All Oysters Should Have Pearls

¨All Oysters Should Have Pearls¨
A short story by Abe Rivas

He had eyes that were complemented by the luminosity of an electric lamp
into dark green, straight black hair and he wore a hat just the way
the baseball pitchers wore it; just like Gagne, nice and old and down
- all the way down. He was tall, yet short, a mixture of both, and he
wore ripped jeans with a green-purple collar shirt. He sat straight
waiting at a bus stop pretending to smoke a Camel cigarette the way
movie stars did it; only he knew it was wrong to do so, hence he
simulated with a black pen.

Then, as if he had realized the secret to everybody’s life were in
the scriptures, he decided to walk instead of wait.

Groggily he ambulated on the paved sidewalk as if he were walking on
a wire in a circus. He walked in a kind of sadness that became
depression once something could be read, and in his case it was a
letter. He reached into his coat pocket, the coat of which he was
holding on his right hand, and took out a crumbled letter. A crumbled
paper that if it could have been human; would have seemed as if it had
been through countless removal surgeries, awful surgeries and plastic
ones too, given that it also seemed as if the owner of the paper had
taken the time to mend whatever damage that had been committed to it.
He put his coat on and reread out softly for the thirty third and
half time, roughly whispering to himself, the letter:

ILLINOIS, CHICAGO

March 7, 2004

Dear Agustin,

Out east it’s nice and cold. Consider yourself lucky you’re out there
west, ‘cause it’s a cold, dreary, depressing and windy city, Chicago.
Man I miss the city of angels; I miss them angels, the way we used to
look at them as we walked old elmo. (Is old elmo still breathing? If
you walk it; walk it with a stick will you?) Take a picture of them
angels, the city that is, from the Apricot hills, right there where
we used to walk old elmo in the night, right where we would wait for
it to do its dung business looking at the angels – right then and
there would you?

Man this here place is miserable. I sent a post card of Navy Pier and
I tell you its nothing like in the picture. If you just look down -
right where the ocean meets the land - man all you see are a whole
lot of oysters without pearls. All oysters should have their pearls
you know that. And that big-blue-red sign right in front of the pier,
the one that announces it or whatever, man that thing doesn’t even
work and it has all this bird crap on it that pigeons leave on it; I
tell you if I were the owner Id take that sign down with my own hands.

I shouldn’t have come to this here university; all we do is read and
analyze, read and analyze and then we do mathematics then mathematics
and over and over. Mathematics, I mean at least reading is worth
something but math, man I aint gonna be a mathematician or some
scientist its pointless.

Well anyways, I hear you´re not doing to good at all yourself, that you
have some ideas of your own. Look I’m sorry if the news struck you
too hard but it’s bound to happen to everybody old Agu. Besides TB
won’t beat me, my white cells are high-quality and I aint leaving;
allright.

I promise once I get back, we´ll go down Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood
and we´ll walk all over them golden stars just the way we planned. And
even if the movie stars´ are there looking at us; we´ll step on them
while they look at us; just the way we planned old Agu.

This here pen is running out of in…….

I had to lick it about a thousand times before it started writing
again old Agu. We´ll do it though, all that Sunset stuff. I don’t have
another pen, I’m running low on cash; don’t tell mama though. Take
the picture will you? And send it.

With Sincerity,

RUDOLFO GRAIN.

P.S: I’ve written a couple letters already and you don’t seem to
respond. It’s a bore and windy over here, please do write. Well do
all that stuff we planned on Sunset when I get back. Don’t worry
about the TB old Agu my white cells are high-quality.

Love,

RUDOLFO GRAIN.

Agustin Grain reread the letter a couple more times roughly
whispering to himself. His brother had died of Tuberculosis around
three weeks back and he felt it. He placed the crumbled letter into
his coat pocket and walked a little faster though still groggily.

As he was arriving to his home where almost surely there would be a
quarrel or discussion awaiting, he grabbed a pebble and threw it
right into the sewage; he missed.

Today is it, thought Agustin, walking slowly on a wire in a circus.
He doesn’t know what happened to me when it happened. He doesn’t. But
I´ll tell him about what we were gonna do. I´ll ask him if he wants to
go to his funeral and how that’s his funeral for me; the day I go on
Sunset and do what we had planned. I´ll tell him what he told me and
I´ll tell him that the TB didn’t kill him, but that it was that filthy
place he was forced to go to and I´ll tell him everything. I´ll tell
him how I wrote back two days before he stopped breathing and how I
took the picture on them hills right when elmo was doing his
business… just the way he asked…he began to run; still on that
wire…I´ll tell him about me going to my private archipelago and how
there will be palm trees and coconuts and oysters with their pearls the
way they should be. And how around there we all will be like liars
that will always tell the truth and how we´ll all look the same and
how around there we´ll all play the guitar and how them oysters; all
of them will have their pearls the way they should. I´ll tell him
everything.

Agustin stood there on the driveway. He took his pen from his mouth
and placed it in his pocket, took off his hat; stroked his hair back a
couple times, fixed his collar and untucked his shirt, and then he
walked in. His father, whom was waiting for him in the kitchen,
called him over and told him to sit down on the nice cushioned seat.

“We incinerated him. You need to realize…..” and so the discussion
began with those wistful words of his father.

It seemed to have lasted hours for Agustin but in reality it lasted
just about thirty two minutes. Agustin managed to include a couple
words to support himself.

“I feel plainly awful that he’s gone but I learned to forget, you
have to forget too Agustin. It was bound to happen,” his father
stated as he smoked a Havana.

“This is the fourth time they’ve caught you on those damn hills with
that filthy dog!” said Mr. Grain without sympathy.

Agustin sat on the royal seat looking down, counting the squares on
the tile floor; then plainly and tiredly he looked up “I’m tired” he
said.

“Well everybody’s tired of something Agustin! Everybody is,” his
father responded looking into his son’s dark green eyes.

“I’m tired” said Agustin very plainly. These words were all he managed
to include.

He stood up and grabbed a sweater. He left to Sunset Boulevard; as planned.

It was cold for the west side that night, just about fifty degrees
and Agustin shivered dourly. As he walked down Sunset Boulevard in
Hollywood he spoke to himself very quietly- the kind of quiet that is
felt in a funeral. His teeth chattering and both hands rubbing
against each others skin he mumbled with tears coming to his eyes,
“I’m sorry old bud…but…you´re here, you’re here with me…you’re here…
I’m gonna…put all those pearls…where they belong…all those
pearls…where they belong” he repeated over and again.

Please feel free to comment on Abe Rivas´s short story. Thank you.