bull's-eye | 2002-10-22 - 8:38 p.m.

It was the end of the shift and Eduardo and I were in the kitchen, charlando about -- ya lo adivinaste -- the most recent sniper atrocity. Both of us were outraged that the sniper had struck nuevamente, but Eduardo was particularmente enfadado that the latest victim was a bus driver.

"Shit," he said, shaking his head. "Mi hermano drives a bus. As if there weren't already enough reasons for him to quit. The pay's lousy, people are always urinating and vomiting in your vicinity, and now, encima de todo, they've got chiflados with assault weapons shooting at you."

I was going to remind him that violencia is nothing new as far as L*s *ng*l*s C**nty bus drivers are concerned, but Eduardo had already started venting at Pedro.

Pedro was shaking his head. "I don't know," he told Eduardo. "If I were your brother I wouldn't quit my job just yet. The shootings are terrifying, but they're happening all the way on the other side of the country, ya sabes?"

"For now, they are." This was Luz, the 60-something waitress with the hacking smoker's cough, suspiciously burgundy hair, and gloomy disposition. "Just you wait -- any day now, some nutcase over here's gonna go in for a little shooting practice at the local Arco. Not that I'm planning on being his first victim," she added, patting a pistol-shaped bulge on the side of her white pleather purse.

Eduardo rolled his eyes. "When you shoot, remember to go for the guy hiding in the bushes and not the one pumping gas, OK, abuelita?"

Everybody laughed, except Pedro. He was looking at me. "Castigada, are you OK?" he asked.

I nodded. All this ch�chara about guns was making me nerviosa, but I wasn't about to let my guard down in front of Pedro. "I'm fine," I told him. "There are only about ten stops between here and my house. I've been riding the bus for years, and ... and ... nothing's happened to me yet."

Pedro looked puzzled. "I mean," he said, "are you OK? You look kind of ... pale."

It was then that I remembered. In my rush to get to work on time, I'd forgotten to put on any make-up. Catching sight of myself in a mirror on the kitchen wall, I nearly dropped my purse. Staring back at me was a reflejo so pale and sickly I barely recognized it as my own. It was like looking at Robert Smith, without the lipstick and eyeliner.

What came next made me turn even paler.

"Why don't I give you a ride home, Castigada," said Pedro. "You can't be too careful these days, with all these chiflados around." Without waiting for my respuesta, he gently took my purse in one hand and my right arm in the other.

As I floated to the back door, where Pedro's car was parked, I caught a glimpse of Luz. She was grinning like a teenage girl at a rave and giving me a big thumbs up.

Bull's-eye, she mouthed.

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