Neighborhood Dogs
Chapter I
Living near Hualmay was never the plan. It was a tide of problems that dragged me back into the neighborhood. It's not like I didn't know what my crew thought of me—I always did—but that was exactly what kept pulling me in, like a magnet toward a cycle of self-destruction.
I couldn't hold back the chaos anymore. I couldn't hold back the hatred that kept eating away at me, little by little. And now there was something else: I had to earn respect, no matter how twisted or forbidden the path. I needed that crime—the kind that would never make the headlines—but enough to make me feel like I was somebody.
Somebody in a Pamplona built out of dirt and shit.
"It's not like you didn't know you were following me," I said, hearing a trace of arrogance in my own voice. I wasn't okay.
"Yeah... sure."
"Write down his plate," the officer snapped. "That's a twenty-sol fine."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Those are the rules, buddy."
Assholes.
If they knew who I really was, they'd back off.
But nobody knew who I was.
Not even me.
The cops in this city had been rotten for as long as I could remember. That wasn't anything new in Peru, especially not in a small town like mine.
"Dad? You home?"
Nothing.
No sign of him anywhere.
"Guess those bastards went on vacation..."
Then I heard sirens in the distance.
"What the fuck is that?"
More than one patrol car.
That wasn't something you saw every day around here.
Curiosity got the better of me.
Whenever the cops showed up, there usually wasn't much to see, but it was always worth checking anyway. Snooping around was practically a neighborhood tradition.
I slipped outside and crouched behind a low concrete wall, scanning the streets for whatever was happening.
At first, I couldn't see anything.
Then it hit me.
It wasn't a police operation.
It was a funeral.
Several patrol cars stood outside a modest house while officers gathered to pay their respects to a policeman who had been killed by local gangs.
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
I shouldn't have been there.
I turned around, hoping to leave before anyone noticed me.
That's when I ran into them.
A group of guys stood against a wall, passing around a joint.
One of them stared at me.
"What are you doing here?"
"What do you mean? I live just around the corner."
He looked me up and down.
"Never seen you before, kid."
"Then you're the idiots," I shot back. "I'm always buying stuff from Don Julio's store."
Another one stepped closer.
"Easy, brother. Don't disrespect us."
"You hear me, asshole?"
"I haven't disrespected anyone," I said. "Piece of shit."
Someone laughed.
"This motherfucker wants to fight."
I raised my hands.
"Relax, assholes. I just came to see what was going on."
"Get over here, motherfucker!"
That was all I needed to hear.
I ran.
The first rock flew past my shoulder before I even had time to look back.
"Shit... they're still after me!"
I didn't need to turn around. Their footsteps pounded against the dirt roads behind me, mixed with laughter and insults.
"Leave me the fuck alone, you sons of bitches!"
"No fucking way!" one of them shouted.
"Grab a rock!"
"Hurry up! He's getting away!"
Another stone skipped across the ground and clipped my leg.
"Hey, assholes!" I yelled, more out of instinct than courage.
"Pull out the blade!"
"Get him!"
"Fuck off, motherfuckers!"
The alleyways seemed to grow narrower with every step. Dust rose beneath my shoes, filling the air while my lungs burned. I could hear the sharp whistle of metal cutting through the wind.
A machete.
Or maybe a homemade blade.
I didn't stop to find out.
"Jesus Christ... these guys are fucking crazy."
Fear has a strange way of stripping away your pride. A minute ago I had been trading insults with them. Now I only wanted to get home alive.
Then I saw it.
A narrow gap between two old brick walls.
Without thinking, I squeezed through it.
The rough bricks scraped my arms and shoulders as I forced my body between them.
The others weren't as lucky.
"Come out, you piece of shit!"
"Don't hide!"
They tried to follow me, but the opening was too tight. They cursed, shoved each other, and kicked at the walls in frustration.
Then blue lights flooded the street.
A police patrol rolled around the corner, sirens echoing through the neighborhood.
Just like that, the gang scattered.
Within seconds they vanished into the maze of streets as if they'd never been there.
I leaned against the wall, gasping for air.
"The cops actually saved my ass..."
I couldn't help laughing.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that comes after you realize you're still alive.
"Next time," I muttered between breaths, "I'm keeping my nose out of other people's business."
I knew I was lying to myself.
Curiosity had always been stronger than common sense.
I waited a few minutes before heading back. Every shadow made me think they might still be watching, so I took the long way home, cutting through familiar streets until I finally reached my house.
This time, my old man was there.
Plastic grocery bags rested on the kitchen table, and the smell of fresh ingredients filled the house.
He and the others had gone out to buy groceries while I had been wandering around the neighborhood like an idiot.
I dropped my things on the floor.
The first thing I wanted wasn't food.
It was a cold bath.
I grabbed my towel and headed for the bathroom.
Like always, bathroom was a generous word.
There was no shower waiting for me—just a plastic bucket filled with cold water and a dipper resting inside it. That's how things worked in a working-class neighborhood. You learned to make do with whatever you had.
You didn't have hot water.
You didn't have comfort.
Sometimes it felt like you didn't even have respect.
I poured the first dipper over my head.
The icy water hit me like a punch, washing away the dust, the sweat, and a little of the fear that had been clinging to me since I started running.
God, it felt good.
I scrubbed myself with a cheap bar of soap, washed my hair, then emptied another dipper over my head until the last traces of dirt disappeared down the drain.
Simple things.
But they were mine.
When I finished, I stepped out with nothing but a towel slung over my shoulder and switched on the old fan. The cool air rushed across my skin, drying the water that still clung to my body.
For a few quiet moments, the whole neighborhood seemed far away.
Then someone knocked on the door.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Dad... is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me. Where the hell have you been?"
"I just got back. I was taking a bath."
I couldn't help smiling.
"You know how much I missed these exciting showers."
He laughed under his breath.
"I can imagine."
He set the grocery bags on the counter before looking over at me.
"So... what'd you do today?"
"Nothing much. I went out to see what was going on, and some guys started chasing me."
I shrugged as if it weren't a big deal.
"That's all."
He stopped what he was doing for a moment.
"You've got to be careful, son. You know what the news has been like lately."
"Yeah... I'll be more careful next time."
Whether I meant it or not was another story.
That was my old man.
Protective without making a fuss about it.
He moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime making the best out of very little. Watching him cook brought back memories of my childhood, when I'd spend whole afternoons alone until he came home, tired but steady, carrying the weight of another day's work on his shoulders.
I sat down while he finished preparing dinner.
The television filled the room with the evening news, followed by the same old movies that always seemed to be playing.
"Feels good to be clean, Dad."
Without turning around, he smiled.
"Always does, son."
My bags were still sitting in the corner.
I hadn't unpacked them yet.
There would be time for that later.
Coming back to the neighborhood wasn't just about returning to a place.
It was about returning to a version of myself I thought I'd left behind.
And maybe...
discovering the man I was about to become.