhythm with their chanting. More police made their way through the side streets, rushing to fortify the line and blocking Toño’s view.

He looked up toward the helicopter again, seeing also now two observation drones buzzing hornet-like over the street and military figures with high-power rifles taking position on the rooftops. Things had gotten very loud, even inside the cab. Toño could tell the workers were closer by the angle the snipers tracked their aim. The protest was now in a gauntlet if they didn’t somehow redirect off Emiliano Zapata, but Toño realized that was no longer a possibility when he saw, over the heads of the police, a hoisted banner proclaiming the faction and national group number of the autoworkers union and a black and red anarcosindicalista flag fluttering back and forth in long, proud arcs. The two sides were at a standoff, the chanting of the workers having broken into a roar of voices directed at the federales. A massive tension built as the impasse dragged on. There started to be a lot of movement and jostling amongst the riot squad, and then, whether spontaneously or by command, the tight formation advanced on the workers, attacking with batons. At first the people had nowhere to go, the vanguard trapped against the barrier by their own column, causing some of the protesters to be hit again and again with no way of defending themselves and nowhere to retreat. The previously defiant flag had gone flaccid, searching its way through the chaos. Toño, immersed in the scene unfolding in the windshield, fixed his attention on a shabbily dressed Rasta with a graying beard who was hit twice across the upper arm, absorbing the baton slashes with a look of shock and keeling away from the relentless body-armored figure, taking another harsh crack to the back of the neck, several to the ribs.

An aggressive metal pounding filled the taxi and sent an adrenaline-burn through Toño’s system. A ski-masked face filled the driver’s side window.

“Oye! Are you listening, hijo de puta? I said back the car up now!”

Toño looked in the rearview. He hadn’t noticed a pair of policía must have been redirecting the traffic jam behind him for some time because the street was almost clear.

“Perdón, señor, sí, perdón,” he babbled, fumbling to shift and reverse. Moving backward toward the intersection, he shot a last look at the battle taking place beyond the truck barrier before turning back onto 5 de Febrero and returning into what seemed to be the usual routine of the city. He made it past two or three stoplights before something overcame him and he pulled to the curb. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, whether to cry or to scream. Finally, he did nothing. He looked at himself in the mirror, said out loud — “No, you told her you didn’t believe this was the way to solve their problems, so just stop.”

He sniffed hard, set his face straight. Crossed himself slowly and kissed his fist. Started the car again and went on with his workday.

Rather than drive all the way back he stayed in León and ran fares. He stopped for lunch at a puesto in the leather district and ran into Chuy, another taxista he knew.

“Something got you down?” Chuy asked him.

Toño shook his head. “Just Barcelona’s record.”

“Some of us are going to King Kong tonight after work. You should come.”

“That’s not really my scene, compa.”

“Come on, pinche flaquito. You need a drink.”

At 7 he met up with Chuy and several other taxistas in the parking lot of King Kong.

“I’m surprised you made it.”

“Siempre, man. Anyway, I might not stay long. I’m already close to Guanajuato, so I’m thinking of staying at my girl’s place.”

They stepped into a barrage of brass music, red and pink neon fuzzed with hanging cigarette smoke. They snaked their way through the endless maze of tables full of sweating, drunk, rowdy men, most still in work clothes, calling out to the women and girls in skimpy primary-color dresses circulating through the room.

They sat, and a waitress wearing a lace top set down five Dos Equis and a plate of peanuts, the green bottles sweating, radiating in the neon glow. Horns blasted to life, tuba flatulating steadily.

Chuy flashed him a thousand-watt smile, extended his beer. “Salud, güey.”

Toño forced one back. “Salud.”

Several girls came to the table, provoking rapturous chatter from the taxistas. Chuy grabbed a girl wearing a thin yellow dress around the waist and yanked her to him, saying, “Mami, ven aca. See this loser right here? I need you to cheer him up before he makes me cry.”

He gave her a smack on the ass and nudged her toward Toño.

“Chuy, Chuy, por favor, no,” he stammered out, but she quickly sat down in his lap, plenty used to ignoring the protestations of shy men.

“Hi there,” she said, not looking totally insincere in her flirting. Her hair was dyed a noncommittal blonde, and when she smiled her teeth twinkled with braces.

“Hi,” he said, shifting awkwardly to adjust to her weight on his leg. “Look, I know what my friend said, but I really mean it. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Well that doesn’t have to matter,” she affected sweetly, putting her hand on the back of his head and pulling her perfumed breasts closer to his face. Her cleavage was visible through a descending series of slits in the yellow fabric, and he caught a glimpse of a small cross flashing goldenly against the swell of her small tits. “Maybe you should take your friend’s advice and relax.”

“That’s nice of you,” he said, “but I’m serious. I’m not going to pay any money.”

She recoiled, taking on a look suggesting he’d offended her professionally, but nonetheless got up and moved to the next table.

Everyone else barely noticed he’d sent her away. They were eager, and the girls had pounced. For a while he sat and watched them all luxuriate in one another, sipping his Dos Equis uncomfortably. He took a look around the vast room, imbibing the sad spectacle of the tablefuls of men, gnawing away at peanuts and draining beers, most of them ugly, letting their sexuality out on display unembarrassed, and the looks on their faces made him feel strange, as if he were witnessing some unfamiliar ritual.

He took his phone from his pocket to text Itzap but saw he’d received a message from someone who had never texted him before, a guy named Arturo who he remembered was the boyfriend of one of Itzap’s coworkers at Galatea.

i know its not really my place to do this, but lupe left her phone out while she was in the bathroom and i saw a text your girlfriend sent. i think you should see it.