No More Us for You Chapter One Carlos So there I was, sitting on my folding chair, my first day as a guard at the Long Beach Contemporary Museum, when a man walked in and stood with his back turned to me, arms dangling at his sides. At first I didn't know what he was doing, why he was looking down. I thought there was something on the floor that held his attention--a plaque I hadn't noticed, an air vent, some strange insect crawling silently across the hardwood. He spread his feet apart and lifted his head toward the ceiling, at the industrial pipes snaking up there, the light fixture angled at a large pile of bright green sand in the corner of the museum. He moaned. Then the urine came. "Hey!" I shouted. I stood up from my chair and walked toward the man, half confused, half afraid. Maybe he had a knife. "What are you doing?" I said, which was stupid. I mean, it was pretty obvious. The man ignored me. Urine splashed on the floor, his puddle growing bigger before him. "You can't do that," I said. The man looked over his shoulder and continued relieving himself. He was in his early thirties, with a goatee and a long, slender nose. His eyes were self-assured, sleepy, as if he'd been urinating in public all his life and was now bored with the act. "Who says I can't?" the man said. "I say." "And who are you?" "I'm the museum guard." It was the last Sunday in January, and up until that moment I had been thinking what an easy gig this was, how little foot traffic there was, that people were probably at home reading the paper, mowing their lawns, or at church listening to a sermon. And then this jackass walked into the museum. "Nice jacket," the man said. I had thought my suit and tie made me look professional, older and confident, someone who was doing things right. But after his remark I felt foolish, like I was playing dress-up. The man wiggled his hips. The stink of his piss was pungent, slamming into my nose like the breath of a Dumpster. "You're going to have to clean that up," I told him. "Says who?" "Says me ." "I'm sorry," the man said, "who are you again?" "The museum guard!" "Oh, right, right," the man said, zipping up. He tucked his shirt in and flicked the name tag that was pinned to my jacket. He patted my shoulder. "Good work," he said. Ms. Otto, my boss, came running from the east wing of the museum, her heels clicking fast across the floor. She had a platinum blond bob and her bangs were snipped perfectly above her brows, ruler-straight. She was a small woman, petite, but her voice added weight to her presence. "What's all this yelling about?" she demanded. The man turned around, surveying the museum. "Terrific exhibit," he said, nodding. "That one right there is my favorite." He motioned toward the giant rag doll Jesus sprawled on the floor. The artist had used brown yarn for hair, a heavy black thread to stitch two Xs for eyes. A pair of scuffed boxing gloves were fitted over the hands. "What's going on here, Carlos?" Ms. Otto's eyes darted to me, to the man walking away, to me again, to the puddle on the floor, then back to me. There was something accusatory about her gaze. "He did it!" I said, pointing at the man, who was now walking leisurely toward the exit. " Sir ," she called out. "Sir, come back here!" The automatic sliding doors glided open, and the man stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Ms. Otto made a grunting noise like there was a bear inside her throat as she headed toward the front desk, her bob quivering with each step. "I told him he couldn't do that," I said to her back. Ms. Otto began questioning the receptionist, who lifted the handset of the telephone and turned in my direction. I held my hands out and shook my head slowly as if to say, There wasn't anything I could've done to stop that man from urinating. Ms. Otto stormed off, furious, her heels echoing throughout the museum. I put my hand against my jacket pocket where I kept my bag of Red Vines. Now wasn't a good time. I was addicted to the red licorice, its sweet flavor and gummy texture, but it also kept me from biting my fingernails, a nervous habit I had had as far back as I could remember. I was probably biting my nails inside my mother's womb. Seconds later Ms. Otto returned with a roll of paper towels and an aerosol can. "We're going to have to clean this up." She handed me the paper towels while she sprayed the area with Glade. Now the museum smelled like Tropical Mist and urine. "Do you have any rubber gloves?" I asked her. "And a trash bag?" "Yes, yes, I'll be right back." She set down the aerosol can and marched off. I unspooled the paper towels like a giant scroll, tore off about ten sheets, and let them fall on the puddle. I imagined myself in a commercial, testing the durability of one brand of paper towels over another. What's this? I heard the narrator say. The camera slowly zoomed to the urine pond on the floor of the museum. Nothing Brawny can't handle. So strong. So soft. Then there'd be a shot of me in my museum guard uniform, on my knees, wiping. That's triple-action performance. That's Brawny. Ms. Otto came back with a plastic trash bag and a pair of rubber gloves that were taxicab yellow. "Here you go, Carlos," she said. "I need to make some phone calls. Can you take care of this?" "Sure," I said, trying to conceal my irritation. "Great. Thanks," she said, then trotted back to her office. No More Us for You . Copyright © by David Hernandez. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from No More Us for You by David Hernandez All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
