Out of Their Minds. Luis Humberto Crosthwaite
SIDEKICKS
PIECES OF PAPER
STORMY WEATHER
BITTER MEDICINE
HEARTACHES BY THE NUMBER
CORNELIO, SUPERSTAR
AN ACTOR PREPARES
SIDEKICKS
PUT A CANDLE IN THE WINDOW
GOOD MORNING LITTLE SCHOOLGIRL
AND FOR MY ENCORE...
SIDEKICKS
Tengo un libro vacío
y lo voy a empezar;
tengo sed de cariño,
tengo ganas de amar.
—Raul Ramirez
I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I’ve been praying for
It’s gonna be a bright, bright
Sun-shiny day.
—Johnny Nash
CORNELIO: We’ve known each other all our lives. When I woke up, Ramón was already there.
RAMÓN: What’s wrong with you? It’s not like we sleep together.
CORNELIO: I didn’t say that, man.
RAMÓN: Well, then why do people talk…
CORNELIO: What I was trying to explain, man, before you interrupted me, is that we’ve practically known each other since we were born.
RAMÓN: Don’t you remember school?
CORNELIO: What school?
RAMÓN: The school. School.
CORNELIO: What about it?
RAMÓN: We went together, man, that’s where we met. We were in the same class, did our homework, hated the teachers, always ate tuna fish sandwiches at lunch time.
CORNELIO: You sure that was with me? You sure it wasn’t with another Cornelio? (He laughs.)
RAMÓN (sarcastically): Ah, well maybe. Because I am witness that there have been several Cornelios.
CORNELIO: Don’t start with that again.
RAMÓN: It’s true, man. When I talk about the school I’m talking about the Cornelio from before. Because one day my buddy became someone else, but that was after we started playing music. It’s got nothing to do with our childhood.
AB*: What do you mean “someone else”?
RAMÓN: Someone else?
AB: You said that Cornelio was someone else.
RAMÓN: When?
AB: You just said it.
RAMÓN: Oh, yeah.
CORNELIO: You’re going to start that again.
RAMÓN: All of a sudden Cornelio got to be real creative, man. A real songwriter. When we were little pricks, all we thought about was having a good time, running around, playing pranks and everything else. That’s for sure, man, always together. I remember that this always got us in trouble with our mommas.
CORNELIO: They used to hate each other.
RAMÓN: Okey, now you remember?
CORNELIO: I remember my mother, not yours, man.
RAMÓN: They were two of a kind. They hated each other, who knows why. And the worst part for them is that we were friends, man, more than friends…
CORNELIO: Lovers?
RAMÓN: Watch yourself, okey? And then you ask why the rumors start coming out.
CORNELIO: Well, explain it, Ramón. If you say that we were more than friends…
RAMÓN: Stop fooling around, fuckin’ Cornelio. You know what I’m talking about. We were best buddies, always together, you know. We even chased the same girls.
CORNELIO: Hey, hey, hey. Watch what you’re saying, man. My girls were my girls. Loving isn’t sharing…well, maybe in some cases.
*Over the course of several years, the poet Abigael Bohórquez conducted a series of interviews with the norteño duet the Relampagos de Agosto. The interviews touch on topics that range from the duet’s humble beginnings to the pinnacles of their careers. The complete interviews will be published as Thunder and Lightning: Interviews with Ramón and Cornelio by Cinco Puntos Press in 2014. Excerpted here by permission of the author.
Ramón and Cornelio are always together. They’re seen in the streets, walking; in school, almost never. At the movies, they enjoy the same films, they like the same stuff. Where is Ramón? With Cornelio. Where is Cornelio? With Ramón. Looking for both of them? They’re hanging out together.
People talk about them behind their backs. It’s not right, people say. And so young. They eat together. They are seen in the cafes, chatting. They order the same brand of soda, write long entries in notebooks. It’s as if they are writing the same thing. It’s not right that they write so much. They solve crossword puzzles: Ramón, down; Cornelio, across. They are seen taking long walks, always smiling. They walk in front of the hair salon, in front of the shoe repair shop, in front of the market, in front of the pharmacy. Long walks, both serious, brooding.
They spend a lot of time in Ramón’s room. His mother comes up to the door, but she only hears silence. Ramón on his bed, Cornelio on the floor, both lying down, hands crossed behind their heads. They look at the ceiling, the light bulb, the water stains. Long stretches without talking.
It’s not right, people say. Their mothers worry.
The radio is a good companion for Ramón and Cornelio. Music spills out of it and floods through the streets of Tijuana, house by house, knocking on doors like an impudent door-to-door salesman. Kids, maids and unemployed men open the doors of their homes in the morning and allow the music to enter as they start the day.
The city revives itself. From the migrant worker who just arrived in the city—but already has a job, thank God—to the owner of the businesses and apartments who only thinks in numbers and statistics; from the traffic cop who walks towards his beat, to the bank robber who has carefully planned his next heist.
The city wakes up wrapped in a torrent