Page 49 of Gave Proof Through the Night

He scrunches his nose. “Quirky?”

“Yeah, you know. Something that doesn’t make its way into the sports page. Maybe something embarrassing. I’ll go first if it helps. I have to sing the alphabet song in my head every time I brush my teeth. Once through for each quadrant of my mouth. It’s a ritual now. Even as an adult.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” he says. “Like you’re timing yourself.”

“Exactly. Now your turn.”

He thinks for a bit then says, “Well, speaking of songs, when I was a kid, I thought the first line from the national anthem was ‘Jose can you see?’ and I always wondered what Jose was supposed to be looking at.”

I find that endearingly amusing, and that opens the conversation to all sorts of memories.

He tells me about growing up in Mexico City, about a Jr. Kings program and an abuela who runs the family like a small, terrifying government. He talks about her like you’d talk about a benevolent dictator, equal parts reverence and fear, and I get the strong impression he’s been swatted with her wooden spoon more than once and lived to tell the tale. He talks about her amazing cooking. Sunday dinners that run four hours minimum. A cousin who once smuggled actual fireworks into a piñata at a christening and set off somebody’s sprinkler system.

“Does your mom cook too?” I ask, already craving his grandmother’s tamales.

He snorts. “My mother has never cooked a meal in her life. She barely eats solid food during pilot season.” A small laugh escapes him, something almost fond sneaking in under the sarcasm.

“She’s a pilot?”

“She’s an actress.”

“Ohhh,” I say suddenly feeling stupid for not understanding what pilot season means.

“She was a telenovela star, mostly, back when the parts still came in. The idea of her standing at a stove is…“ He shakes his head, laughing again. ”Genuinely the funniest thing you’ve said all day.“

“But that must have been the coolest thing, your mom being a TV star.”

“Not really.” He says it easy, no weight to it, like he’s reporting weather somewhere he doesn’t live anymore. “She didn’t want anything to do with me. I once overheard her say having a kid cramps her style.”

“Oh no she didn’t!”

“It’s actually not the worst thing she’s ever said, to be honest. She was all about moving up in her career. She gave me up as a baby and my dad had full custody. I lived in Mexico City with him. But he’d send me to Miami to spend time with my mother every summer. The whole summer, and I’d only see her in passing once or twice.”

Now I really feel bad for bringing it up. “I’m so sorry.”

“Ah it’s no big deal. My dad has very serious opinions about work ethic, and honestly? I got the better deal.” He shrugs, nothing performative about it. “I don’t carry it around like some sad violin thing. It just is what it is. Worked out fine.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think your mom made the best decision for you, even though it was for selfish reasons.”

“I think so, too.”

“Even though you didn’t get to rub elbows with movie stars growing up. But I guess you’re a celebrity now so…”

“Oh there were plenty of celebrities at my dad’s house. He’s a producer for TeleMundial. It wasn’t uncommon to see directors, actors, sportscasters, you name it, in my living room on a random Tuesday.”

“Hmmm. I think you had a weirder childhood than me.”

He laughs and insists I give him my complete history and I tell him what I can without sounding like a complete hobo. I tell him about how we lived like gypsies in a trailer for a while until we finally settled in Bay Ridge (if you can call it settling). I tell him about Vin’s Diner with the best pancakes on the East Coast, carefully avoiding every detail that would send him running for the hills. He asks what I actually do for a living and I say “logistics,” which is not, strictly speaking, a lie.

“Logistics for what industry?”

“Boutique. Very niche. Mostly inconveniencing big bad corporations.”

He studies me a second too long, like he’s working up to something. “So pickpocketing,” he says finally. “It’s just a hobby of yours?”

Okay here it is.

“Oh, I’m totally not a pickpocket.” I say it easy, like a woman with nothing to hide, which, to be honest, I hire Rue for that job so there.