|
|
|
|
It must have been a Friday afternoon. Hot. Dusty. Fine sand blowing around, dust devils whipping up newspapers and brown paper sacks into a frenzy. His back tire had blown near the free bridge on Copia street. He was stopped in an alley behind the apartment buildings made with bricks the color of dried blood. The apartments' wooden screen doors had curtains hung from strings to maintain some kinda privacy. The wind blew so hard the doors opened by themselves slapping back into the frames where the wind changed its mind.He sat leaning against his Ford, his piece of the American dream, flicking his keys between his fingers. It was the biggest and newest car he'd ever bought. Still bitter 'cause it hadn't been a brand new one, said it was plain Jane. All he wanted was a brand new car that he wouldn't have to pull the back seat out of to carry the wheelbarrow and shovels he used on his jobs.
He'd finished with work for the day. It was payday, and Juárez called. When the tire blew, he called the house hoping one of the boys would answer; it was always easier with the boys. But she was the only one home. Without saying hello, he asked her for a ride to the gas station. Making faces and also without any greeting, she said, "I'm on my way."
She pulled up in a '67 Camaro, a hot rod with a dying battery she parked on the steeper slopes of UTEP's parking lot so she could popstart the thing. She was a college girl, wearing something neat and very un-mexican, with attitude for days.
He dropped his keys in his pocket and walked over to where she sat in the running car, pausing but not long enough to let his thoughts wander out. He took her spare key, opened the trunk, and swung the tire in, the noise annoying her even more. He walked towards the passenger seat trying to figure her out, seeing more of her than she could see of herself at 18, knowing her and her life in ways she would recognize only later, much later.
They drove down the strip of Alameda St. that smelled of hamburgers, burritos, and menudo. The late afternoon sun glazed his face with the day's sweat like the glaze on a candied yam. His arms, she knew, were speckled with plaster and paint. As a child she would play with him pulling the specks of plaster from his arms as he lay on the couch at the end of the day. Later she understood that he had been too tired to move then, his heart would stop beating as he sat peeling a mango on a warm May afternoon laced with the steam of street-vendor corn and the scent of the dying blooms of spring. But now, confusion and resentment flowed between them thick as the mud in the canal that held what was left of the Rio Grande.
He rode in silence, his hands in his pocket juggling the kevs that would allow him to leave again, leave the reality of his life this side of the border. Things didn't seem to bother him so much on the other side. His car didn't even look second-hand. And he was good-looking in the smoky sunlight that drifted through the taco stands along Avenida Juárez.
She was lost between an apology and a rage at the way everything turned out. She remembered the time the wild February winds ripped the front windows out of the house, glass and dust flying all around her as she walked in from school. Remembering how thankful/prayerful she was that he was there to patch it up, make it all better. All the while wondering what would happen to her without him around. The wind blew constantly, cutting into her flesh, filling her mouth with grit, tangling tumbleweeds in her hair.
They arrived at the gasoline station that stank of diesel and urine. He got off the car, still holding his piece of the American dream in his pocket. He knew what she was thinking, read it all over her face. But he wouldn't/couldn't speak to it. It was simply too much, his language couldn't bridge the gap. Life on this side of that damned puddle was unbelievable. He took the keys from his pocket, leaned into her window as she looked him in the face and dropped the keys onto the seat saying "Let 'em bury me in that damned car. That's all it's good for," and walked off to fix the tire.
He patched the tire, splashing water all over his boots, the smell of wet cement and mud rising from his feet, and he paid the attendant as he flung the tire into the trunk. He got into the car filling it with the smell of sweat, sun and caliche. She started the car and didn't say a word. He sat staring off, gone again, looking for that place where a couple of quarts of Schlitz could take him.
She handed his keys back to him. She took his hand, and said "Don't talk like that," her fingers lingering long enough to pull a piece of plaster from his forearm.
She drove him to his car and watched him put the tire back on; he stopped only to rub away the sand that blew into his eyes. She stayed to hand him the crowbar and bolts, knowing she had to. When he finished, he thanked her and got in his car. He pulled outta the alley waving, headed towards the free bridge. She sat in her car, watching him drive off through the rear view mirror, the dust and paper bags blowing all around him till he was gone.
