I want to read from just a small piece from What Drowns
the Flowers in your Mouth.
This is a book that I wrote for my brother.
When I wrote Butterfly Boy, my first memoir,
which was published in 2006--
Those of you who write nonfiction or memoir
know that sometimes it brings you a little bit of anxiety
to know that perhaps your family members might read it, right?
And so when I wrote Butterfly Boy, it was my story.
Even though my brother was there with me the entire time
during the journey of our youth.
And so I kept them out of it.
It really was really me.
And I told them as I prepared them.
Yeah, I wrote a story about us, about our father,
about our mother.
And you're in there.
But I kept your story out of it.
So you read it.
And then after reading it, he didn't speak to me
for like three weeks.
And I thought it was because there
was something about the book that had offended him.
But I said, well, what happened?
It's no.
It's OK.
It's not that.
I'm not mad at you.
It just made me cry.
I said, well, I knew what happened for three days.
I cried.
I said, well, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
But it's my story, right?
I kept you out of it.
Well, that's the second reason.
It's like I'm not in that book.
So I decided to write an entire book about my brother and me.
And this one, my brother doesn't play a prominent role.
But I want to read it because it's one of the shortest ones.
And I'm reminded a lot of how many of you would
go to some of these carnivals.
And you saw the guessers.
The guesser, the people that would guess your age,
or your weight, or you're right.
Well, believe it or not, I was a guesser at the carnival.
And I'm going to tell the story of happened.
Yeah.
So this piece is called Take A Guess.
The highlight of living in Southern California,
the Coachella Valley and the so-called date
festival of the world.
The so-called date capital of the world
was attending the Riverside County fair and National Day
festival on Arabia Street.
The week long event took place in the month of February.
And when we could afford it, the entire family
went because it was just down the street.
And-- from the low income housing project we called home.
One year, one of my cousins was a member of the high school's
Future Farmers of America.
And so this was a big goodbye to the sheep
he had been feeding and caring for all year.
The fair offered more than a petting zoo.
It was where professional farmers
came to buy and sell livestock.
The Future Farmers of America enter their animal charges
in a competition and auction.
And when my cousin won a blue ribbon,
the news was met with little enthusiasm
since the sheep was carted off to a real farm.
And all my cousin got was a college scholarship
that his mother predicted he would never use.
She was right.
Like all her children before him, the future farmer
would drop out of school by the age 16.
But visiting the livestock quarters with my cousin
offered me a glimpse part of the fair I never thought to use.
Usually, we just beelined it to the carnival rides
and stayed there until our parents hunted us down.
I remember once my brother and I convinced our mother
to enter the fun house with us.
I think my father egged her on or even dared her.
And she didn't back out.
The journey was somewhat fun with floors shifting
and spinning at slow speed.
But the payoff was the exit.
The only way out was a slide.
My mother was mortified as my father waiting
at the end of the shoot and called out to her.
You're holding up the line of let's go.
He was reveling in it.
I wasn't sure how he was going to turn out
because I never imagined my mother going down a slide.
She was a short, but heavyset woman wearing a pretty blouse
and a large purse.
But she did it.
Her purse flying up behind her.
She was red with embarrassment.
But she went laughing.
And I knew it was a moment I had to hold
on to because there were very few times I
saw my mother happy.
She was constantly ill or upset at my father's drinking.
So I always remembered her sad tearing up because she
was in pain or in distress.
When I went down the slide after her,
I didn't experience the same thrill or joy.
But that's because nothing could beat the sight of my mom
making her trip down a slide trying
to look more ladylike with her legs up in the air,
and then giggling at her failure.
The grown-ups didn't participate in the rides
and spent most of their carnival time
in the exhibition halls that showcase student art or date
products.
They would sit at the outdoor performance spaces,
and listen to folk music, or watch the annual pageant.
A performance of Aladdin and the Magic Flute.
It was always the same production.
And although most of the audience
didn't understand English, they picked up on the visual gags,
like when the fat lady and the belly dancers outfit
comes out to be weighed on the balance scale
and proves to the sultan that she's
worth more than a treasure chest of gold.
As I walked with my brother and cousins,
I was constantly surprised to bump
into people I would recognize.
Other students from my high school.
Most of them didn't talk to me at school.
But there was something of a contagious good mood
among the carnival games and mechanical rides that
encouraged many of them to indulge me with a nod.
It made me feel visible and it felt great.
I wasn't one of the popular kids.
I wasn't one of the popular kids at home either.
I was a quiet one who preferred to read a book
and hide in the back of the room.
It was a way of achieving safety.
I had seen how the different kids
were bullied and ostracized.
And I didn't want to be one of them.
However, many of my schoolmates were showing up
at the fairgrounds with their dates.
So I made it a point to walk around my cousin Vero
because I could pass her off as my girlfriend or something.
She didn't care.
She just thought it was wise to travel as a pair
because no one wanted to ride alone.
I had yet to come out of the closet.
So this arrangement was perfect.
Suddenly, the other guys nodded at me in approval.
The girls smiled.
All of us were complicit in the games couples play
to show the rest of the crowd that we were spoken for,
desired, maybe even mature.
The only time this false impression backfired
was when I ran into my other single acquaintances.
The ones who were more like me.
Nerdy outsiders years away from the first kiss.
I tried to give them the acknowledging nod.
But they refuse to nod back.
I had betrayed them.
And I knew then what a stupid thing
I had done because come Monday morning,
I would be back in the outsider pool,
except that I had just alienated its members, the ones who
sat in the back of the room with me.
Though we never spoke to each other
we felt somehow protected in our huddle.
A chill ran down my spine.
But I kept on making believe I was as confident as those who
had always been cocky about their place
among those who were there to be seen by those who would not.
Hey, Vero, I said to my cousin.
Can I get you a soda?
Yeah, I'm thirsty, she said.
I let her wait in line to the music express.
So she didn't have any pockets I carried her cash with me.
So I was able to fool anyone who might just
happen to take notice or even care that I was buying
two drinks with my own cash.
When I returned, I saw two girls from the journalism class
chatting it up in the line.
Hey Rigo, one of them said.
Are those sodas for us?
I blushed and pointed to Vero who
looked back with disinterest.
Let me guess, the other said.
Your girlfriend, she go to our school?
She goes to C V High, I said, aware that I
had chosen to answer the second question only.
Oh, kissy, kissy, said the first.
I was so rattled by the teasing.
I simply walked away.
Don't let her crush you too hard, one called out.
My face felt warm.
That's why the music express was so popular with couples.
That train spun around in such high speed
that it pushed the bodies in the car even closer together.
I handed Vero the soda.
Let me guess, she said.
The girls go to your school.
I sucked at the straw to my drink.
When we were finally on board the train,
I was so self-conscious about the two girls
staring at us from the sidelines as they waited for our turn
to end that I tried to keep Vero's body off me,
which was impossible.
After a few times around, I saw the girls
from the journalism class pointing out
how silly I looked with my shoulder grinding into Vero.
And Vero glaring at me.
By the time the ride started to slow to a stop,
Vero was so pissed off that she said, you know what?
I'm going back to look for the others.
Wait.
Aren't we going to go to the Zipper?
Vero rolled her eyes.
Why don't you ask one of your dumb girlfriends over there?
She pointed out the girls from the journalism class.
And they covered their mouths to hide their laughter.
And with that, Vero took off, leaving me standing there
with my hands in my pockets.
You can always ride with us, one of the girls
called out while the other one blew a kiss.
I was such an easy victim for this teasing.
Even with my cousins at home, it seemed
as if everyone knew I was hiding something that needed
to be coaxed out to the open.
What was it?
I wasn't sure that I was a virgin, that I was gay.
I suppose it didn't matter.
Either one of those secrets made me a target.
Since it wasn't quitting time yet,
I decided to walk around on my own for a change.
People watching instead of feeling watched.
Around this time of year, I would
hear about the so-called carnies, the white men
with tattoos who worked at the carnival.
It was the mostly Latino community.
They were in the mostly Latino community.
They were obviously different from us and stood out.
I didn't know what to make of them, except that they looked
like they were from another planet, especially
the red headed ones with funny facial hair.
I wouldn't have given it much notice,
and I wouldn't have given them much notice
in my people watching except that I ran into one of them
testing out the Octopus.
He climbed into one of the cars, and pulled along
his squeeze whom I recognized as one of my neighbors
from the housing project.
Patricia was rumored to be a lesbian.
She wore tracksuits, and kept her hair very short,
and wore no makeup.
But that also described my grandmother.
So I wasn't sure how this was evidence of anything.
Patricia rarely rode the bus with the rest of us, which
meant she had her own ride.
It didn't dawn on me until much later that most of those days,
she just never went to school.
The few times I did see her, she was looked at with derision.
But if that bothered her, she never let on.
As the cowardly teenage nerd that I was,
I didn't call further attention to myself
by talking to her on the bus or at school.
I watched Patricia and her carnie
for a few octopus revolutions, and was
shocked when she finally made eye contact and smiled.
My body froze.
I wasn't sure if I should wave or not, or what.
So the next time their car shot out of sight,
I wandered away and felt like an idiot.
Still, I shrugged it off and didn't think about it, again,
until I made my way back to the same spot
and saw Patricia sitting next to a large sign that read,
let me guess.
It was an odd feature among the booths.
It was simply a chair next to a long narrow plaque
with lettering that announced it for $1.
This person would guess your age, or weight, or birthday.
And if they guessed incorrectly, you would win a prize.
Wow, I thought.
Patricia is like a psychic.
No wonder she was weird.
I stood for a few moments expecting people
to accept the offer.
But no one came around.
And then our eyes locked and she waved me over I panicked.
I wanted to run away again and pretend I hadn't seen her.
But she gave me that smile again.
So I thought it would be rude not to go up to her.
Hey, Rigoberto, she said.
Hey, I said.
I don't have any money.
I don't want your money for it, she said.
I want a favor, I hesitated.
What?
Can you man the joint for a few?
I have an errand to run.
My eyes widened.
The only experience I ever had in manning booths
was a cotton candy machine at the journalism club's yearbook
fundraiser.
$0.25 a pop.
And all I had to do was drop a sugar,
drop the sugar and food coloring in the center of the gadget
while my coworker spun a cone around to brush
and collect the fuzzy threads.
How does it work, I asked?
How does what work?
The psychic thing.
Patricia rolled her eyes.
Psychic thing?
Oh, you just guess.
The point is to get the dollar and give them
one of those creepy toys from the box behind you.
That's it.
I looked at the carnival game slightly differently.
There was one in which people tossed dimes.
And whenever a dime landed, that's what the player got.
Over the years only one person in my family
ever took something home.
A mirror with a slogan on it that read, drink whiskey.
It cures-- it cures what ails you.
I once tried to ring toss and wasted my money
trying to land the rings on the neck of the bottle.
The more rings, the bigger the prize.
And then there was a time my father tried to impress us
with a BB rifle aiming at the conveyor belt of metal baby
chicks.
But I did see people win prizes.
And the girls carrying the stuffed animals around as proof
that their boyfriends loved them.
So most of those who played did not win.
The joy of playing had to be its own reward.
Though that did nothing to assuage my father's
bruised ego when he totally bombed the target gallery.
Nobody really comes around anyway.
Patricia said, so don't worry about it.
How do you guess anyway?
A snap.
If you're going to guess a person's age,
just guess younger.
If you're going to guess a person's weight,
just get lighter.
The point is not to offend anyone.
Flatter them and they stupidly give you $1.
I looked at the language on the plank.
What if they want me to guess their birth month?
That's easy, Patricia said pulling a notebook out
of her pocket.
I pretend I'm writing on this page and show them this.
The scribble was a strange looking three letter
word that began with Jane.
Does it stand for June or January, I asked?
Exactly.
I'm allowed to guess within two months of their actual birth
month.
So this evens out the odds.
Patricia said, look, who cares?
No one's going to come.
And if they do, tell them the guesser's on a break.
Then, why did you explain all this to me, I said.
You asked.
Anyway, well, can I do it?
Or you can do it or not?
I looked around me.
Well, what were the chances of anyone coming over anyway.
OK.
But won't take too long.
I have to go home soon.
As soon as Patricia left, I studied the warning
on the plank.
The fine print did state that the guessers
could guess the birth month within two months.
Age within two years, or weight within five pounds.
It was a strange scam.
I simply sat on the chair and watches people pass by.
Many of them curious for about two seconds
before they moved on to more interesting sights.
As a lark, I actually started guessing
in my head what people's weights, ages,
and birth months were.
But all of that flew right out of my head
when a middle aged couple stopped in front of me
to take stock of the setup.
Howdy, the man said.
He had a white beard and wore a cowboy hat.
His companion was dressed in all black with so much
silver jewelry on her arms.
I was surprised it wasn't wearing her down.
Hi, I said.
That fantasy I had been-- had of me trying to actually guess
was short lived.
So I decided to take the easy way out.
The guesser is on a break.
I added.
Oh, the woman said.
The guesser is on a break, the man echoed mockingly.
The woman pulled the dollar out of her small black purse
and held it out.
I started to sweat.
This whole day was a terrible series of awkward moments.
I don't think he wants to take your dollar sweetie,
the man said, maybe we should let it be.
No, the woman said with conviction.
He's going to take my dollar.
The woman had this severe look on her face
that made me realize there was no way out.
You better take the dollar son.
Marguerite doesn't take no for an answer.
Reluctantly, I took the dollar dreading what would come next.
Can I guess your birth month, I said, painfully aware Patricia
hadn't left me her little scribble.
But I couldn't imagine this lady wanted me
to guess her age or her weight.
No.
I want you to guess how long I have to live, she said.
Marguerite, the man protested.
I remained motionless, staring into her eyes.
There was something vaguely familiar about that look.
It wasn't fear or fury.
It was more like pain.
I had seen that look in my mother
many times before her death.
She had been dead only two years.
My father, devastated by the loss,
decided to start over with a new family
and left my brother and me with our grandparents.
Being orphaned and abandoned during puberty
left me wallowing in unanswered questions,
wobbling into adolescence without guidance.
I didn't want to blame my parents.
But their absence left me without an important resource.
I would have to stumble through my teenage years.
I suppose that everyone feels that way
even with parents within reach.
Yet mine was a certainty that my mistakes
would be committed without the possibility of parental rescue.
Marguerite, the man said again.
He tugged delicately at her arm, but wouldn't budge.
At that moment, everything around us disappeared.
The music, the shouting, the laughing, the lights,
the energy of bodies, and mechanical beasts.
All of it faded into a haze as the stale air
thickened over my eyes.
Perhaps, the woman's purpose was to hand over something
she didn't want anymore.
And the only way to do that was to teach some life lesson I
was still too green to handle.
A kind of cruelty I had been subjected to all day.
At 14 years old, I didn't know very much about sex or love.
But I did already know something about death.
Marguerite had picked on the wrong kid for that.
That's for sure.
And I was about to let her know, get back to her what
she had forced on me.
And so the following words bubbled out of my mouth
with surprise.
All of us, no more than a year, maybe two.
If there had been some possibility of persuading
Marguerite to take pity on me and back off,
I had just spoiled it.
Her pained look turned to anger.
What?
What do you mean by that?
What do you know that I don't know?
How dare you say that to me?
Are you hearing this little shit?
The man took hold of Marguerite more forcibly this time
and led me away, and led her away.
He looked back at me suspiciously.
And I didn't know how to interpret that expression.
All I had to say in my defense was
that I knew what a dying woman looked like.
I had seen one before.
The noise of my surroundings became audible again.
As if someone had turned the volume back up.
A few seconds later, Patricia came back
flaunting a flesh-- a fresh hickey
bright as a wound on her neck.
She knew right away that something had gone down.
Hey, what happened?
Let me guess, you pissed somebody off.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I ran into the crowd losing myself
in other people's revelry.
The river of bodies that were here
to have a good time while the carnival was in town before it
packed up and shipped off to another county
leaving everyone to their small everyday lives.
I wanted the comfort of familiar faces.
So I went to look for the others,
including my cousin Vero who would die in her early 30s
just months after the death of my cousin, the future farmer
of America.
Just a few years after the death of my grandmother,
my grandfather, my father, my uncle.
I didn't know this then.
But I knew I would outlive them all.
Leaving them leaving me all alone to tell the tale about
how all our paths converge at the national date festival with
Marguerite's.
The dollar flew out of my hand during my run.
Just like a ticket stub that was still good for a single ride.
Somebody must have picked it up.
Somebody must have spent it I guess.