Davide Rubini
Bio
Collecting stories. Making the most out of them.
Stories (4/0)
The Date
I left mum in the kitchen fixing dinner for José Luis while he was watching some noisy animation on the pad. Keeping each other company and discussing the non-sense that came out of their mouths did well for them. I had set myself for an evening drive choosing less traffic over peace of mind, accepting the occasional drunkard of a Friday night. Driving downtown and picking up a group of friends heading to clubs and bars, dressed sparsely and loud as ducks, was a way to take a bite of the night spirit. It was the only one I could afford or dared to taste since Micky had moved to Guadalajara convinced that he could make a business out of the pockets of gringos looking for a next-door exotic vacation. José Luis had not seen his father for three years. Not that I missed him but life was easier then. Was I angry? I had been. Very. Not for the reasons one might think of thou, not the obvious ones. The thing is Mikey and I had plans here in Houston. Our families had moved before we were born. They did it the right way, no river crossing, no smugglers involved and, when it was our turn, there was a proper job for him and a business project on my side. Things had worked for a while, things were literally working, but then he started talking with his brothers. They put this idea in his mind that there was a lot of money to make back in Mexico, either building cheap flats for American and Canadians or organizing trips for lazy travellers. This would have been something I could live with, if only he had come up with it before José Luis was born. I was angry because I knew that, if I had followed him, in two years he would have pulled some other deranged idea out of his hat. Plus I wanted José Luis to be American through and through and moving wasn’t going to help. The passport wasn’t enough. Of course, when he left my project went tits up too. I could not afford the risk with a two-year-old child to raise. Mum moved in with us a month later, bringing with her two pieces of luggage and her flowers pots and I picked up the driving gig. Not a lot of money but a decent hastle to keep things spinning. By the way, his real name is Miguel but he liked being called Mickey, another crazy idea of his.
By Davide Rubini3 years ago in Humans
The Gift
Johnny left the screen he had been staring at for the past hour to feed the goldfish. He had bought Pride and Prejudice from the Barton Creek market together with a large pack of TetraFin Goldfish Flakes spending in total twenty-five dollars. He had read on a specialized website that those flakes were the best to keep his two new friends healthy. The food was made so that it would not dissolve, keeping the water clear and easier to clean. That went well with his habits and likes. He spread two moderate pinches on the surface and put the package back in the lower drawer of his wardrobe. It was a perfect place to keep the food dry for it maintained the nutrients intact, something essential the animal lover website said. Goldfish average lifespan is fifteen to twenty years, but some can last up to thirty. Johnny was set on making the most out of his two.
By Davide Rubini3 years ago in Filthy
The visit
The visit I had seen it in movies. God bless it wasn’t raining. The window was open, it was always open because it had no handle. My pants were half way on my calves as I was in the middle of taking a crap, a large one because for breakfast I had a large burrito portion at Pedro’s, just around the corner. I heard the knocking on the front door despite the bathroom was locked and the aircon was pumping like a whore. The son of a bitch was banging so hard that the whole house was shacking. They don’t say your name, those pests. They just bang hard until you go and open the fucking door. They had come already for other reasons in the past but I knew this time they were not going to stop so I’d better prepare. I was even considering moving home but I had not yet talked to Mrs Ramirez. This was no Katy. This was east downtown, the bad part of it and before lesbians started populating it. If a landlord wanted you out, it took you five minutes to see your things thrown on the driveway but, if it was you who wanted to go, they came up with all sort of reasons to take your money. That morning I ended up going to the garage in my undershirt and that was fun for the boys who could admire my hairy armpits. They made a joke or two but I sent them straight to hell with their mothers before going back to the engine of the old Corvette I was working on in those days. It was a C4 from 1985. Under my hands that bird was going to sing again like a little robin but I needed no shitbag walking around and telling things about my underwear to do my magic. When I went back home that evening I made sure there was nobody around before I went to collect the notice that the banger had left in the porch. Without opening it, I ripped it off in four pieces and threw it straight into the black bin. As I had no keys with me I had to go back to the bathroom window to get inside. I walked around my own house feeling like a thief. Madison’s son watched in his own way, with the eyes pointing in another direction. As it goes in one’s life it was more difficult to get in than it was to get out of that bloody window. With my hands covered in grease and oil, I ended up making a mess everywhere. I went in with my head and banged on the toilet with the rest of my body.
By Davide Rubini3 years ago in Families
The Autographs Book
It could have been under the highway bridge in Commerce Street or in Franklin Street. Either or, it makes no difference. Some days she would just stand there, back curved, hair dirty as filth and that crusty flat nose. Not a word would come out of her mouth. She would stare at the pillars on the opposite side of the road and nudge the head forward. Cars would pass in front of her and she would not see them. She would not blink or swear at them. Other days she would sit leaning against one of the pillars of cement, one of the colored ones, rainbow style. Knees against the belly she would look at the pages of a book. She was fifty or maybe sixty, difficult to say with those lot. For months I have passed under that damned bridge and I have never seen her turning one bloody page of that book of hers. She would not beg. I have never seen her doing it. Her name was Rose. I found that out one day. It must have been a Saturday or a Sunday because I was not going to work, neither I was going to pick up my daughter. I had time and no one to grab a beer with. I was on the way to my house in McKinney Street, a rotten wooden shithole with the windows that did not close well as the frames were all tilted. As I passed by the bridge I decided to stop. I parked in front of one of the gallerias of some time-wasting artists, on the right side, one of those days when you can actually breathe in Houston and being homeless is not such a bad thing. I beeped the car locked as if anybody could be interested in that rusty Corolla without a back bumper and walked towards the bridge. For a moment I considered stopping at the café at the corner to buy the woman a cake, but then said to myself it would be a waste of money. Cakes in that place, packed with students with glasses staring at their laptops, cost a fortune. I had two quarters In my pocket. That would do I reckoned. She was coming out of her tent when I reached her side of the road. Down on her hands and knees, she moved like a sloth but she stank like a skunk. I stopped at two meters and she did not seem bothered by my presence. I peaked in her tent. There was a lot of stuff in there and many coverless books. I had not noticed earlier she was such a book hoarder. Her Kroger kart, which she used as a portable wardrobe, was full of books too so I thought that asking about her favorite one was a good way to start. She told me to go to hell and ask Satan which one was his favorite book. Here came another surprise. I did not expect her to put together so many words in a row. She continued crawling until she reached the rainbow pillar and put herself straight. She cleared her throat and marked the territory with a spit. Without me asking she said that her name was Rose and I would better get the fuck out of there because that was her corner. It did not seem to me she was willing to talk much. With one hand in my trousers, I felt the two quarters between my fingers but hesitated too long. Rose was already staring at the wall in front of her, on the other side of the street. She had made herself clear and I crossed the road to go back to my car. I drove home to watch some TV.
By Davide Rubini3 years ago in Humans