Patricio
by Regina Abuyuan
When we arrived at the farm, Patricio would be there, Adidas basketball jersey hanging to his hip, the tip of his penis peeking underneath.
My son of a bitch father used to boast that we had a security guard to guard our farmhouse.
We didn’t have a security guard. We had an idiot named Patricio who refused to wear underpants, or any sort of pants for that matter, and who was regularly roundhoused and Bruce Lee’d by my mean, mean cousins.
Patricio was a stocky boy, born in June on a cold, grey morning. Rumor had it that his mother smoked papaya leaves or chewed avocado pits before she conceived, or offended a dwarf that lived near the chicken coop, right before Patricio was born. She defecated while she pushed Patricio out in this world, and safe to say the sad baby had his first taste of shit way before he had the ability to produce his own.
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