I don’t know what day it is, so I ain’t saying the days. Just marking how many I think I’ve been here. I’m going to keep a journal like something outta that Star Trek shit with the vatos in weird pajamas… I had to stop and whistle the tune, but that doesn’t mean I watch it. No que no.

So, yo. It’s me. Carlos Antonio Marin aka Dopey, the guy they think got dead by aliens.

Day 3?…

Well, what happened then? That was me got sucked into that nasty mouth when shit went down in the park. That happened and it was foul. I didn’t die though, I’m here on this crazy planet quien sabe how far from home and Elena. I don’t know how I got here. All I remember was the purple things, being sucked in and then darkness, ’til I woke up here in another room from this one. Turns out though, those purple fuckers, they were just the harvesters, not the actual vatos in charge. They were just grunts.

So here I am in my wrinkled but clean Dickies and Ben Davis, in a cold white room and every so often these tall, chupacabra-looking motherfuckers come in and try and talk to me. One of ‘em takes notes like Elena used to. Not on paper though – I don’t know what that black shit is but it ain’t paper. More like tar on aluminum foil in an oval shape. Kinda the shape of the ship the purple ones came in on – like a chancla. It writes with a thing that looks like a wire, all shiny and thin and every so often it flashes.

But me, I ain’t talking any sense to them. They have figured out English and Spanish, and try and talk to me, but I play dumb. They can’t seem to figure out Caló or Nahuatl so I be pulling out old school Pachuco, ese, talking Caló; trying to remember my grandmother’s Otomi and my grandfather’s Mixteca Nahuatl, all in this crazy mix that makes them stare. Mostly, though I talk in my head to Elena and that, they can’t listen to. So much for aliens being able to read our minds. They can’t, yo. No way.

Day 4

I can’t be the only one they took. I’ve searched and searched though, but can’t find any of my homies.

Day 6

They let me roam free. Well, it’s not free because there are no exits. I can’t figure this space ranfla out. No doors, no windows, nada. Just a big chancla-shaped box. I seen worse jails, but this is a jail. No doubt about that.

Day 7…

I miss home. I miss my homies. I miss Lorca, my beautiful green carrucha and most of all, I miss Elena, my own personal angel. Yeah, I know she’s dead. Y que? I know she lives in my carrucha, well her ghost does and living or dead, Elena is for me and I’m for her so we go along like she ain’t dead. She’s my angel, no matter what.

I wonder what they want. Are they gonna waste my ass? Do experiments on me like in the movies? Am I going to wake up in a cornfield somewhere one day and be 100 years old? Fuck man, this shit makes my head hurt a la chingada. I rub my head and six chupacabras jump up and put their cold, clammy claws on me. They have eight fingers yo, eight! Their fingers are long, almost the length of my forearm. I can hear Elenita in my head, getting all scientific like she used to and she’s saying, “Document this, Carlos, write it down.” Well, they won’t give me one of those wire chingaderas, so I’ll write it here, in my head, in my memories and go all oral tradition and shit, like my ancestors…wait…my ancestors wrote shit down in beautiful pintura on paper made of mulberry bark, called codices.

Goddamnit! I want an alambre pencil too. I signal to the chupacabra that is writing and point at his pencil then at myself. I refuse to let them know I speak English or Spanish. His weird, froggy eyes in a wacky shade of blue follow my finger and then, it looks like he’s smiling, only it’s way creepy because his teeth are so long and well, vampiro-looking. It makes me trucha and I don’t have my filero. For some reason, metal didn’t make it here with the rest of me.

You can read the full story on Pocho.

About Gina Ruiz

Teller of tales, writing about East L.A., tech, mobile, and historical fiction. PEN Emerging Voices Fellowship finalist 2013. Author of stories in Ban This! and Lowriting. Published poet. Writes a lot.