Any opposing player unlucky enough to have to line up opposite him, any bullrushed quarterback, any running back or wide receiver required to pass through his domain on the field, was inclined to trip and fall while he was still yards away rather than endure the rib cracking nose breaking concussion inducing hits he routinely laid down. If the ball was fumbled, every player, his own teammates included, ran from it, terrified of the prospect of ending up in his clutches at the bottom of a pile. His heavily taped fist pounding your groin, fingers gouging at your eyes, a barrage of Spanish curses regarding your mother’s pussy screamed in your ear. But, gamer though he may have been, his all but flawless record of nonattendance in class kept him from advancing to the varsity squad.

State, Coach sometimes mumbled drunkenly at the Rodeo Club, we had had that Arroyo muchacho, we woulda gone State.

In his third junior year he turned eighteen and passed finally into adulthood and the clutches of the criminal justice system. His record as a minor was admirable enough that his first adult arrest earned him a conviction (sentence suspended), and a final expulsion.

With Fernando gone, the school board heaved a brief sigh of relief, then began preparing for the arrival of Ramon.

The preparations were insufficient. Ramon commenced upon his own Sherman’s March the first day of his freshman year. Announcing his presence by egging the entire faculty parking lot at midday in full view of the sixty eight year old campus security guard, who had been phoned at home the night before and told that if he ever called the police on an Arroyo he would have a Colombian necktie the next morning. He didn’t know exactly what a Colombian necktie was, but, recognizing Fernando’s voice over the line, he knew he didn’t want one.

Ramon lasted barely one year, doing as much damage in that time as Fernando had done in five. But shortly after summer vacation began he was arrested for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. The deadly weapon being a hacksaw he wielded like a machete when a clerk at the 7-Eleven refused to open the register for him. He was convicted and sent to juvy and was never seen on campus again. As a student anyway. As a former student he was often seen in Fernando’s Impala, spinning donuts on the grass. The school left the lawns torn and unseeded until Ramon earned his first conviction as an adult and was sent to county for three to five.

Both were long gone when George, Paul, and Hector began their freshman year, but Timo was in their class.

It seemed Timo had watched Fernando’s and Ramon’s progression and decided it wasn’t for him. He played j.v. and varsity soccer and starred on both squads. He maintained a dead on C+ average that never faltered, the product of a series of tutors who were paid to write his papers and prep cheat sheets for his tests.

One of the school’s five letterman Mexicans, and altogether different from his brothers, Timo cruised through high school, far and away the number one Mexican citizen. Also, far and away the school’s biggest pot dealer. Stoners were compelled to buy his shit brown ditch weed even when there was an abundance of green buds to be found. The penalty for not purchasing his goods being a visit from one of his older brothers.

He sported his brothers’ lowrider style: khaki chinos, black leather shoes with white socks, long sleeved plaid shirt buttoned at the collar and wrists but open all the way down the front and left untucked to reveal the white wifebeater underneath, a net over his blow dried jet black hair, and a thin mustache he’d been cultivating since sixth grade. He wore the look, but minus the switchblade in his back pocket or the bag of reefer tucked in his sock or the Newports in his shirtfront. His lackeys carried these for him. He was always clean, ready for a patdown. A fine athlete, he was always welcome at the top jocks’ table. Sleepy eyed and handsome, watched not just by the Mexican girls but by the white chicks as well. Cowgirls, cheerleaders, brains, and jockettes had an eye for him.

All of this concealing from the faculty what an enormous dick he was.

Rounding the corner onto Fernando’s block, Andy envisions hurling fistfuls of rocks and broken glass into Timo’s face. Throwing things, always his opening bid in a fight.

Whenever his brother and the guys throw down on a pack of cowboys or some jocks who have been talking too loud about their ragged jeans and torn Zeppelin Ts, he gets pumped to the gills with adrenalin, spazzes out, and runs ahead of the guys, hurling whatever comes to hand before lowering his head and throwing himself into whatever’s in front of him. And man, when his fist makes first contact, when a rock has actually bounced off some asshole’s forehead, for that split second, it’s the best feeling in the world. Then it all goes wrong. All the bloodlust, wanting to grab hair and yank it off along with bleeding bits of scalp, wanting to bite into the cheek of some dick twice as big as him, it goes sick inside him and his imagination takes over. What would happen if one of those rocks hit someone in the eye? What if he actually did bite through someone’s cheek, snapped the line of their lip? What if a lucky punch or kick shattered a bone and sent it splintering through skin?

What if he really hurt someone?

Once that gets in his head he’s done.

The sad part being, he’s never gonna land a good punch. He hits like a girl.

Such a dildo.

And then he gets knocked around and put on the ground and the guys are left to finish things up. And they do. They could give a shit if they hurt the pricks they’re fighting. Jesus Christ, it’s a fight, man, that’s the point.

The guys don’t really fuck with him about it. After all, he’s up for the fight. And it’s kind of cool when he goes berserker and leads the way screaming gibberish. Fuckfuckkillshitbreakyouyoufuckingfuckingdildobreath!

Far as they’re concerned, he never lasts because he can’t fight worth shit. How much can you expect from him? He’s a kid.

So when he rounds the corner, it’s pretty much the same old story. He sees himself throwing shards in Timo’s face, and then sees himself trying helplessly to stop a torrent of blood pumping from a severed artery in the asshole’s neck.

He sees an entire funeral and grieving family.

He sees the revenge Timo’s older brothers have taken, not on him but on George.

His brother lacerated by Ramon’s infamous hacksaw.

And when he sees Timo just up the street, on his bike, bunny-hopping it on and off the curb with an ease he could never equal, he opens his hands and lets the rocks spill out and walks to the middle of the street.

– That’s my bike.

Timo hears him, looks up, and glides over. He stands up on the pedals and swoops around Andy, circling him once, twice. Andy doesn’t move, doesn’t turn his face, just stands.

– That’s my bike. You stole it.

Timo gives the pedals a couple pumps, just enough to keep the bike cruising in slow circles.

– This bike? This is your bike? This shitty bike?

He circles.

– Shit, man, you want this shitty bike from me?

Circles.

– All you got to do is take it.

He puckers his lips, makes a kissy noise.

Andy doesn’t move.

Timo tightens his circle. Makes the noise again.

Andy stares up the street.

Timo circles closer, reaches out, slaps the back of Andy’s head.

Andy does nothing.

Timo stops, puts his feet down, straddles the bike right in front of Andy. Waits.

Andy doesn’t move.

Timo gets back on the bike, circles him one last time, and rides back up the street.

– Mujera.

He laughs and Paul skids around the corner, cutting off the path to his brother’s house.