Manguera Wars

The rules were as always: no kicking, scratching, biting, or pushing. Bobby’s whistle started the round. Wanting to impress my older brothers, I struck first. Danny got it in the belly. He countered with a jab to my face. I hit his arm. Danny punched my shoulder. I stumbled back and stepped on the orange gravel that Aaron had taken from the neighbor’s yard to mark off the ring. Then I slid. One knee hit the rust colored spot where the gravel had ground into the cement driveway. Danny charged toward me.

Bobby stepped between Danny and me. With a chopping gesture so familiar to me from the Lucha Libre bouts that my brothers and I watched religiously on Saturday evenings, Bobby stopped the fight and helped me up.

“Watch it man,” Bobby pushed Danny. “Fight fair or I’ll kick your ass. Hear?”

Danny nodded.

Bobby whistled, and our match resumed. I boxed Danny’s pointed ears. He socked my jaw. I poked his ribs and kept at them just like Bobby coached.

“Go for the ribs,” he shouted. “The ribs, Jenny!”

“Don’t let her do that to you Danny,” Aaron shouted. “What’s your problem?”

Danny kicked my pelvis, and both my brothers were on top of him.

“What did we tell you, Spock?” Bobby straddled Danny, who lay wriggling on the cement. He bent over, like a center taking a snap, and pointed a finger at his eye.

“Don’t call me that.” Danny’s voice quavered. He looked up at our brothers and touched his ear. “I told you not to call me that. Let me up, it burns.”

“You gotta fight fair or else,” Aaron said.

“Or else, what?” Danny wiped the sweat from his temples with his forearm and sat up. “Ay, you asshole,” Danny rubbed his eye with one hand and fanned his back with the other. “Why’d you poke my eye.”

Bobby said, “I didn’t poke it; you slammed into my finger.” He placed a foot on Danny’s thigh to keep him still.

“Screw this!” Danny batted the foot away and stood. When he tried to walk away, he was jerked to a stop by the green water hose tied around his waist. The other end was tied to my waist, and I was pulled forward and nearly fell.

Aaron screamed, “I see Mom’s car!”

Danny and I frantically worked on the knots around our waists.

Bobby untied Danny and then me.

“Screw the manguera into the faucet,” he yelled.

I grabbed the end of the hose and shoved it into the tap.

“No, stupid, the metal end,” Bobby pointed.

“False alarm,” Aaron sighed. “We can resume play.”

“I don’t wanna play,” Danny and I said in unison.

“Why? You chicken, Jenny?” Aaron sneered.

The manguera snaked across the hard-packed dirt of our unlandscaped yard and across the glowing cement driveway. The drive was blinding to look at and impossible to step on. Bare feet burned on its surface.

“No, I’m just sick of boxing,” I said. “And I’m hot.”

“You’re scared you might get your butt kicked,” Aaron said.

I stood and heaved my chest out, just like I’d seen El Toro do last Saturday during his bout against El Rey, “I’ll fight you right now without the manguera.”

Bobby took one of my trembling arms, “Cool it, man. Mom will be home soon anyways.”

Bobby walked away from us toward the street and eased himself onto the curb, like you would in a tub filled with hot water. He was stuck at home with us ever since he had poured used antifreeze into his radiator and it over heated. I followed him and sat down immediately. My butt burned through my jeans, but I didn’t get up. Sweat beaded under my nose but still I sat. Danny stood next to us as Aaron kicked the rocks he had so carefully arranged for our ring.

“Stop it, will you?” Bobby said.

“What’s with you?” Aaron whined, then stopped kicking the rocks.

Danny sat on the other side of Bobby, but he popped up quickly.

“Hot, you dummy,” I snickered.

Instead of sitting, he crouched like the people in Mom’s books about Vietnam. The sweat dripped down my face, into my eyes. I ran my finger over my head like a squeegee, then flicked the liquid off my fingers.

“Watch it,” Bobby backhanded the air.

Danny ducked, lost his balance, and placed his hand on the cement to break his fall.

“Ay!” he yelped.

We all laughed.

“Hey, you remember the tackle football game we had yesterday?” Bobby asked no one.

“Ah, man, remember?” Aaron said, walking toward the curb. “I keep replaying Melón biting it in the tumbleweed.”

“It had to be face first,” Bobby hit his face with his hands. “His big head made it into the end zone though.”

“No man! The tumbleweed was out of bounds,” Aaron flapped his arms wildly.

“It’s good if it’s on the line,” Bobby said.

“I don’t think so,” Aaron said.

“NFL rules,” Bobby added. “All regulation.”

I leaned backward to catch Danny’s eye. When he looked over at me, I put my finger to my lips to warn him not to correct Bobby.

Aaron was quiet. “Cheese, I got stickers all up and down my arms on that tackle,” he said, pointing to his forearms, which had what looked like a rash.

“You? I picked his face for an hour and still didn’t get half the ‘pinos out,” Bobby said, putting his finger on his face.

“He wasn’t in school today,” Aaron said.

“Poor fucker,” Bobby said.

“Yeah,” Aaron rubbed his forearm.

We watched a line of ants march under our legs. They were swarming to a pink piece of bubble gum, which was melting into thick cream on the asphalt. Bobby spit on the line of ants, and we all watched as the ants floated in the white foam.

“Aren’t you bored, you guys?” Bobby said, watching the ants.

“I am,” Aaron said, standing, swinging his arms. “I wish we had enough people to play baseball.”

“We could play basket, ” Danny said.

“That wouldn’t be fair. Me and Aaron would kill you two,” Bobby pointed to us.

We agreed, never once thinking of dividing up the teams differently. We had it coming.

“Too bad,” Bobby said, shaking his head.

We sat. After a few minutes of picking scabs, Bobby got an idea. “Let’s find out who’s the toughest.”

“No, I don’t want to,” I said, dejected. “Look at my arms. Now look at yours and Aaron’s and even Danny’s! It won’t be fair. You guys’ll beat me.”

“You don’t even know what we’re playing, Jenny. This isn’t that kind of tough, anyways. It’s more of a mental toughness. It’s all about mind over matter.” He touched his middle finger to his forehead. “You’re smart. You can do this, too.”

Everyone, including me, was intrigued.

“Okay, now,” Bobby clapped his hands together. “Whoever can hold his hand on the street the longest is the toughest.”

“What? There’s no way I’m doing that,” Danny said.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected from you,” said Bobby as he shook his head.

“I’ll do it,” Aaron said.

That’s what I expected from Aaron. Ever since he had lost his finger, he tried hard to be the strongest, toughest, and best at everything. The first time he played football after the accident, he dislocated the finger of his left hand. But he snapped it back into place so he wouldn’t stop the game.

All three of my brothers looked at me. I was the majority vote. If I said yes, then Danny would have to play. “Majority rule” as Bobby would say.

“There’s really nothing physical about this,” Bobby said, directing his attention to Aaron. “It’s what you got right here that counts,” he said as he pounded his fist on his heart. “The trick is to think of other things and try to distract yourself. You remember the Kung Fu episode, where he had to lift the big pot . . .

“ . . . with the boiling liquid with his forearms.” Aaron finished the sentence and flexed the muscles in his forearms. “It’s my favorite.”

“It would be,” I said. “All right, Grasshopper, I’m in.”

Aaron clapped, and Danny groaned.

“Here are the rules,” Bobby pointed. “We’ll play rock, scissors, paper to see who goes first.”

Before thinking, I said, “No, if I’m gonna do this, we all go at the same time, and whoever’s hand is on the street last wins.” I added, “Is that okay?” I looked over at Bobby, who, to my relief, grinned and nodded.

We all prepared ourselves in different ways. Aaron slapped his hands together hard, trying to numb them; Danny blew on his hands; Bobby rolled his wrist in a circle to loosen his hand; and I sat still and placed my hands on my knees and stared at them.

“Ready?” Bobby asked.

We all nodded.

“Go!”

We all placed our hands squarely on the black asphalt. Danny whimpered like a dog and immediately took his hand off the street.

“You’re out,” I exhaled.

Aaron sucked air through his teeth. Bobby looked like he was grinding his teeth, and I sweated from my ears. Even before I had placed my hand on the street, I had felt its heat. Once on the ground, it stung like an entire ant colony was biting my palm, but I held firm.

Danny was jumping around excitedly and counting, “Fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . . ”

To my surprise, Bobby lifted his hand off the street.

Aaron and I stared at one another, sweat dripped down my back and onto my jeans. Aaron grimaced so that he looked like he was going to the bathroom. My hand burned. I thought he was going to lift his hand, but then, the grimace turned to a blank stare. His expression changed immediately, and he stopped looking at me and looked slightly above me. He was looking directly at the sun. His eyes were watering, and I started to worry he would lose his eyesight. My palm ached, and I knew I would never be able to outlast Aaron. I lifted my hand. Aaron raised his just after mine.

“That was awesome,” Danny shouted. “You almost beat Aaron.”

“She really had you going, Aaron,” Bobby said.

“I’ll never lose to a girl,” he hissed.

I tried to slap him, but he leaned back and I missed.

After fanning our hands and talking about the burn, we sat back down and watched ants. Then we watched cars go by.

Danny broke the silence, “We could play touch football.”

“Ball’s flat,” I said.

“We could play soccer with the flat ball,” Aaron offered.

“Soccer?” Bobby said. “Now there’s a sport for fags.” He bit a fingernail and spit it to the ground, then he stood up and started punching air.

“Watch my shadow,” he said.

Aaron joined in, pumping his fists, and at times, their shadows connected. It looked like they were boxing. The two ducked, jumped, and head faked. Soon, Danny and I tried. We screamed every time our shadows met, and Bobby and Aaron crowded around us.

“I’ll bet you can beat Danny up for real,” Bobby said to me. “Because you’re tall. Look at him, short people can’t fight.”

“Do you hear what Bobby’s saying?” Aaron countered. “He thinks Jenny can beat you up. Are you gonna let a girl beat you up?”

Our shadowboxing got a little more intense. Danny got too close to my face, and his fist scraped my cheek. Mad, I pulled his hair, and he slapped at my hands.

“Cool it,” Bobby said, sternly.

Aaron squeezed my hands so hard I had to let go of Danny’s hair, which stopped our free-for-all.

“In order to settle this, you two need to fight,” Bobby pointed with both hands. He dragged the manguera from where we had left it and tied the thin, faded green hose to my waist and knotted the other end to Danny’s. “Rules are like all ways: no kicking, scratching, biting, or pushing.”