Paco

Hanna Garcez

There are many ways to start this story. I could say it began when he stood up to the big man in the navy-blue corduroy jacket who’d kicked the dog, or the time he and Sally hid from the rain. They’d ordered a soup of the day only described as “seasonal” at the corner tavern, and he’d said with a stone face, “Two spoons, please.”

I could tell you how bothered he was by every tiny juice carton with a vague “fruit” flavor that sat erroneously, in the dairy aisle of the local mini mart. He felt sorry for the injustice and saw himself as savior of the tropical and the apple-orange. Paco would linger at the till, hoping his side-eye would make the owner notice their mistake.

There are many ways to begin, but I will simply say: This is Paco. And for Paco, today is a special day. Today, he’d decided to throw his compass to the winds and carry on without maps. It’s a cliché, and Paco knows it, but since it is today, and because it’s true, it does not matter. It doesn’t matter at all.

Paco spent the first half of this special day quietly, in his small studio flat downtown, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and dirty laundry. Under the covers, he studied a diligent spider spinning a web across the bedframe as a patch of sunlight moved up and across the walls, until it disappeared completely. He bit his nails noisily and tried not to think. 

At this moment he used his fingernails to mark time—a full and thorough biting was, at least, a couple of hours; the smoking of one cigarette was a clear measure of what one could call “a small amount of time”—and there was music to measure time too, of course. Specifically, the debut album of his favorite band. That sat at 41 minutes, which is the maximum amount of time anyone should have to wait for anything, Paco thought, while listening to the final song of the album and stuffing notebooks, trinkets, and seashells into the side pockets of his already overloaded backpack.

Dusk had set and the streets rolled under his feet as if he were standing on a moving walkway. Buildings, people, cars and crosswalks morphed into the old bus station where Paco once had spent two-and-a-half debut albums and a nail-biting session waiting on New Year’s Eve for Sally to arrive from up north.

Above his head hung a map, dusty and almost shimmering in the pulsing white light, with all sorts of destinations. Paco ran his finger along its cold, metal outline, as if already roaming. He wanted to go to each place listed, even those whose names he did not know, especially those. He wanted to go everywhere, to see details as if they were the whole painting, and the whole painting as if it were the universe. To expand his gaze to the Milky Way, zoom in on vast clouds of pink glowing gas that broke into knots, birthing complex stars. 

The clock above the board read ten minutes to seven. He reached into a pouch of his checkered shirt and pulled out the ticket among wrappers and crumbs. He scanned the station with mild boredom and stuffed the ticket into his back pocket, muttering Bay 5 to himself, over and over, making his way to a spot of grass at the rear of the building to sit and smoke.

It wasn’t long before an enormous bus appeared in front of Paco. He took a second, trying to understand how such a monstrous hunk of metal and engine would deliver him home. And although home was a transient concept and the house in question was his father’s, it was comforting to think of it this way.

He was searching for his place in the world. He was wandering unknown lands. Not towards adventure, a great love, or something to lose his sanity over. He guessed all that would eventually materialize, but he had an unwavering faith that one day he’d find home by chance, by walking down a supposed wrong road and then simply staying. His home would be made of wood or stone, on the beach or in a forest, or maybe on a mountain, with tiny doors and big windows, unpainted and unadorned, or maybe decorated clumsily with pigments of turmeric and beetroot. A precarious roof with a tiny red brick chimney, a frayed welcome mat at the door, a wood stove, maybe clay pots strewn about. And if none of this ever came into existence, perhaps he would just unravel. Slip and fall into a rabbit hole.

Then again, maybe he’d been in this place already when his father carried him as a baby against his chest, inside the wide shirt tucked into his jeans. But Paco did not need to be held. His father knew, and Paco knew. Nothing bad could ever happen to him. Perhaps he had rested in the familiar smell, the warmth, the safety of being wanted, the joy of truly being home, maybe then.

He dragged the heavy backpack he’d found in a dumpster years ago to the luggage hold. He still did not understand most people’s criteria for what was and was not trash, but he realized people didn’t understand his criteria either. He considered this, as he filled his pockets, bags, and hands with random items he’d stumbled across in the streets. 

The armless teddy bear, missing half its stuffing, a broken beaded rosary made of red tinted gems with rub marks along the chain, the small birdcage that became a purse by the crafty addition of a long ribbon, and most importantly, numerous written notes. Creased and crinkled, taken by the wind, wedged between subway seats or tossed out of windows. Carrying, often, a shopping list. The possibility that any note could contain a secret, made Paco’s heart race until he found himself suitably alone to inspect it.

He swung the backpack with his whole body, and tossed it into the dirty luggage compartment, where it dislodged other lighter, less interesting pieces and elicited a disapproving huff from another passenger. Then he walked towards the folding door with his black hat between his teeth and rummaged through his pockets while climbing the steps to the bus, dropping a rolling marble, loose tobacco, and a passport snapshot of a stranger left behind in a photobooth. He gathered his treasures awkwardly and passed his crumpled ticket to the driver, who seemed mechanical and shaped by monotony. The man looked old and uncanny under the harsh light, and Paco wondered how long he’d been performing the same motions, saying the same words day and night in this aimlessly cruising contraption.

He crossed the aisle, and found a seat by the window, not too far back, not too far forward, his usual spot. He held his breath a bit too long as he watched people waddle through the tight passage, as if he was the one squeezing and jostling. Then Paco placed the brown and blue camera bag on the empty seat beside him, fluffed his hair, and lifted the camera with both hands, letting the cold leather strap hang loosely. He tilted his head to the side and squinted, examining it. It had been a present from his father for his eighteenth birthday and had barely left his sight since then. The bus rattled side to side, the bulb was dim and flickering, and there was nothing interesting enough to record between the dotted tops of people’s heads and the driver’s tired announcement: an 11:45 p.m. expected arrival time.

Paco sighed and looked down at his camera, pressing the button, and twisting the lenses to assess any suspicious squeaking. This was a sacred time for evaluating composition—a story, or the face of a beaming stranger, like the one he’d captured feeding the pigeons at the strawberry park. Paco was not a photographer. He simply loved recording things, small details, and tried to follow life’s narrative while steeped in dreams of his own life. He understood little about exposure compensation and aperture, but he thanked those that did.

There were countless photos of his friends on his camera roll. His chosen family. He lingered over each of them. Ludo, asleep . . . the acrobat prince with a lion’s heart. Penny, smoking, as always, through her crooked smile. Sally, who just by existing won Paco’s eternal devotion, radiating light from her gaze. 

Streams of pictures of the grey cat and the spotted cat over a weekend. Ears, small tips of tails and tiny sharp fangs. Pictures of his dad dancing in the kitchen or having coffee by the river or wearing the buckled belt that Paco argued was too large to be taken seriously.

Then, the yellow flowers. All kinds, everywhere. For some reason Paco, who did not particularly like yellow, had developed an obsession with them, once even climbing onto a neighbor’s balcony to photograph a buttercup bloom.

Paco quietly indulged in self-pride. There were some good photos here. And it was unsurprising that he appeared in the extensive catalogue only once—or rather, his hand appeared, gripping Sally’s leg, her tights lost between his fingertips. Almost instinctively, he rubbed his thumb and palm together, like a love reflex. There was little his hands would rather do on this bus, this Tuesday, this lifetime. 

In a few days he’d be camping in the mountains, and he was fizzing with excitement for the summer, but maybe a bit more about the possibility of discovering new yellow hues than about the idea of learning the tarantella beneath the sun of early July. The festival he’d attend there featured traditional global dances, with workshops during the day, and furious dancing throughout the night.

He smirked at his own absurdity and drifted off, his hands resting on the camera strap. Most people dream when they sleep. Paco travelled. Across worlds, eras, circumstances. He felt that sleep was among the three best things in life, alongside the smell of rain on sunbaked dirt and the honeyed taste of iced sweet tea. Despite many sleepless nights, closing his eyes was a leap of faith to infinity. He never knew at which point in the cosmos he would arrive next.

The bus rocked steadily, with high rises and neon signs running away from him, or perhaps, he was running from them. Paco focused on a perfume that filled the bus, coming from someone sitting further ahead. Vanilla scented, he mused. The bumpy ride coaxed his neck into an exaggerated nod and he was lifted upward, his body drenched in fresh spring air. He floated above golden fields of wildflowers, hovering long enough to admire them from many angles. He imagined a large floral pattern splattered onto the dark wooden floor of his room and seared the idea in his mind so as not to forget it. In the vastness of the fields, he found a crystal-clear water hole which he dove into, headfirst—through and then out into blinding skies. As he brought the universe back into focus, he saw Sally’s expectant blue eyes. 

They invited him to dance. 

Glancing about, he saw a large white tent. The loud smell of cheap red wine was intoxicating. A small crowd of flushed faces came alive, and with barefoot joy, they kicked dust into the air. The music rose in tiny notes that carried their souls toward the stars. Paco, elated, sensed only goodness ahead. Perhaps today was truly the day! And he staggered, with salty skin, across the night sky to the sound of drums, clinking mugs, and laughter.

The driver’s monotone voice jolted him awake. He caught a glimpse of his father’s apartment building, and his heart fluttered when he saw light shining from the living room window. His dad was there, waiting for him. 

The bus stopped. 

He was home.

He rushed to get his backpack and ran as fast as he could through the faceless figures, across two roads, then over the tramlines. The elevator took forever to reach the twelfth floor, and as he turned the key in the lock, his father opened the door with a smile. His eyes moved over Paco for a suspended moment and he said: “You look beautiful, my darling.”

Paco stuttered. Praise from their father was rare, and it carved a small warm spot in their chest. The smell of fabric softener and freshly brewed coffee occupied every crevice of their nose and lungs. Then Paco hugged him, hiding a surprising tear, and giggled at the sight of herself in the hallway mirror. With her oversized backpack, steel-toed boots, and a hat, she felt like some sort of fancy turtle beast, but she decided not to deflect a nice feeling.

She heard the spotted cat jump down from the sofa as the grey one curled around her leg, and it felt like a proper welcome. She caught her reflection again. 

She did look beautiful.

There is nothing rough or masculine about Paco. She has big brown eyes and a heart-shaped mouth. But before being a daughter, before being a woman, or maybe before anything else entirely, she was Paco. It is more than a name. It is a way of seeing the world, of approaching life. A way of insisting on being nothing more and nothing less than Paco. A quiet refusal to be molded into any other shape. 

She clunked down the corridor and slipped into her teenage room; decorated with graffiti, poetry, drawings, photos–her life, dripping from the walls. But the stack of books organized by size, the small bundles of trinkets, lace ribbons, and a pile of a dozen or so odd, ironed socks had her father’s signature all over them. A sober reminder that she no longer lived there.

Yet there she stood, spreading everything carelessly, creating a small chaos as she kicked the big black boots from her aching feet. Feeling the solid warmth beneath her, she had an urge to lie flat on top of her things and absorb the purrs of the spotted cat and the grey cat. But she did not. She went into the kitchen to see her father instead. He offered her cold pizza, and they talked about plans for university, about daily anecdotes and news from the paper, and finally, their longing for one another. 

Paco had no mother; she had lost her to cancer. No. It was not the cancer. Her mother was lost before Paco was even a spark, but no matter—it was just her and her father now. At long last. So, none of it hurt as much.

She was not hungry but nibbled at the edge of a slice of four-cheese pizza with extra cheese anyhow, while her father, out of companionship and ritual, sipped on a bottomless cup of coffee. Their laughter reverberated through the quiet bones of the white kitchen like a choir. Unlike her new sad house, which was brown and barely made a sound.

Paco stubbed out her cigarette, and her father said good night with a ceremonious curtsy that made her laugh. She got up and walked through the long corridor and into the bedroom that she’d earlier prepared with a recognizable, intentional mess—an inspired record collection, and a tangled string of lights plugged in the corner. The large window was open. The night poured in. The hum of the city twinkled below, in and out, like oscillating breath.

She was tired and disoriented but did not want to lie down. Instead, she contemplated the old red patchwork blanket on her bed. It had been given by someone, to someone else, in some moment in time completely unrelated to her. She’d found it draped over her chair when she was thirteen or fourteen and had often wanted to ask about its provenance, but there was never a right moment. Besides, she found it thrilling, and still does, to sleep wrapped in that coarse fabric of mysterious origin.

Soft music from her record player, and Paco’s permanent state of wonder and exhaustion left her in a hypnotic state. Then she let herself fall. The bed recognized her body before she recognized its familiarity. And in slow motion, she was enveloped in red. 

The window, a portal into Neverland’s whims. Tucked between the mattress and the wall was a small backpack with some personal treasures and a bag of almonds, on the off-chance that a Peter Pan type would accept a not-so-much “boy”, but certainly a lost Paco, into the realm of fairies, pirates, and forests in exchange for these gifts.

“Maybe today is really the day,” Paco muttered, half awake, half in travel, as the wind swept curls across their face.

City after city flashed behind Paco’s closed eyes. A whirlwind turned brick to stone, and wooden shop signs back into trees, while plastic bins cascaded into hundreds of pinecones. Swirls of infinite possibility. The fresh smell of eucalyptus and syrupy rotting pears. Then, somewhere between sleep and the twelfth-floor window, he finally landed. 

A bit late. 

A bit in love. 

Wide awake.

Paco could almost hear Sally’s smile. The sights were so absolute he thought he might never close his eyes again. The sky moved around him and made him dizzy. He blew away the smoke of the shared cigarette, and as the wind twisted it, he felt himself contort too. 

More than anything, he hoped to see a shooting star. Paco had seen all sorts of skies and maybe even a UFO, but never a shooting star. 

The firmament was abyssal blue. It was violet. Indigo. But it was as if his eyes were watery, looking at it through thick smoke. And it stretched over the line of eternity. From here to everywhere. He could see the fire of dying stars like polished diamonds against velvet. On a closer look, all the dots connected, mathematical models of perfection. 

Paco, in awe, took it all in at once. Teary. Starved. He was nothing. The tiniest of boys. 

He then looked at Sally, dazed. Her smile, a galaxy. She touched his arm. He was someone again. His heavy body sinking into the tall grass made him nauseous. But when Sally shifted closer, yawned, and rested her tiny knee on his womb, the edges of the world softened.