THE MAN WHOSE TEETH WERE ALL EXACTLY CROOKED

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My relationship with my cousin Juan Carlos is broken. He shared a meme of me with a sprig of parsley stuck between my teeth. It’s funny, my fat brown face, my mouth open, my index finger scratching my premolars. Disgusting.

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The problem is my teeth and my cousin’s miserable shit-filled head. A simple photograph. A symbol

of family destruction.

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Because you can make a meme in a free app, upload it to WhatsApp or any social network. He wrote:

 

“The man whose teeth were all exactly crooked.”

 

He sent the message to my brothers, my uncles, the little dwarf he keeps as a lover, and many more.

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I saw him do it. We were drinking beers with Coke. Talking about selling cheap marijuana cigarettes in an abandoned house in Esquiú. We would start our own factory and plantation of drugs. My cousin is a cop. Guaranteed success.

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But he betrayed me.

 

When the message was received, I asked him for a drink. It was night and hot.

 

I was sweating and felt confident.

 

Juan Carlos turned his head, looked at me…

 

“We were so stupid, Emilio,” he said.

 

“Why?” I asked.

 

“Your father and my mother should never have had sex,” he said seriously, picking up his phone again.

 

“I didn’t know…” I said, shocked.

 

“We’re like brothers…” he suggested.

 

Juan Carlos put music on through Bluetooth, on dirty speakers covered in cobwebs, placed strategically on a splintered wooden chair.

 

“Sometimes you have to change your pretensions, Emilio. I can be an honest man in a sick society. But you? Why don’t you have a wife? Why don’t you have children?” he said, swirling his glass of warm beer.

 

I made a gesture, not knowing why. At my age I should be married or dead from a sudden heart attack.

 

He touched my right hand, a slight caress.

 

“Maybe we could play doctor like when we were kids,” he said, laughing nervously.

 

“I’m sleepy. I have to work tomorrow,” I replied. I had no emotions in me, only a terrible lethargy. I was tired. In the morning I had to work at Los Hermanitos Acuña, a ridiculous hardware store with no tools and exorbitant prices.

 

Juan Carlos started laughing…

 

He looked at his phone and looked at me. His eyes darted from the phone to me in seconds.

 

“What are you laughing at?” I asked.

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“Marisa, my sister-in-law, says you’re a tender monster. I asked her if she’d sleep with you. She didn’t answer. That’s a good sign.” Juan Carlos mocked me.

 

“I think I’ll go to sleep, cousin,” I said, standing up.

 

“Are you adopted?” Juan Carlos asked, frowning.

 

“What?” I answered wearily.

 

“You look adopted. Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, feigning surprise.

 

I looked at him, was Juan Carlos really saying what I was hearing?

 

“Really? My father, your uncle, wrote in the ‘Pereyra-Muñoz’ group that they should never have rescued you from Chaco,” he added, laughing loudly.

 

He read the message on his phone. Made a stupid face. Smiled. And showed me the message.

 

It wasn’t a bad joke.

 

My uncle had written that in the private group of Juan Carlos, his brothers, and my uncles. For them

it was funny.

 

And I saw it in his blue eyes, in his nose.

 

And I thought of my parents…

 

Of my brothers…

 

There was no one else like me. That had never seemed strange, but…

 

The thin face of Juan Carlos and my uncles…

 

My heart raced.

 

It was hard to swallow.

 

A strong stench came from my body.

 

I had no words to describe what I felt. I was terrified, full of beer and terrified.

 

“Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked my cousin.

 

He pointed the way with his hand while holding his phone.

 

I walked to the bathroom.

 

My stomach burned.

 

I vomited.

 

And I saw my face in the mirror.

 

Forty years old and never… never aware of it.

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My parents always told me they were my parents. Could they lie? Or not?

 

I started trembling.

 

I clenched my right fist and smashed the mirror.

 

I wasn’t drunk.

 

Was I sad?

 

Why hadn’t anyone told me before?

 

At School 172 I was “Negro Muñoz” and it sounded fine. My brother was “Prince Carlos,” my father “Torito.” Why should my nickname bother me?

 

With tears, drooling, thousands of curses, I came out of the bathroom with my right hand bleeding and punched Juan Carlos.

 

He fell backward.

 

He screamed and insulted me on the floor.

 

“Get out of my house!” he shouted. “Stupid monkey,” he added, touching his cheek, glaring at me with hatred.

 

And fury rose to my head.

 

Destroying Juan Carlos’ dining room and living room was the best thing I’d done in years.

 

But the bastard cousin reported me to his blue friends.

 

In Recreo’s jail, we’re all innocent.

 

“A bad night” was my answer when the sergeant asked why I did what I did.

 

“Nobody cares,” said the sergeant.

 

Soon it will be dawn…

 

 

                 

                 

                                   END