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Martin Street. Silent, sulky, hunched over in his corner chair, Cuéllar downed shot after shot, stop pulling that long face, man, now it was his turn. He should pick out some chick and she’d fall for him, we told him, we’ll do the spadework for you, we would help him and our girlfriends would too. Sure, sure, I’ll pick soon, shot after shot, and suddenly, bye, he stood up: he was tired, I’m going home to bed. If he stayed he was going to cry, Manny said, and Choto because he was bottling up the urge, and Chingolo if he didn’t cry he was going to throw a fit like that other time. And Lalo: they ought to help him out, he was talking serious, we’d get him a chick even if she was a dog, and his complex would disappear. Sure, sure, we would help him, he was a good guy, a little touchy sometimes but anybody in his situation, it was understandable, he was forgiven, he was missed, he was liked, let’s drink to him, P.P., clink glasses, here’s to you.
    After that, Cuéllar went to Sunday and holiday matinees all alone—we would see him in the back of the orchestra, slouched in the back rows, lighting up butt after butt, sneaking looks at the couples making out—and he got together with them only at night, at the pool hall, at Bransa, at the Tasty Cream, his face sour, good Sunday? and his voice sharp, he fine and you guys really great I bet, right?
    But by summer his snit was over. We went to the beach together—to Horseshoe, not to Miraflores anymore—in the car his parents had given him for Christmas, a Ford convertible with no muffler, it paid no attention to traffic signals and deafened, terrified the pedestrians. For better or worse, he had made friends with the girls and got along with them all right, in spite of always, Cuéllar, they went around pestering him with the same thing: why don’t you ask some girl to go steady right now? So they would be five couples and we would go out in a pack all the time and they would be all over together, why don’t you do it? Cuéllar defended himself by joking, no because then they wouldn’t all fit in his mighty Ford and one of you will have to be the sacrificial victim, throwing off the scent, aren’t nine too tight? Seriously, Kitty said, everybody had a girl and he no, aren’t you tired of playing solo? He should chase Skinny Gamino, she’s dying for you, she had admitted to them the other day, at China’s house, playing truth and consequences, don’t you like her? Grab her, we’d help him, she would take him, settle on it. But he did not want to have a girlfriend and he put on the face of a renegade, I like my freedom, and of a skirt chaser, he was better off single. Your freedom for what, said China, to do nasty things? and Chabuca, to go around making out? and Kitty, with cheap girls? and he the face of a mystery man, maybe, of a pimp? maybe and of a profligate: could be. Why don’t you ever come to our parties? said Fina, you used to come to all of them and you were so much fun and danced so good, what happened to you Cuéllar? And he shouldn’t be such a drag, come and sometime you’ll meet a chick you like and you’ll fall for her. But he no way, waste of time, our parties bored him, old before his time, he didn’t go because he had better ones where I enjoy myself more. What’s wrong with you is you don’t like decent girls, they said, and he as friends sure and they only the easy ones, the trashy ones, the brassy ones and, suddenly, P.P., yes, I like I l-l-l-like, began, d-d-d-decent g-g-girls, to stutter, j-j-j-just n-not S-s-s-ski-n-n-n-n-ny Gamino, they you already squirmed out and he b-b-b-besides th-th-th-there’s n-no t-t-t-time f-f-for t-t-tests, and the guys leave him alone, we stuck up for him, you’re not going to convince him, he’s got his little plans, his little secrets, step on it man, look at that sun, the Horseshoe must be sizzling, floor the gas, make the mighty Ford fly.
    We would swim in front of the Seagulls and, while