How to be a Man by Miguel Bustos

Javier had always been around and was one of my closest friends, so feeling his neck in my five-year-old hands as I pressed him to the ground and tried to kill him was not how I wanted to spend my day. I was bigger than him, but there was no way I could have held him on my own, especially once the panic set in and he realized I wasn’t just playing. This wasn’t the first time I had pretended to strangle him, but this time I had to go through with it.

If there was a place to do this, it was here, behind my house where the maple tree blocked the neighbor’s view and the house hid us from the road. The wooden back fence was too high for anyone without a ladder or stool to look over. No one would want to climb over it since it had barb wire at the top. The grass was tall; it hadn’t been mowed in weeks. It provided cushioning for my knees as I knelt over Javier. I was pushing Javier down into the green cushion, blades of it covering his head like leprechaun hair.

A few moments after my fingers started to tighten on his neck, Javier started twisting, thrashing, and trying to shout, but I had my grip on him. His body twisted from side to side and I could feel something in his neck bobbing under my hands. Normally, when we played, we would chase each other around the yard, and when I caught him, I would pretend to choke him and let him go after a moment but this time I wasn’t letting go.

I looked over at my step-dad, Esteban, who was watching a few feet away. He had changed out of his work clothes into his tight black jeans, black alligator skin boots with the chrome tips, and a white wife-beater tank top. In his hands, he held his belt, which he twisted and wrung, mimicking what I was doing to Javier. I had already begged him not to make me do this, and I wanted to ask him again but my butt was still sore from the belt I had gotten in response the first time. It had been explained to me, with painful clarity, that I was the one that was going to end his life or the belt would start falling until I changed my mind and followed through with it.

My brothers were watching me from my other side. My older brother, Mariano, was cheering me on, trying to help me feel good about this—to feel like a man. Julian, my other brother, watched in silence. I looked to him for sympathy, for some way out of this.

“Ayuda me,” I cried. There was a burning in my eyes from the tears trying to fall. I did my best to stop them. I knew from experience that if I didn’t, it would be seen as weakness and I’d either be mocked or beaten to toughen me up.

“SHUT UP!” my step-dad roared. His arm whipped back, the belt rising above his head, but he held it there as a warning.

“It’s okay, little man,” Mariano said crouching down. “I did this when I was your age just like Julian did. We’re men, and this is how men take care of things.”

Beneath me, Javier lashed out with his feet, trying to get away. I cried out in fear and pain, wanting to run away and hide somewhere, anywhere. I looked at Julian again, my closest ally.

“Just do it,” Julian said. “Don’t be a little bitch about it. If you don’t do this, you’ll never be a man. It’s hardest the first time.”

A second kick got my attention again. I looked into Javier’s eyes and saw the panic there. My family had learned to ignore the emotion I could see on Javier’s face, but I was inches away from it and I was too weak to dismiss it. There was a moment that struck me, like a rubber band hitting me in the face, that even if I stopped and for some reason my step-dad didn’t step in and finish the job, that Javier would never trust me—never love me—again. There was no going back.

Either Javier sensed my hesitation or felt my grip loosen, but he kicked again and broke free. In a flash, he was out from under me, running away from behind the house, and headed toward the driveway.

“You son of a . . .,” my step-dad grumbled as he watched Javier make his break for freedom.

Mariano gave chase, jumping on him before he could make the gravel stones of the drive way. While Mariano brought him back, I felt the belt hit my back. Not as hard as the first time, but more than enough to smart.

My step-dad took Javier from my brother and looked me in the eye while he pinned Javier to the ground, grabbed a leg, and pulled it backwards until it snapped. Javier screamed in pain, thrashing even harder, still trying to get away.

“NO!” I screamed as the tears that I had kept at bay finally burst free. “You’re hurting him! Let him go!”

This wasn’t me and I wasn’t going through with this anymore. I had to stop it. I lunged at my step-dad, screaming with rage—my fist balled up and arms swinging wildly. At first, my step-dad was taken by surprise—he’d never seen me do this before. He didn’t even flinch when my fist hit him. My wild swings landed on his shoulder and face, but he didn’t move, just took them like a man. Julian pulled me off while Mariano laughed at me.

“What’s this all about?” my mom asked storming out of the house with a chancla (a Mexican sandal used as either footwear or disciplinary tool) in one hand. “Who’s hurting my baby?”

My brothers turned to her, both looking between her and my step-dad to see if they needed to run, or if she was going to permit it.

“He won’t do it,” my step-dad said, thrusting his jaw at Javier.

“He’s still alive?” my mom asked.

“Your baby,” my step-dad said with a thick layer of mockery in his voice, “doesn’t want to do it and tried to let him go. Now, he thinks hitting me will stop this.”

“Oh,” my mom said, turning her anger from my step-dad to me. She put her chancla back on, took the belt from my step-dad and pointed it at me. “Listen, this is what men do. If you don’t then someone else will, you’ll get the belt, and go to bed without dinner. Look, he’s hurt and that’s your fault. Besides he wasn’t that nice to you. He bit you a few times already and it’s time for you to do this. Your brothers have done this before and now look, it doesn’t bother them at all.”

She pushed me toward Javier, who was now pinned down firmly by my step-dad. In my chest, I could feel my heart tearing itself apart. I loved my friend and I didn’t want to kill him, but I knew that if I didn’t the belt wouldn’t stop. My fear of the belt was well founded. With both of my parents mad, there was no telling when it would stop. Fear won out and even as I made my decision, I felt shame for the first time. I had chosen my welfare over my friend’s life. Even though the shame burned at me from the inside, I knew I was going through with this.

I knelt over my friend and whispered how sorry I was. Leaning over my step-dad’s hands, I pushed down on Javier’s throat as hard as I could, trying to get this over with. This time I couldn’t feel him thrash, but I could still see his panic, his desperation, the way his mouth opened, and I could look down his throat from where a pitiful croak escaped. My mother wouldn’t let me close my eyes or turn away. Within seconds, I watch his thrashing stop and could almost see the exact moment Javier left his body behind.

My step-dad snapped Javier’s neck just to be sure. He didn’t want him waking up while they were trying to cut him up. The hatchet was too heavy for me to lift and I wasn’t trusted with the sharp knives yet. I couldn’t watch the next part but I could hear my step-dad talking my brothers through the best way to cut up the body and peel the skin. Their first kill, just like mine, had been by strangulation but now they used the hatchet, as did I, once I was strong enough to swing it. Only the first kill had to be personal.

My mom rubbed my back and took me inside, explaining that it was over and I could go watch T.V. now. The thud of the axe biting into wood came a second before the door closed behind me. The thud reached my ears and I flinched, like I had been struck.

My mom cooked him for dinner that night. It was too much for me to see him on the table. I stuck to beans and rice inside a flour tortilla. My step-dad wanted to make me eat some of the meat but my mom saved me from that.

“Ah well, he’s not missing much,” my step-dad said picking a bit of meat off a bone. “He was too scared when he finally died. The meat spoiled. Besides, the girls taste better.”

He was right of course. One of Javier’s girlfriends would have tasted better but we needed them for eggs.