In our afternoon reading: an interview with Rumaan Alam, horror fiction recommendations, and more.
Afternoon Bites: Guadalupe Nettel Interviewed, Dennis Cooper, Stuart M. Ross’s Playlist, Anita Felicelli, and More
In our afternoon reading: interviews with Guadalupe Nettel and Dennis Cooper, a playlist from Stuart M. Ross, and more.
by Efrén Ordóñez
Come back and make up a goodbye, at least. Let’s pretend we had one.
A woman on a staircase
The wall is about twenty inches high. The construction worker and I didn’t talk before he started this morning. We locked eyes a few times as if he understood my situation and his role in this story: making a few extra pesos out of my misery. Nothing more. We didn’t say a word, but the CNN en Español anchors helped break the tension between us. I hadn’t turned the TV on before he came in. She’d left it on this morning before going out to run some errands that probably didn’t exist. Argentinian, Venezuelan, Costa Rican, and Mexican reporters have all been talking about Mr. Toupee’s inauguration, dissecting the implications of every decision made since he was sworn in as president. All week I’ve been hearing about bans, tweets, and plans for building a much bigger wall; a greater, more expensive wall than this one being built in front of me, a wall that’s supposed to separate two countries and keep out a horde of bad men and women who could very well be brown monsters with a thirst for white patrimony. Bad hombres, the President called them. I usually keep my distance from politics and avoid such discussions, but even I knew they were absurd—all these ideas, all the theories being tossed around by the Latino anchors. Was the project even realistic? Might it be idiotic as this wall in our apartment, this fake-cardboard attempt to send me away, to lock me up in my own space?
Nine Coolers by Efrén Ordóñez translated by Robin Myers I met Jesús Amor a few hours before I left the city, on his last day of work and the first of this story. “Goddammit to hell,” he spat, taking a seat at the table. I figured it was me he was talking to, although his eyes were fixed on the fluorescent posters hung up on the wall, or maybe on Kennedy, the stripper, her gorgeous body abstracted through the mirrors. […]