A Matter of Conviction

CONCHO (He is a thin boy with deep-brown eyes and black wavy hair. He is very proud of his widow’s peak, which his mother has told him is a mark of distinction in a man. He has also been told about a famous male movie star who tweezes his widow’s peak to keep it well defined. He has been tempted to use tweezers on his forehead, but he is afraid the boys would find out and consider it unmasculine. He is concerned about masculinity because his father is a drunkard whose most masculine act is beating Concho’s mother regularly and brutally. Concho is disturbed by the fact that he’s skinny. If he were huskier, he would beat up his father whenever he came near his mother. As it is, he can only stand by in impotent anger while his father, a hulk of a man, commits the unmanly act of beating a woman. Concho’s real name is Mario. He began calling himself Concho after he’d seen a Western movie in which the marshal of the town, a man named Concho, cleaned out a saloonful of toughs with his bare hands. In a street fight, Concho behaves like a wild man. He never goes into a fight unarmed, whatever the terms laid down by the war counselors. He knows he has personally stabbed fourteen spies in various rumbles. He does not know that he is responsible for having torn to shreds the ligaments in an opponent’s right hand, rendering that hand forever useless. If he knew, he would boast about it. His speech is peppered with the pseudomusical jargon of the gutter. He dresses neatly and precisely and prides himself on the fact that he always carries a clean handkerchief.): What I mean is this. Can you feature anybody actually marrying a spic chick? I mean, this is insane.

DIABLO: What’s the difference? A chick is a chick. The Spanish guys marry them, don’t they?

CONCHO: Sure, but it must drive them nuts. They’re all nymphos.

DIABLO: How the hell do you know?

CONCHO: I know. Somebody told me. You can’t never satisfy a Spanish girl. They want more and more.

DIABLO: You can’t even satisfy your hand, you shmuck. What the hell do you know about Spanish girls?

CONCHO: Listen, I know. Don’t I know, Botch?