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Javier Peña is a good man. Yeah, you heard me right. He is. He just doesn’t let on. When I first met him, he behaved like a real asshole. Gave me a tour of the embassy and showed himself off. He really got on my goat. I also noticed the other guys flipping him the bird – or rather flipping him when he turned his back on them. They snarked about him behind his back too. Called him Penis. Even Joe, who I thought was a friend, did. It’s Pen-yah, I said. It’s Spanish. Oh, he’s one of those, Joe said. Those? I wanted to hear him say it, and he did: Beaners. Stupid, lazy fuckers. You can call Javí many things, but he’s neither stupid nor lazy. In fact, I think Javí is easily one of the smartest men I know. His mind is sharp and analytical, and he’s damn quick, too. His dad once told me about his two degrees. Yeah, two! I barely got one. And Javí’s certainly not lazy. He puts hours and hours into the job, sometimes doesn’t sleep for days, hardly ever eats. He stops for fruits. He loves fruits, so I’ve started driving past fruit stalls. You’ve been here for a year. How can you still get lost? Javí will blow up at my routes, then he’ll remember the stall selling his beloved grenadillas, and he’ll ask me to pull over. He buys bags full of fruit and starts eating away. He’s usually half-way through one bag when we get home. He’s got a soft spot for others too. I remember this one day – he hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and was getting snarky and mean – when an old lady offered him a bowl of beans. He tucked in like a man starved. And then this stray dog came up and looked at him from big, sad eyes, and he gave up his beans for the beast. He even patted its head. When he looked up at me, his eyes held the same sad look as the dog’s. He also insisted on taking Olivia, my daughter. We found her in the comuna. Her mother had been shot and she had no one. I was still processing what to do with her when Javí picked her up and said, she's coming with us. He didn’t fuss, didn’t falter. He just gathered her in his arms and sat her down in the footroom of the truck.
Javí suffers. He’s full of fitful energy and he isn’t happy unless he can plan raids and put them into action. He’s dead good at that. He’ll know the area like the back of his hand, he’ll know every street and every person supposed to live there. He knows when the streetlights go out, when bars close, when patrol cars are due. He’s brilliant at marking maps. He’ll draw in arrows and circles and lines and shit so fast that I keep wondering how fast his brain must work and if it ever rests. I don’t think it does, I don't think it can. And that’s part of the problem. Javí cannot rest. He needs the assignment and the responsibility and the pressure. He doesn’t want to disappoint, so he gets himself into the weirdest shit. He’s kept me out of it most of the time, and I hate it, but, fuck, that one time, he could have sold me out, but he didn’t. He told me to watch myself. He took the blame, and he suffered for it.
Javí is a straight guy, an honest soul, a nice person. If you don’t believe it, suit yourself. First of all, Javí won’t lie to you unless it’s to protect you. He’ll always speak his mind, and he’ll always be respectful because he was brought up that way. He’s dead polite, uses titles, please, thank you, opens doors and holds them open, pays for food and drinks, offers help and advice. He rarely curses, and when he does, it shocks me because Javí doesn’t lose control. He keeps himself in check all the time, well … most of the time. He’s got this poker face and he’ll wink at you or smirk, but you won’t be able to tell what he's thinking. I think I’m able to tell, at least sometimes.
Like when he smokes too much. Javí is a smoker. We all are. But there are days when he just won’t stop. He’ll be sitting in that cloud of smoke when I clock in, and he’ll just light cigarettes on the ones just burnt down. His ashtrays (yeah, plural!) will flow over by noon, and he’ll start stealing my smokes once he realises he’s run out. He won’t speak to me on those days. He’ll just grunt or hum or huff, roll his shoulders, and shoot me filthy looks, all the while typing out his reports and forms. I have no idea what’s wrong with him then, but I can tell that he feels cornered. His eyes usually give him away. They tell me if he’s sad or scared or angry. It’s his eyes and the way his brows furrow. He won’t elaborate, I don’t ask. He’ll chain-smoke through the day and then dash for the door. If I ask him where he’s going, he’ll say out.
He drinks too much too. He keeps at least one bottle in the drawer of his desk. There’s another in the filing cabinet. He pours carelessly when raids go wrong. Generously when they go apeshit. He remains composed, but I can see his hands are shaking then, and he’s barely holding it together. He still stays polite and offers me some. He never drinks from the bottle either. But he does end up finishing a bottle in under an hour. And he won’t be drunk on it. He’ll be sick. I know he will be because I sometimes catch him retching over the bins or wiping his mouth when he returns from the restroom. I know he’s making himself sick. I’m not so sure why, but I think he’s punishing himself. I’ve tried telling him that it’s not on him, the whole shit isn’t on him, it’s on Escobar, but Javí won’t listen. He never listens. Well, maybe he does, but he doesn’t know what to do with the information.
He once told me that he doesn’t like sex that much, and I was shocked. I mean, we all know his reputation, right? Javí fucks for intel. He gets laid pretty much every night, and from what I heard, he sure meets demands. He is easy on the eye, and his moves are sexy as fuck. He’s short and sturdy. His hair is slightly curly (and I know he hates it) and his skin is toned and shiny. His face is angular and clean-shaven except for that neat little mustache. He’s got a big and ungainly nose and full and very pliant lips. He normally pouts at people, but he does smile occasionally. He touches his lips a lot. He also rubs his nose a lot. I guess he finds comfort in touching his face. It’s nothing he does consciously. He’s got a firm little ass in those damn-tight pants, and I also know for a fact that he’s well-endowed. It’s hardly a secret. Javí goes commando and sort of everyone knows the outline of his dick. But I’ve seen it. Unclothed. I was drunk, okay? And so was he. When I asked him to show me, I still didn’t expect him to comply, but he just hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and pulled down his denims. Didn’t even have to unzip. He just lifted his ass in the car seat and pushed the fabric past his narrow hips. No underpants. He was clean (so much for the snide remarks about him being dirty), and his fur was well-groomed and fluffy. His cock was big and red and throbbing, and I wasn’t thinking straight when I grabbed the thick length. It was warm and heavy, and when I ran my thumb over the leaking tip, Javí came undone with a surprised moan of pleasure. He cleaned himself off with his shirt! Cleaned my hand too, and that was it. He chucked the sticky shirt when we got home, just stripped and stuffed it in the trash behind the house. He’s never mentioned it since, and I’m not sure if he even remembers. He probably doesn’t, so I pretend I don’t remember either, but I do. And I can imagine what he’s up to in the bedroom.
I know that Javí always makes an effort. He keeps his clothes neat and pressed, and he changes them a lot. He’s got a crazy amount of shirts, all colours and patterns, and he keeps spare shirts in his desk. It’s sensible. Sometimes we rip our clothes. He sometimes gets his ripped off. Sometimes, we get blood on them. It makes sense to have spares. Javí also changes them when he’s soaked with sweat. He washes twice a day, and he uses products to cover the unavoidable bodily odors, but of course, Javí transpires just like everyone else. He feels uneasy about it, unbuttons to cool his chest, and sits in the draft. He messes up his hair which gets wet and greasy, and he groans at the result. He really tries to maintain a dapper appearance. I think most of the time it works fine. He looks hot.
Javí cooks too. No shit. He made me these roll things with mincemeat and sweetcorn. They’re called whatever, pendejo, he said. Yeah, dunno what they’re called, can’t remember. They were fantastic. He said it was his grandma’s recipe. His grandma, Pete, was a fierce old bird that scared the shit out of everyone who wanted the family ill. Apparently that happened a lot. The Peñas were originally from Mexico, but they’ve been down Laredo, Texas, forever. Still, some whites see them as outsiders. Pete gave a shit. Javí was born in Texas, so he’s a US citizen. With a tan. It shouldn’t make a difference. Javí’s got a photo of Pete in his living-room. The tall woman is sitting on the porch knitting and scowling at the camera. She looks just like Javí! He also made me dessert – some strawberry shit I could have died for. He said he got it somewhere but wouldn’t tell me where. I’m not buying it. He made it. The way his eyes lit up, his whole face turned red, when he saw me finish the bowl, I am sure he made it himself, and it was the best dessert I’ve ever had! He told me about Pete and the ranch, and he tried to cover up a lonely tear when it fell. I pretended not to notice, and he spoke of the sunsets and the river, and suddenly he just broke down crying like a baby. Big tears were rolling down his face, and he couldn’t hide from me, so he just let them fall, choking and snuffling, and I walked over to him and pulled him into a hug. He froze and let out a pitiful, strangled noise, but then he just allowed himself to slump against me, and I held him as he cried. He didn’t explain, but I think he was feeling homesick. He recovered quickly, and he cleared the table with shaking hands and disappeared into the kitchen. When he re-emerged, he had a cigarette between his smirking lips and he winked at me.
I know that he has even darker days, and I know that he gets himself into trouble then. It’s disturbing for someone so unbelievably in control, but he sometimes – privately – loses it. I notice the band-aids and bandages that weren’t there the night before when he checks into work. I notice tiny scars and discolorations, so I pretty much know that he punches walls and grabs sharp objects like blades or shards or barbwire. It’s always his hands. I don’t know about the rest of his body. I hope it’s just his hands. I can’t ask him about that sort of thing.
I know that Javí is a Catholic. He smiles at the little shrines and statues we find in the comuna. He approves of that sort of thing. He also lowers his head in respect whenever we have to go into a church. He looks lost and oddly out of place then. I once quipped that it should be home turf, and he told me to fuck off. He later said that he sometimes wonders if there really is a God, and if it is a good one. He relates to Mary and Noah and some queen called Esther, but he seems unable to pray. He says he prayed for his mum and for Pete, and God took them away. He won’t pray for his life. Seems safer that way, he once said with a wink. I think it’s heartbreakingly sad, and though I’ll never tell him, I’ve started adding Javí to my prayers.
He’s a poor soul (not a lost one yet), but he's a good man. And he’s given up so much and risking so much every day that he deserves to be loved. Anyone who will have him can call themselves lucky. If he’ll let them in. If he’ll allow himself to be loved. I hope he will some day.