You grew suspicious with every word he wrote...
You grew suspicious with every word he writes, the clicking of the keys as he presses his long bony fingers upon the keyboard matching the ticking of thoughts moving through your head. You watch as his hands flutter over the keyboard, his thumbs hanging over the space bar, two twins acting in concert, the other fingers finding the letters, that make up the words, that make up the sentences, that make up the paragraph...
You face him from behind the window, his deadpan face, long lips which almost curl underneath themselves, his almost hipster glasses, almost, because they are not black or thick, but just long across his thin face. What bothers you the most is his large nose, prime real estate for large pores, from some, hairs sprouting, fine young blond hairs, begging to be plucked.
The only kind thing about his face, the only thing suggesting he might be kind, is his blue eyes, that stare at you through the dirty lenses of his glasses, but you suspect that those eyes are a rouse, a method of tricking you into believing that he is something he is not.
Is that a slight scent of cologne in the air, the briefest hint of sandalwood and citrus, not overbearing. You wonder whether or not it is wafting from this scarecrow before you, who wears a dress shirt with coffee stains on the sleeves which is too large for his long twig like arms, with wild grey straw-like hair which he has attempted to control by thick hair gel and combed into a precarious form.
His bowtie, clearly not pre-tied, because it is uneven and awkward around his neck. You think that it is this is the type of person to do things to get a rise out of people, which fits with his profession, a lawyer.
"What's your full name?" he sputters. It seems like he is finding the words right before he says them and the words are spit at you in a way that makes them ungainly and unmanageable, like you are not sure what to do with them. He speaks them in a "white" way, in the way all white people speak, plainly, and with a draw to the words, with no soul, no finesse.
"Jorge Marquez," you say.
He spits it back out at you, in thick chunks, smothered, like chicken fried steak covered in gravy. It sounds like "Whore hey Marcus?"
You say it again, because he will never say it right, will never inflect the honor and tradition of your family and your country when he says it, will never impart the how the hard sun has baked your name hard as a brick in the heat of the Mexican sun, and turned it a rich brown. You say it again so that he knows that despite all of his fancy degrees and education, despite his faux-hipster glasses and bow ties, he does not know everything, and perhaps knows very little outside the books he has read.
He tries to say your name again, but, again, it comes out all wrong. But you just agree that he has said it right, because the repeating of it in such a crude manner hurts your ears. He types the answer in his little computer, similar to ones you have taken from neighbor's homes and sold for money to buy beer and weed and spice. But not coke, because that shit is too hard.
You look down at the desk you are sitting in, wondering why either of you bother, this game that both you and he are playing. He says he is your attorney, that he represents you regarding your charges. He looks no different than any of the other people who you have encounter after being arrested, speaks the same with the same tone and with the same demeaning calmness and seriousness.
He says something quickly through his teeth which you do not catch because it is too American, too loaded with an accent you do not comprehend because you speak Spanish at home, not English.
"Que?"
He speaks slower, more deliberate. "Do you know what charges you have?"
...
You face him from behind the window, his deadpan face, long lips which almost curl underneath themselves, his almost hipster glasses, almost, because they are not black or thick, but just long across his thin face. What bothers you the most is his large nose, prime real estate for large pores, from some, hairs sprouting, fine young blond hairs, begging to be plucked.
The only kind thing about his face, the only thing suggesting he might be kind, is his blue eyes, that stare at you through the dirty lenses of his glasses, but you suspect that those eyes are a rouse, a method of tricking you into believing that he is something he is not.
Is that a slight scent of cologne in the air, the briefest hint of sandalwood and citrus, not overbearing. You wonder whether or not it is wafting from this scarecrow before you, who wears a dress shirt with coffee stains on the sleeves which is too large for his long twig like arms, with wild grey straw-like hair which he has attempted to control by thick hair gel and combed into a precarious form.
His bowtie, clearly not pre-tied, because it is uneven and awkward around his neck. You think that it is this is the type of person to do things to get a rise out of people, which fits with his profession, a lawyer.
"What's your full name?" he sputters. It seems like he is finding the words right before he says them and the words are spit at you in a way that makes them ungainly and unmanageable, like you are not sure what to do with them. He speaks them in a "white" way, in the way all white people speak, plainly, and with a draw to the words, with no soul, no finesse.
"Jorge Marquez," you say.
He spits it back out at you, in thick chunks, smothered, like chicken fried steak covered in gravy. It sounds like "Whore hey Marcus?"
You say it again, because he will never say it right, will never inflect the honor and tradition of your family and your country when he says it, will never impart the how the hard sun has baked your name hard as a brick in the heat of the Mexican sun, and turned it a rich brown. You say it again so that he knows that despite all of his fancy degrees and education, despite his faux-hipster glasses and bow ties, he does not know everything, and perhaps knows very little outside the books he has read.
He tries to say your name again, but, again, it comes out all wrong. But you just agree that he has said it right, because the repeating of it in such a crude manner hurts your ears. He types the answer in his little computer, similar to ones you have taken from neighbor's homes and sold for money to buy beer and weed and spice. But not coke, because that shit is too hard.
You look down at the desk you are sitting in, wondering why either of you bother, this game that both you and he are playing. He says he is your attorney, that he represents you regarding your charges. He looks no different than any of the other people who you have encounter after being arrested, speaks the same with the same tone and with the same demeaning calmness and seriousness.
He says something quickly through his teeth which you do not catch because it is too American, too loaded with an accent you do not comprehend because you speak Spanish at home, not English.
"Que?"
He speaks slower, more deliberate. "Do you know what charges you have?"
...
Comments
Post a Comment