The summer at the end of my sophomore year, Roberto taught me how to drive the Santa Maria Window Cleaners van on weekends. I started my lessons in the parking lot behind the gas company. The van and I did not get along. Every time I got behind the wheel, it jerked and sputtered. When I applied the brakes, which I did every few feet, brooms and mops ended up in the front seat. My brother’s patience got shorter and his prayers got longer as I drove around in circles as if I were on a merry-go-round. I perfected my right turns, but the rest of my driving skills needed a lot of work. When I finally took the exam for my driver’s license, I got a hundred percent on the written section but barely passed the driving test.
Once I got my driver’s license, I was anxious to drive any car other than our DeSoto. The car had been in a wreck. The window on the driver’s side did not close all the way. The front left door was smashed in and did not close either, so we secured it with a rope. I begged Roberto like a child to let me drive his Buick. He often gave in, but one time when he did not, I got mad and yelled at him. Papá heard me. “What’s the matter with you, Panchito?” he said angrily. “You can’t yell at Roberto. He’s your older brother. Apologize.”
“I am sorry,” I said, lowering my head.
“Why don’t you give him the keys to the DeSoto, viejo?” Mamá said to Papá.
“You mean the DeSoto viejo,” Trampita said.
“It’s not that old,” Papá said. “It still runs.”
“Like a turtle,” Trampita responded, laughing. “It’s Panchito’s speed.”
Knowing that Trampita and Torito hid in the back seat so their friends would not see them in the DeSoto when Mamá drove them to school every time they missed the bus, I said, “I’ll drive you to school in it tomorrow.” Trampita made a face. I knew he liked to drive in my brother’s car. Sometimes he and Torito would get up extra early to get a ride to school in the Buick with Roberto and me.
But no one liked the Buick as much as Roberto. It was his pride and joy. He took care of it as though it were part of him. He washed and polished it once a week and dusted it every day with a rag he kept underneath the front seat. The interior was spotless. His high school friend who worked at an upholstery shop tucked and rolled the dashboard in exchange for a record player cabinet my brother made in wood shop. On the side of both fenders, Roberto installed six-inch chrome pipes in the three portals and strung tiny white lights underneath the car frame. He took a broken portable record player that someone had thrown away, fixed it, placed it on the floor of the front seat, rewired it, and plugged it in to the cigarette lighter in the car. He played records on it when the car was parked. Next to the gas tank door he painted a small skunk with a sign above it that read LITTLE STINKER. I tried to convince him not to do it because I thought it was silly, but he ignored me. “I like it!” he told me proudly. “Besides, it’s my car.” Papá must have liked it too, because he did not say anything about it to my brother.
Most of the high school guys who had cars decorated them. On Saturday nights they cruised up and down Broadway, showing them off and dragging when the police were not around. Roberto did not have time to cruise, but he took pride when people gawked at his car.
My joy of going to school with Roberto in his Buick and driving home with him after work ended when Mike Nevel asked me to clean the Western Union every morning before it opened at seven o’clock. I was tempted to say no because I had to get up extra early and drive the DeSoto, but Papá taught us never to turn down work. Besides, we needed the extra money. After I cleaned the Western Union, I would drive to school, taking side streets so that my classmates would not see me. I would park the car several blocks away from school, behind the county fairgrounds, and walk to class.
One day Roberto passed by as I was walking out of the fairgrounds on my way to school. I looked the other way, hoping he did not see me. The next morning he got up at the same time I did. “Why are you getting up so early?” I asked.
“I am helping you clean the Western Union.”
“You are!” I exclaimed, smiling ear to ear. “This means . . .”
“Yes, give Papá the keys to the DeSoto. You won’t need them.”
After cleaning the Western Union, Roberto and I drove up Broadway to school, just like before. The Little Stinker decal did not bother me as much anymore.