Cynthia Via

Motherfudger 

He said this word on the phone to his soccer friends, his brother, to his work buddies. “Puta Madre!” He said it with such finesse and permanence, from the seat of his car, contained in that space, between the dashboard and his thin lips, as if he was certain this was la palabra adecuada. One could only imagine what kind of news befell on the other line, had a deal gone sour, had a friend broken his ankle, and the soccer match cancelled? One morning, he got a call from his mom. His brother was huasca, driving drunk over the weekend on Roosevelt, and crashed into another car. “Puta madre,” seemed like the only salient thing to say, lo más apropiado, with his mom listening—“está asado en el sillón.” That summer, he forgot 2000 en el bolsillo de sus jeans, buried in a laundry machine. “Puta madre, no puedo creerlo.” He stopped the machine derrepente, realizing, almost ten minutes after being soaked in a deluge soapy, drippy clothes—bien mojado. I stood there in silence, a soft “fuck.” Que piña tight between the hot air and ladies pushing carts. Outside, he opened the trunk and laid out his money bare for the afternoon vultures. I snapped a photo, thinking this was a rap video from the 90s with a thirty-year-old raised by a pie-de-limon-mom, on the intro, saying “ay mi hijo.” He fumbled with his new iphone, answering one of his boys. “Oye basura!” He stood staring off toward the parking lot, “Aquí nada—todo normal,” angled-jaw reflecting on his glossy gray BMW. I always found it raro that he called his friends basura, con ironía, but at night, he called me muñeca.