Title: "El Hombre del Sombrero Amarillo"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: SAC for language, Weevil gen.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: People look at you different once you've been in the can. A filler fic for 3.3, "Wichita Linebacker." 450 words.
Notes: Any Spanish slang errors are purely mine. Sorry.
People look at you different once you've been in the can. Even in the barrio, where over half the cholos have been in and out of juvie and the real deal. The old ladies pull their shades shut when he walks by. Mrs. Gonzalez ran clean to the produce aisle when he stopped into the grocery to grab some milk for the kids. Like he was gonna roll her right there next to the processed cheese or some crazy shit.
He thought he had it bad when he led the PCH-ers. But that…that was fear and respect he saw in their eyes. They knew he was bad news but keeping their boys in line. Riding with Eli Navarro meant your precioso wasn't shooting up the Sac-n-Pac or messing with the girls from the other side of town--for the most part.
But now…now, it's just fear. Disgust. They whisper. They think he dropped his pants for some big hombre. They think he turned to Mohammed. They think he came out worse than when he went in.
Mrs. Gonzalez used to have him do yard work around her place every summer.
He knows she ain't ever asking again.
And he thinks he can deal with that. Hell, he's got to.
But the worst…the worst was when Ophelia was sitting on his lap one night, reading him Curious George. He'd been out all of four days, overdosed on his sister's empanadas and so goddamn thankful to have clean air to breathe. "What's jail, Tio Eli?" she asked, out of the blue, like little kids do.
"Jail…jail, mija, is someplace you better never be goin'," he'd told her, kissing the top of her head. 'It ain't no fun."
Then, he'd moved her off his knees, locked himself in the bathroom and cried like he hadn't cried since his papi's funeral. When he'd come back out, she'd been absorbed in the Man in the Yellow Hat and the stupid monkey again. Question forgotten. But him? He didn't forget. He'll never forget.
They all look at you like you're filthy, like you're dirt, like you stopped having a soul the minute you got booked for assault. Even in the goddamned car wash, with water everywhere, it's like he can't get clean. He gets hollered at by the pendejo managing the joint sometimes for standing under the jets too long as he scrubs some rich bitch's windows.
And then Ms. Veronica Mars shows up with her fancy new wheels.
And she smiles.
And she tilts her head.
Like the good ol' days.
He can almost swear she looks at him like he's still a person, still a man.
And he can almost swear that he feels like one.
--end--
October 18, 2006.