This begins a highly fictionalized memoir, a sort of A Tree Grows on Mango Street on Rye, if you will.
FINALLY, WE DECIDED to go to our father and ask him. He would know. Our mother’s English was not too good, but Papi, he talked like the people on TV did. He read the paper every day and listened to the WINS radio. Give us 10 minutes and we’ll give you the world. Papi would know.
He came by in the afternoons, since he didn’t live with us. You couldn’t bother him while he was on the phone or when he was writing down the people’s numbers on the blue paper. So we waited until the phone stopped ringing and he had his drink in his hand.
We made so much noise laughing that Mami came in to check on us. We told her about Fumes Of Terror, and she laughed, then she told us to say our prayers and go to sleep.
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