Genny felt a combination of fear and excitement. The yellow, industrial sponge in her hand filled with sweat. She hadn’t been this nervous since her friend, Elise, got her that disastrous audition as a hairstylist for Star Wars XXII, The Clip Show.
“How was I supposed to know that sasquatch thing was a costume?” she mused to herself, a few strands of wookie fur still stuck in her molars.
A low clomping interrupted her musings. She turned to the west. The sinking sun shone like a giant ball of fire. She blinked and shielded her eyes with her hand. Twisted, grotesque shadows walked towards her, growing larger with each horrifying step. A rhythmic clatter flowed from their dark, gaping mouths.
She cupped her ears to create miniature directional antennae. The moan became clearer. A poem. No. A chant. Gregorian in nature with a touch of Ambrosian and a hint of West Coast hip hop.
Softly at first. “We are the Esnapping Tortugas. We are the Esnapping Tortugas.”
Slightly louder. “We have no teeth, but our jaws are fierce and our grip is firm.”
Louder still. “Do not try to make turtle stew out of us or we will snap off your finger.”
Somewhere between talking and a shout. “Feed us frijoles, and we will be your friends.”
Like the rush of a roaring river. “Call an enchilada a chimichanga, and we will be your enemies.”
Fever pitch! “From the warm lands to the south, we have come. To the lands of the north, we have returned, waving the flags of the conquistadores who poisoned our peoples with the smallpox. We are the divine sparks, the humanity you choose to shoo. No border can stop us. No law can hold us. No goodwill remains in our hearts. We will vote in your elections. We will drive with California licenses. We will smush the grapes of wrath in our toes until their blood runs over our feet like grape juice. And in the end, our guillotine will plunge on your necks, and your head will roll around in the basket while your eyes go ‘blink, blink, blink’ for approximately ten seconds! Just like in the Mexican Revolution Part Deux. Vive la France!”
Genny checked her mini Howard Zinn History of the United States she carried everywhere to verify the accuracy. “Yep. Yep. Uh huh. Yep. All good.” She threw the book into the fire. Its pages sizzled before exploding with a devilish scream.
At once, the clattering stopped. A chill traveled down her sciatic. A hundred or so faces appeared out of the shadows. Brown ones. Tan ones. A large, pasty, befreckled one.
“Patty McBagpipes?” Genny asked.
The large, red mountain gave her a queer look. “It’s Siobhan O’Haggis, lassie.”
Genny smiled politely.
“Enough of zee pleasantries,” a voice ordered from the middle of the pack. “Eet ees time to begeen. To your places!”
Faster than an actual snapping tortuga, the linear wall of gang members became an impenetrable circle surrounding Genny. Machetes popped out of sheaths hidden in large, semi-ovular backpacks. Beret-covered heads and scarf-padded necks wobbled to and fro in an ancient Aztec ritual.
That’d make a great bobblehead, Genny thought.
And then, all became still. Perfectly still. Even the air stopped flowing as though the giant fan in the sky had shut off.
A shrill yelp pierced the silence, and a pair of Tortugas stepped forward, forcing Genny into a chair she hadn’t noticed before. Hands grasped her shoulders. Lithe, cotton ribbons embraced her wrists and strapped her to the chair. A moderately bright light shined in her face. She ducked her head to protect herself from its ardent gaze.
Although she couldn’t see him, she immediately recognized the sound of Jorge licking his fingers so he could better turn the page of a book he held. His tongue went, ‘Sluurrrrp.’ Her body shuddered like when she saw the grocery clerk licking his fingers to open the plastic bag in which her produce would be set.
“Ahem,” Jorge said, clearing the uvula which still dangled in the back of his throat. “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today … oops, wrong page.” Rustling noises. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … nope.” Crinkle, crinkle. “Four score and seven … dang it. Sorry. Pardon my French. Ahh. Here it is. Stage one initiation. To first enter the venerable, fiercesome [sic] Esnapping Tortugas, you [enter name] … I’m sorry. What is your name?”
“Genny.”
“Your full name.”
“Paisley Genesis Haverford.” Shame and anger flushed her cheeks at hearing it out loud.
“What a beautiful name,” Jorge said. “It reminds me of a tie a used car salesman might wear.”
“Get on weeth eet,” Pierre ordered.
“Right. Of course. You, Paisley Genesis Haverford, must first truthfully answer the questions we ask. If your answers are satisfactorily evil, you will pass on to stage two. If not … sluurrrp … your spleen will be cleaved in two and used as a paperweight. Do you accept these conditions?”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked.
Jorge shook his head just enough so she could see the motion.
“Well, then,” she said, “I will do my best.”
“I would hope, for your sake, you do better than that,” Jorge said. His words came out smug, mocking. His lips curled into a snarl. “Let us begin. Question one, and this is the easiest of them all. Something light to get us started. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Have you ever killed someone?”
“What? No!” Genny said. “What kind of question is that?”
“Not even by accident?”
“No!”
“Say, for example, you’re mowing the fairway, and you forget to set the parking brake. Then, you settle down in the sand trap for a little siesta. When you wake up, Dr. Murphy is missing a leg?”
“Uh, no.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure. You?”
“Of course not,” Jorge said. “Hypothetically speaking, that is.” He stared at Genny. His eyes became two tiny dots of accusation, piercing her conscience. “Truth be told, I don’t think you’re being truthful with me. You’ve got the look of a liar and a stone-cold killer. Or … a career politician.”
Genny loosened her hand and belted Jorge across the face. “Don’t you dare call me a politician,” she hissed. She slipped her hand back in its mooring.
Jorge rubbed his cheek. “That’s one strike against you,” he said, his pride hurting more than his jaw.
“I’m tired of thees,” Pierre spoke up. “Move on to zee lightneeng round already.”
“Yes, jefe,” Jorge said. He dug deep into his pocket and removed a stack of index cards. “Are you ready, golden one?”
Genny nodded.
“Good. Here goes. Have you ever crossed a border undocumentedly?”
“No, but I have entered a door that said exit only.”
“How many people have you shivved?”
Genny scratched her chin and looked into the air. “Seven … eight ….” She started wriggling her fingers and mouthing something silently to herself. “Then, in 1988.” Her lips continued to move. “That would make … none.”
“Two strikes,” he said. “You cannot miss any more. Now, what are the four necessary ingredients of prison wine?”
“Water, prunes, sulfuric acid, and tofu.” Thank you, Saved by the Bell, she thought.
“What is veganism?” he asked.
“A taste bud disorder?”
“Close enough. How are crepes different than pancakes?”
“A crepe is a thin pancake that only the French can make correctly,” Genny answered.
Jorge arched one eyebrow, raised the cleaver high above his head, and looked at Pierre for approval. Pierre shook his head. The cleaver fell to Jorge’s side. The eyebrow remained arched just in case it was needed for later.
“What is the world’s deadliest canine?”
“Chihuahua.”
“Democrat or Republican?”
Her words came out muffled.
“Does your skin make you racist?”
“Only if it’s politically expedient.”
“Paper or plastic?”
“Plastic.”
“Hot or cold?”
“Both.”
“Dead or alive?” The final question hung in the air like a buoyant block of lead.
“I … I don’t know.”
“You do not know?” Jorge’s sarcasm bordered the sardonic. “That’s the wrong answer, Paisley Genesis Haverford.” He turned to the rest of the gang. “She does not know.” A scoff leaked out. “You can see for yourselves that our precious Goldy is not Esnapping Tortuga material,” he proclaimed as if his words were all that mattered. “She cannot answer even the simplest of questions in a satisfactorily evil manner. According to our bylaws, I have no choice but to impose the following sentence.” He paused for maximum effect. “Death.”
“You need more reason zan zat,” Pierre said.
“More than that? What more do you need? She hasn’t killed. She hasn’t shivved. No border crossings. No carjackings or boatjackings or even bikejackings. She’s probably never done an undocumented thing in her life. The Tortugas are not made of people like her. We are outlaws, rule breakers. People who aren’t afraid to get their hands messy. People who don’t mind spilling a little blood for the cause. We have no need of this skinny, golden, do-gooding do-gooder.” He spat towards the ground. The spittle floated on a cloud of smog.
Pierre folded his hands in contemplation. Genny held her breath, afraid it might be her last. After what seemed a very long time, Pierre spoke up.
“Do you have any final requests?” he said.
Genny’s spirit dropped. The second time in as many days that she faced her final moments. Her lips quivered as the realization that she would never see Country again set in. “I’m really thirsty,” she said. “Would you mind holding my drink up so I can take a sip?”
Jorge lifted the lid off her soda and held it to her mouth.
“No,” she said. “I want to use the straw.”
“The straw?” Jorge howled, his eyes wild in fury and admiration. “I change my mind. I have never met anyone so bold as to still use a straw. Not with the straw patrols coming around at all hours of the day. I’m surprised they’re not here now.” He glanced around nervously. “In fact, I take back everything I just said and now endorse her for club secretary. All in favor say, aye.”
A hundred or so ‘ayes’ rose from the street like tiny helium balloons. Only one ‘nay’ could be heard. Genny looked in the direction of a displeased Siobhan O’Haggis, her befreckled face redder than normal.
“T’is not rig’t, laddy,” O’Haggis said. Her voice had a smidgen of loathing topped with a soupçon of resentment. “You cannot give ’er my secretary position wit’out giving me t’e rig’t to fig’t for it, to challenge any rival t’at may want to steal it from me. A challenge of my choosing.” She got all squinty and stared at Genny. “One w’ich involves pain.”
Pierre put his arm around Siobhan’s shoulder. It reached to the middle of her back.
“My friend. You are like a seester to me, but eet ees my deceesión to make.”
“What about the vote?” Jorge asked, afraid that Pierre hadn’t heard it even though he was standing a few feet away.
“Zees ees no deeferent zan zee democrat conventión, where I am zee superdelegate,” Pierre said. “Your vote doesn’t really matter.” A strange noise like ó ó ó emanated from his nose.
Jorge nodded in understanding.
“And I say that Genny ees zee new secretary.”
O’Haggis stewed in the lemony broth of bitterness, knowing the verdict was final. She snatched the drink Genny held out as a peace offering and headed towards the edge of the party, the place where introverts pretend to mingle but secretly regret their decision to come.
“Everybody, gather ’round,” Pierre said, his ‘th’ surprisingly well-enunciated. What followed was a thirty-minute speech on the importance of family, loyalty, and escargot. Genny’s mind may have wandered.
When he finished, Pierre pulled out his ceremonial pen and signed the club charter with a flourish, making Genny’s position official. The moment the last stroke etched its ink into the page, a mariachi band started with a rousing rendition of La Marseillaise, followed by La Vie en Rose and a weird cumbia in 3/4 time. Hugs were shared, an official Tortuga backpack bestowed, temporary tattoos drawn, and blood oaths sworn.
The party didn’t really get into full swing until after the piñata tournament began.
“I hate puns,” a voice called out.
Agua de Jamaica, a reddish drink apparently made from the sweat of marathoners, flowed freely. Baguettes and an assortment of Mexican fromage lined buffet tables. Cars bounced up and down. Pistols shot bullets towards clouds only to get stuck about fifty feet above the ground. Trills of ‘aye yi yi yi yiiiiiii’ filled the night air.
The merriment lasted until nearly 10 pm when the curfew implemented by Mayor Pietr van Martinez was set to start. As the final bars of Bidi Bidi Bom Bom drifted into the night, the Tortugas slowly headed for home, leaving Genny with smiles, congratulations, and words of encouragement. All except for O’Haggis. The giant mountain of a woman watched from the shadows, nursing her wounded pride and her lukewarm horchata, cursing under her breath, swearing revenge on the woman who had usurped the only reason she got up in the morning.