I was going to submit this to @tidalrace only, but I figured I’d throw this random audience strange bit and let it find it’s audience.
Discusses alcohol - tequila - while drinking it, Chicano studies concepts, bad Spanish, white passing, child abuse, racism, salt and limes present. Evil characters who are people of color mentioned - please don’t kill me, just a reference.
Big biggy. He has no clue what Celeste wants. He watches her eye the shelf, but she seems lost. Ordering for her feels like it would spell certain doom. Instead, he settles for poison. “Double shot of tequila,” he murmurs, watching the glass get brought out. He remembers Becca bringing home half a liquor store and drinking with Brick into the small of the morning after they were acquitted for lack of evidence on the Carlos’ thing. Lots of dead bodies, no one willing to believe three brothers with barely a scratch - Celeste and Becca pack a wallop when they cast an illusion - even their crazy asses - killed all those professional men of violence and were able to stand. Didn’t help that no one really wanted to convict them for killing evil prostitute assassins who seduced and murdered people, highway pirates who murdered and then robbed people, or a biker gang that skinned and then murdered people - or as no one would dare whisper and bring more chaos into this nightmare that they had really been witches, skinwalkers, evil voodoo practitioners, and a dark kitsune.
He remembers the rules Becca had for drinking “like a man with money, guns, and class who’s more sensible than Daniel Craig.” Rule one was “No Cuervo.” He sees the bottle of Gold and considers shoeing aside the rot gut. The bartender has it in hand, hasn’t poured yet, but he’s looked at McQueen long enough to guess. It feels right, but he’s drinking with a friend. Becca had brought home so much alcohol the night she’d decided she was teaching Brick some culture. Leave it to his big brother to meet an old witch concerned with how to sip Scotch.
“Yeah, I’ll admit that’s my drink,” Celeste informs the bartender who doesn’t look surprised. Queenie is a little offended. His girl is better than that, but she’s not quiet his girl yet. The bartender puts down a second glass and pours his first. “If I’m going to drink that indigestion in a bottle I need salt and limes,” she adds.
Queenie nods. This is exactly what feels right. “Leave the bottle?” he suggests. He’s not sure it’s legal in this county. Everywhere has different serving laws. The bartender recognizes that he’ll tip well and McQueen knows he’ll get a break off the shot price for asking. The hand follows behind him dropping a bowl of limes and a salt shaker before they both find the other end of the bar. They recognize Queenie has no interest in talking to them.
He does the shot, without lime or salt, knowing it will sting and burn, but he’s used to liquor and he’s kinda gluten for punishment after the long day. Celeste raises the shot glass, barely kisses the rim and knocks it back her throat. He pours himself a second shot and holds up the bottle, offering the refill. She nods, grabbing the salt shaker. He watches her lick her hand and tap out salt She does the second shot with a simple exacting lick of her hand, a quick throwback and squeeze lime right after.
He smiles. It feels warm to watch the intimacy. He follows, but he misses it ever so slightly and coughs softly. He blushes. Celeste chuckles, half snorting. McQueen laughs too.
Celeste picks up the bottle and pours the third round. “Don't you dare tell Becca!” she declares boldly. “She'll give me so much crap for drinking swill!”
His lip twists up. “Becca is more authentic than any Mexicana and older than tequila,” he dares tease.
The giggle is genuine. It feels so oddly calm, but she will be restless for days and nerve shot without emotional release. The salt is poured as her shoulders crunch forward, shaking out extra. She pauses with the shot in hand, left hand near her lips, ready to lick the salty skin. Her face shows a wicked thought, half fearful and half humored. She tosses the drink and he follows it. This time he doesn’t miss knocking it back and slips on the lime.
“You're thinking loudly,” he jokes, bright blue eyes studying her dark features. ‘Moonlight, polished bronze that somehow gleams like silver - dark power forged into a righteous sword - starlight,’ he corrects himself. Only on the way towards drunk would he dare be a poet. He has no clue what she’s thinking.
“More Mexicana than my mom,” she adds. Esthera is a beautiful soul, but ill-suited to Celeste. Different creations, same cloth. Estella was her given name, but she chose a strange anglicized form that resembled the English Esther. It's not bad… but it is sad. She speaks Spanish rarely, only with Becca, who seemed to respect either decision. Becca knows gain and loss of cultural identities in ways he can’t begin to understand, especially as a white man.
He purses his lip and ponders a thought. She sets up and downs shot four and he follows the drink bravely with his thoughts. “Su madre es blanca, bebe blanco tequila, es bruja blanca, es mejor blanca. Totalamente blanca,” he dares. He watches her eyes until he’s sure it’s safe and takes his shot.
She smiles, giggling. She throws her head back and pours again. “We need more if we’re going to to teach you Spanish or explain Chicano mindsets!” She licks the salt, smirking. She is playing at drunk and he knows it : she’s thoroughly buzzed, but still fully cognizant. He follows, toasting her before licking the salt from between thumb and forefinger. They toss back in tandem.
“It’s ‘totalmente,’ not ‘totalamente’ and it’s ‘mujer’, not ‘mejor,’ - ‘mejor’ means ‘best,’ where ‘mujer’ is ‘woman.’ Also, I can’t speak for all Hispanics, Latinos, Mexicanos, or Chicanos, but let me give you the simplest, least likely to get you shot explanation I can offer. Hispanics is sort of the go to white way of referring to Latinas, it’s offensive to a lot of us because it cuts out so many. It’s only for those of Spanish descent that speak Spanish and it implies they’re better than African descended Latinos or Portuguese speaking Latinos. It also is a very English phrasing… With Mexicans and Mexican Americans it gets a lot more complex. Many of us would qualify as Hispanics, but we’d all be Latinos - we often divide ourselves. Native peoples were called Indians, just like it was used with Native Americans here - ‘Indios de Mexico’ - but it’s been changed to ‘pueblos indígenas de México’ to reflect the status of them being people who’ve been here first. Most groups in Southwestern United States and Mexico called themselves ‘The People’ in their native tongues. They usually got named from the tribes around them, but they still have a culture of being native and often mixed race. Most Mexicanos are Mestizo Mexicanos - mixed. We are indigenous peoples and we are European and we don’t know our family tribes or we come from many tribes. There are still a ridiculous amount of tribal languages and like the United States of America, we are made up of states, too, so there are regional things in a big country. Yankees and Southerners if you will. That’s all confusing enough one you get us out of the rest of Latin America! Then we have all the African descended Mexicans and even Asian descendent Mexicans - it’s not uniform any more than here with its own cultural things.”
Queenie has to admit, she’s stunning. He grabs the bottle and pours for them both, but he doesn't bother to drink. It’s just something to do with his hands while he focuses on her.
She half blushes. She wants to say he doesn’t care, but he does. He’s learned to care. “Chicanos… used to be a slur, but some Mexican descendants prefer it now. It’s sort of like being ‘Black’ or being ‘queer,’” she looks nervous. She’s stepping on people’s toes and he’s never seen her be politically correct, he’s never been politically correct, but it shows a level of vulnerable that’s secretly refreshing. “Becca isn’t Mexican, but she’s Mestizo - mixed - and she’s indigenous from an area with strong ties to the Spanish and Spanish language. If you were really speaking about her cultural identity with her, talk to her about being Mestizo. She might use Chicano. If she does, feel out if it’s polite to follow her lead. Mom doesn’t identify with either. She grew up in a time when it was hard being dark skinned and Spanish speaking in this country. She was called nasty things and she doesn’t have the same kind of armor Becca has about it. Names don’t matter as much as people after losing so much. But yes, Mom identifies primarily as a European-bred Latina -the original ‘Hispanic’ sort- white ancestors who went to Mexico for land and came back and raised her as a Texicana with white neighbors, a white witch, white all over and she’d think I was a horrible stereotype for drinking cheap tequila. Dad wasn’t as white, I’m not as white. I grew up in Texas, but I had a different circle and different Latino experiences.”
Queenie’s eyes light up. It’s refreshing to hear it. It’s something he tried reading about, secretly, but the language is hard to wrap his head around with so many foreign words. Dictionaries help with most English, but with a foreign language he needs to hear it in context. He wonders about getting an e-reader with that ‘virtual ink.’ Phone screens mess with his eyes after a while white, bright lighting and small text making it so he can’t follow the lines as well as with paper books. Computer screens aren’t made for holding at odd angles and following with fingers.
“So don’t tell her you drank mixto - it’s not 100% agave. She might let you get a pass for a cheap blanco, but not José - not fair enough to the workers for one,” he begins to tease. He ticks the points off playfully on his fingers. He remembers that much from Becca’s lecture on ‘Do not drink Cuervo.’ “Drink tequila out of a real glass and sip it or drink it blanco with sangrita if you’re going to shoot it. That’s going to be spicy with some kind of juice, usually red in color - tomatoes, orange juice, pomegranate or something like that.” He had listened. He remembers Brick looking enamored at the woman he’s pretty sure also has Linc wrapped around her little finger, but in some other, foreign way. Celeste has all of him, but anyone his brothers care about deserves to be heard. “Of course it’s just my luck that I get out of a murder conviction and Brick leaves to expand his business while I’m working ... like a real job,” he jokes. He is so glad Brick got away. That Brick has begun to claim back so many things their father’s belt stole. “i still think the Mr. Quinn is a little bit obnoxious a moniker.” He’s glad his brother got his name back after working so hard not to be ‘John Oddie.’ He smiles at the rebellion of his mother to name her boys after her personal heroes: ‘John Quincy, Martin Luther, Lincoln, and Frederick Douglass’ - even if Daddy had actually made it to the hospital when he was born and ripped up the birth certificate before then signing on ‘McQueen.’
He can feel how proud she is. He’s made someone besides Linc or Rob or Brick proud. He’s not sure that’s ever happened before in his life. Orgasm - Hell, yeah! Happy - Sure. Confident, even! Proud - Nope, no one but his brothers. He’s indulged in a pinch of personal pride here or there before, but he’s never been sure he had the right. He’s not sure what possesses him towards the next shot. Probably the flash of her eyes. He wants to touch her. The conversation has lulled. It’s comfortable, but he’s not ready to drink more. He considers sending her out on the dance floor. He’s not ready to join. Maybe more alcohol is in order, but he knows how lost he can get when he’s desperate to separate himself from his feelings - high in the moment but careless. He watches her close in on herself. He can see the pounding restlessness under her skin, feel it intimately. He wants to reach out and push it aside, find her that release.
“You should dance,” he finally dares. He’s sending her away and it feels like failure. She reaches out a hand and looks up at him and he knows she wants this, wants his involvement. They are so very loud. Now that he’s looking and not filtering them out, he can feel the pull and pulse of music over them. The lust climbs in waves with moments of joy, but it’s not his joy. It’s soured by tinges of jealousy and flashes of other petty emotions. He shifts his gaze back to her, determined not to be lost there. “I’ll be good right here.” He can stay out of it, maybe even enjoy it second hand from here without the crash. The moment when he doesn’t have all these happy drunk bodies around distracting him from the things daily life is. He likes daily life better in a lot of ways. She jokingly pouts.
For her, he’ll do it. He chuckles and grabs the bottle. “Let me catch up,” he teases, but at the prospect of both drink and dancing, she perks up in her body language. She’s still dark and distant, but it’s watching moonlight on water. He wants to touch again. He wants to taste.
“How ‘bout body shots?” He jokes. He expects a kiss.
Celeste doesn’t kiss him. “I like that idea,” she admits. She unscrews the salt shaker's cap and spills some onto her palm before pouring it along the dip where his shoulder meets his neck. It clings to his sweat. He’s still sitting in his chair and he’s still taller than her. She holds out the lime. (There’s bits and pieces more and a bit I added and cut out)