“Head shot. Gained the lead,” said the game’s narrator in an overly stylized male voice from the Dolby 5.1 surround system mounted on the wall.
“You suck,” Max’s voice rang through my headset.
“Get over it, noob.” I yelled into the mic, smiling.
For a brief moment the only sounds in the room were gunshots and button mashing. The control sticks and trigger buttons clacked angrily as panic set in.
“It sucks you’re in Bolivia, Jon.” Max’s serious statement came out of nowhere. “Halo over the internet isn’t the same. It’s more fun to be able to punch you when you kill me, especially on your birthday.”
“Tell me about it.” I said. “Mom didn’t even make banana bread this morning because she couldn’t find a mix. Bolivia’s stuck in the dark ages.”
Max chuckled. “Hey, at least you’ve got in...”
Suddenly the screen froze mid-shot and Max’s voice simply stopped. Frustrated, I dropped the black and gray controller onto the hard parquet floor. A resounding, and somewhat satisfying, crack hit my ears. This was the fourth time in an hour. What the heck was going on with the Internet connection? I blamed the fact that we were in Santa Cruz, a city – if you could call it that– in Bolivia.
I rolled off the couch, yanked my headset off, and stormed out of the room. I didn’t even bother to turn off the Xbox. All I wanted to do was be back in America sitting in the ratty, overstuffed recliner in the basement. I’d love to have an Xbox controller in my hands and friends around me, but I’d settle for just sitting in the chair. I could picture the old thing. The red velvet was fraying at the corners. I could hear the springs creak as I sat down in it. The reek of hours of gaming seemed to rise almost visibly from the seat and back. The wooden handle for reclining would lie on the thick blue carpet uselessly just out of reach.
Of course, when we moved to Bolivia, we had to leave the recliner behind. Instead of the glorious recliner, I had to deal with a couch. It sat squarely in the middle of the room, its sharp angles simply accentuated by the squareness of the room and the rectangular, wooden parquet on the floor. I glanced back into the TV room with disgust. I couldn’t believe Mom and Dad bought that. They said it looked modern. I said it looked boring. Of course, no one listens to a sixteen-year-old even if they do actually know something about comfortable furniture.
I shook my head and grabbed my sneakers. As soon as I stepped outside, the mix of strange, uncomfortable smells assaulted me. Exhaust from a car built back in the 1950s mixed with the smell of chicken frying next door. The dust grating in my nostrils mingled with the lingering particles of spray paint from the graffiti artists still tagging the vacant lot down the street. I gagged when the sickening stench of last week’s garbage wafted over to me on the slight breeze.
A huge, dark green truck rumbled around the corner. The garbage truck’s high pitched song squealed along with the the horns of angry drivers on the main drag. I lowered my head, attempting to ignore the overwhelming sensations and simply walk. The pavement’s dull gray stayed in focus for only a little while before becoming background noise to my thoughts.
Dad had been transferred to Santa Cruz, Bolivia three weeks ago. Both he and Mom thought it would be a good idea to move there instead of having Dad commute back and forth. Round-trip tickets were around a thousand bucks. Mining engineers get paid well, but not that well. Of course I’d wanted to stay in West Chicago. Everything I knew was there. I’d even tried to talk my parents into letting me stay with Max’s family for the last couple years of high school. They’d agreed to it already, but my parents said that Bolivia would be a “good learning experience for me.” I gagged every time I remembered that phrase.
In any case, my parents ignored my objections and dragged me to Bolivia. They immediately took to the culture like a kid in a candy shop with free samples. They sampled bits of the culture and adapted them to our family life. Meal times were Bolivian; what we ate was Bolivian; how we traveled was Bolivian; and even how we dressed was Bolivian. Mom and Dad even tried to learn Spanish to get around. Neither of them could do it. I mean, they got a couple phrases, but couldn’t learn the more detailed aspects of the language. Bolivia was driving me crazy.
My mind returned to what I was doing. I looked up briefly and recognized the main avenue by my house. As I walked down the main drag, I could hear broken pieces of conversations flying around me.
“Te quiero.” I like you, a girl said to her boyfriend as they walked past me.
“No podemos hacer eso.” We can’t do that, a guy in a gray business suit said, seemingly into thin air. It was only after a brief glance to his face did I notice the bluetooth headset in his right ear.
“Carne! Compren su carne aquí.” Meat! Buy your meat here, a man called out from a storefront.
I couldn’t help but feel a bit accomplished. My parents wouldn’t have understood anything that was going on on the street. Granted I’d been studying Spanish in school for a couple of years. I always thought it was useless. I guess I was wrong.
My thoughts wandered back to West Chicago. I remembered the back streets my friends and I used to ride our bikes on. There was a park two blocks from my house where we used to play pick-up games of football and baseball. I could remember shouting out play changes only a split second before hiking the football and, later, throwing a knuckleball that floated right over the batter’s swing.
I would walk to and from school since it was only four blocks away. My feet could walk that path without even having to think about it. Especially on bad days, muscle memory and instinct would take over, guiding me home. I could remember the exact feeling of opening the door and hearing Mom call from down the hall, “Hi, Honey. How was your day?”
More often than not, I’d answer with a non-committal, “Fine.” Once in a while I’d add a qualifier if something especially good or bad or funny happened. I’d walk into the kitchen and grab a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. Then, I’d trudge up the stairs into my room, drop my backpack on my swiveling desk chair, and collapse in bed for a short afternoon nap.
The fun I used to have at home reminded me of some of my past birthdays. Mom’s banana chocolate-chip bread would wake me in the morning with its distinct smell creeping up the stairs. Later in the day, we’d get sixteen people playing Halo at once. The shouts of glee or dismay would resound through the house as one team defeated the other. The memories of those birthdays only made today worse.
Anger replaced my nostalgia. How could my parents drag me away from everything important? Nothing I said mattered. They didn’t listen to me when I gave my opinion about the couch they bought or when I argued against coming to Bolivia.
I looked up in rage, hoping to stare down some innocent passerby just to make myself feel better. Not only were there no people on the street, but there weren’t any cars either. In fact, I didn’t recognize the street I was on at all. It was a clean cobblestone alley wedged between the backsides of two tall high rises.
All of my loud anger dissipated in a split second, replaced just as quickly by silent fear and dread. I glanced at my watch. Panic dropped into my stomach like an anvil on the Looney Tunes. I’d been walking for a full half hour. Who knew where I’d walked in that amount of time.
I started walking back the way I’d come. Hopefully I’d see some landmark I recognized and be able to head home. No such luck. I reached the corner just to see another cobblestone road stretching in either direction to uncertain destinations. The silence began to really bother me. I stood on the corner and strained to hear a familiar sound. Where were all the angry shouts and blaring horns from the main avenue? What happened to all the people talking, yelling, whispering, and muttering?
Frantic, I turned right. My walking speed grew each second. Before I knew it, I was running. All I wanted was to find something familiar. Anything familiar would be better than being lost. I sped around corners, zig-zagging through the streets as I looked for something I recognized.
Finally I saw a small shop opening. Maybe I could get directions there, I thought. For a moment the panic relaxed. Then I realized I had no idea what my address was. The panic returned in full force, threatening to cripple me. I stopped running outside the store, my feet almost seemed glued to the concrete.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, hoping to find anything I could use to get home. My left hand crumpled a small piece of paper. I yanked it out, remembering immediately what it was. Mom had practically forced me to carry a small card with our address on it whenever I went out just in case something like this happened. In that moment, I praised Mom’s foresight and turned to the store’s entrance.
There was a woman there, her eyes laughing at me as if she knew exactly what was going on. I looked at her then back down at my paper.
“Puedo ayudarte, hijo?” Can I help you, Son? she asked.
“Sí.” I answered quickly. “Como llegar a la dirección?” How to get to the address? I asked, handing her the paper.
Her rolling eyes said it all as she reached out to take the card. “Turista?” Tourist? she asked casually.
“No. Mi papá es con la mina.” No, my Dad is with the mine.
She looked at the paper for a short second followed by a series of rapid-fire sentences that were completely lost on me.
“Bien, hijito. Para nada difícil. Primero vete a la esquinita. A la derecha y sigues a la izquierdita. Después de tres cuadritas, otra derechita y, ay, pucha! Ahisito está la avenida. Facilito de allí.”
She must have seen my scared and blank look because she repeated the sentences a second time. This time I caught every fifth word or so, but nowhere near enough to really understand. When she saw that I didn’t understand again, she held up one finger and turned to go back inside.
“Espera un momento.” Wait a moment, she said.
She was only gone for a second before she returned with a bigger piece of paper and a pencil. I sighed in relief, she was going to draw me a map.
“Ven aquí.” Come here.
I walked over to her and watched as she very slowly explained how to get back to my neighborhood. I strained to catch what she said and began to pick out details I had missed in the last two attempts. When she was finally done, she handed me the map.
“Entendiste?” Did you understand? She asked
“Sí.” Yes. I answered confidently. I shook her hand and took off down the street.
The map was simple enough to follow. As I thought back to her first descriptions, I began to recognize some of the words I’d missed. I was very glad I’d found someone to help, despite the language barrier.
As I turned the corner, I saw the wonderful sight of the main avenue cluttered with cars of all colors and ages and types. Fifteen-passenger vans and pick-ups vied for a position on the road with motorcycles and sports cars. The horns which had been blaring earlier now seemed like a comfortable symphony. All panic dissipated like the anger it had replaced. From the main drag it was a simple matter to get home.
As I opened the front gate with my keys, a familiar aroma tickled my nose. I couldn’t quite place it at first; it seemed too out of place. The closer I got to the front door, however, the more familiar it became. I walked into the kitchen and saw Mom standing by the counter placing a small yellow birthday candle right in the middle of a loaf of banana bread.
“Oh hi, Kiddo.” she said. “It took me a while, but I finally found a recipe and ingredients to make your banana bread. It doesn’t have chocolate chips, though.”
I breathed deep, taking in the rich aroma of the banana bread. I couldn’t believe it. I walked over to Mom and gave her a hug.
“Thanks, Mom.” I said.
“You’re welcome, Jonathan. Happy Birthday.”
