I
For an hour, I wait around the side of the cinder-block service station so the attendant will not see me and try to talk. About twelve-thirty, the tow truck pulls in. It is a shimmering black Ford, its platform so huge an SUV could ride on it. It has wide chrome bumpers. It has a grille along which sparks of sun slide as it humps the curb and maneuvers to back before my car. It is as polished as a fire truck, and the newness of the vehicle so startles me that I hesitate, not certain it is for me. By the time I run up, the driver has been honking at the attendant with the long greasy hair.
The man struts up to the truck, a soiled cloth hanging out of his back pocket and swinging like a horsetail, shading his eyes as he peers up.
They start a conversation so I slow to a walk, then stop several feet away. Maybe I should interrupt and tell the man it is my car, but I do not want to be rude. The platform-truck driver gets out, still talking, and steps down from the chrome footrail and lands on the asphalt. Though he makes the landing easily enough, his flannel shirt—torn to be short-sleeved—does nothing to hide his beer belly, and the red bandanna wrapped around his forehead matches the pockmarks on his cheeks. His crusty jeans are so threadbare they shine as they rub upon his thighs. His arms appear hard and I can make out the shape of his muscles as they move beneath his freckled skin, and the biker tattoos along his arms. The men seem to know each other and talk about common acquaintances.
Soon it becomes obvious the tow truck guy is waiting around for whoever owns Tomas’s car. For some reason the attendant does not tell him it’s me. They exchange words about the vintage-car races up in Oregon, and the fleet of old colorful cars that drove in yesterday afternoon and took over the town, filling up the motels and bars. It seems awkward for me to say anything at this point, and I feel weird just watching this conversation. Several times the truck driver glances my way, probably wondering why I am listening. Finally, possibly because of me, he announces that he is going to give up on the owner and leave, and begins to turn towards his truck.
He has turned before I can signal to him, and the gas attendant looks curiously at me but does not say a word. I call to the tow truck driver.
He stops with a boot on the footrail and asks me who I am. I tell him I own the car.
Why the hell didn’t you say something? he says with a smile. I nearly left.
Sorry.
You’re the one who would’ve been without a tow. Don’t be sorry to me.
He fastens a chain end under the Oldsmobile’s bumper and a motor drags it up onto the platform. It stands up there like an advertisement for Los Angeles gangsterdom, bright white against the blue sky. The man does not give it a second look, though.
From inside the cab you can see the roofs of the cars we pass, and as we turn onto the main street you can see right into the laps of drivers and all the items on their seats, and into the dirty beds of rust-crusted pickup trucks. Nobody can hide. The cab smells strongly of pine, which comes from a little plastic tree that dangles from the rearview mirror. After hesitating for a long time I roll down the window and let in warm fresh air that blows against my forehead, dries my eyes, and makes me squint. The tow truck man drives and looks forward, whistling occasionally. A few times he glances my way. Maybe I should not have opened the window. Wind rattles a piece of paper stuck like a bee above the dashboard and I think about closing it but do not.
I feel the man thinking about me. Finally he turns my way.
Sorry about that, he says. You looked too young to be driving a big old Olds like that one. I expected some sort of a grandpa.
My grandpa gave it to me, I lie to him.
He nods to himself.
In Culver City or Venice no grandpa with any brains would leave his ten-year-old gas-guzzling Olds parked on the street. Apart from a Land Cruiser, it’s what everyone wants to steal. It is obvious that though he deals with cars, this man does not know anything about LA gangs and their car habits. I let my shoulders slack a little.
That’s a nice grandpa, he says.
Yeah, I know.
We drive without a word along the main street, then begin the upward slant towards the foothills, passing beneath a traffic light that arches over the street like a gateway. Again I sense the man glancing my way, and automatically I shrug as if the feeling I get from it were a bird on my shoulder.
Finally he says: Why didn’t you say anything back there? It must’ve been obvious I was looking for the owner of your car.
I don’t know.
He regards me curiously, then smiles and laughs. All right then. That makes two of us. You thirsty? Why don’t you reach back behind your seat and pull out the cooler. Have yourself what you want.
Thanks.
The foam lid comes off the chest and feels cold in my fingers, and the icy air rises to my face. Wet ice slides down my chosen can of root beer, bunching above my fingers, and I can barely restrain myself from opening it while getting his can of Budweiser, I am so hungry. First I pop his open and hand it to him, then finally pop my own can and put the cold metal to my lips before it stops hissing. The sugar seems to enter my bloodstream right away. My lips peel free from the cold metal.
Boy you’re thirsty, he says.
I set the can between my thighs and turn to him and nod.
Don’t stop now, he says. Go at it, buddy.
I drink.
We stop at the gas station I pulled into last night. Maybe I should warn him about bad gas. When you know something that could hurt someone or their truck you should say something about it, but for some reason I do not. And I do not want the tow truck guy to know I should be complaining to the gas guy either, so I duck lower in my seat so the attendant cannot see me. The tow truck guy offers to go inside and buy me something to eat. I tell him no thanks, but later see him paying for a candy bar.
When he passes my window on his way to the pump, he hands the candy bar up casually, as though we are old buddies and there is no need to thank him. From the way he looks you would think he was some sort of a local biker or redneck, but something about the way he did this seems familiar, and as he moves about his truck he seems different from the other people you see in this town. Just as I am wondering whether he is from Los Angeles and maybe he will recognize something about Tomas’s car, I notice a USC emblem dangling from his key chain.
The pump clicks off and the metal nozzle scrapes the truck as he takes it out of the tank, then he opens his door.
Getting into the cab and reaching for the ignition, he says, You’re a quiet type, aren’t you?
I nod.
He thinks this over.
That’s a good trait to have, he says.
We turn back onto the main street and pass an old sooty brick building whose black tar roof glitters in the sunlight. In the distance the mountains are white-capped. Patches of snow peer out brilliantly from within the bowls and crags of granite faces, and seem to flicker as we move.
That’s a pretty strange trait for someone who comes from Los Angeles.
I guess so.
You don’t seem like the LA type, he says, stretching his arm to rest it upon his window like a cowboy in a western. I stretch out my own arm and rest it the same way, but the plastic is too high and feels hard against the knob of my elbow. As he smokes a cigarette the smoke glows in the sunlight and drifts out the crack above the window in a thin sheet.
So you wondering how I know you’re from LA? he says.
I wasn’t really, but I tell him sure.
I saw the road maps in your backseat, he says. I hope you don’t mind I peered in.
No.
Sure, buddy. I could tell you’re an easy sort of guy. I knew you wouldn’t.
He puts a hand on my shoulder and even through my shirt his heavy palm feels moist and wet. He squeezes. As we drive towards the edge of town into the early slant of the foothills my body seems more relaxed than it has in a long time. As he waves at a passing driver, an old woman with a mound of white hair, I almost wave too.
Then he speaks without taking his eyes off the faded asphalt, That’s too bad for you.
What?
You know, that you come from Los Angeles.
I nod.
Fucking shithole if you ask me.
We pass a German shepherd rummaging through an overturned trash can. I tightly grip the plastic door handle.
Sure it is, I say.
Crime. Traffic. You don’t get that kind of idiocy up here.
No?
Not a bit.
He waits for something more.
Sounds great, I tell him.
So you like it down there?
I guess not.
He nods approvingly. You know I’m from San Bernardino originally, he says. Lived there, Riverside, San Pedro. You must know those places.
Yeah, I lie.
Too bad for you.
He slaps his thigh and leans forward laughing.
Yeah, shitholes both, he adds. San Pedro especially.
He looks at me like he wants me to say something about San Pedro, some special detail, and I try to think of names of avenues but my pulse beats beneath my wrist and I can’t think of anything. I slide up in my seat.
Yeah, I say. It’s a crappy place.
This seems to make him feel better, like I have helped him picture San Pedro in his mind. He talks about San Bernardino and Riverside and I tell him they suck too. He gets worked up. He fingers his damp bandanna off his forehead, then wipes the sweat off with the back of his hand and it comes away with drops of moisture glistening on the fine little hairs.
Despite his flannel shirt with a Harley patch and his bandanna, now that I know where he is from something about him seems obviously Los Angeles, something in the way he moves and the way he speaks. He says he used to be a mechanical engineer in an auto plant. He doesn’t look like my idea of an engineer. I ask him about this and he tells me he has done a bunch of things and even used to be a working actor.
He asks me about San Bernardino. I stiffen, knowing nothing, but then think to tell him Venice is worse. He nods and seems satisfied.
Venice is a shithole, he says.
I nod.
Bunch of fucking Mexicans.
I keep quiet. In the rearview mirror I can see Tomas’s white Oldsmobile, the white painted bumpers and the black tires shining in the mountain sunlight. This guy obviously doesn’t know about Oldsmobiles. Hopefully nobody will know about them in any gas stations we might pass.
Am I wrong? he says.
It’s true.
He shakes his head, gripping the steering wheel, getting excited. Sunlight catches the little hairs on his arm and they look blond and almost reddish and I can see where the muscles move beneath. But it isn’t near as bad as San Pedro, he says. Cambodians, Vietnamese, Laotians.
I say nothing.
Am I right? he says.
Sure.
All those mute Asians won’t even learn to speak English.
My pulse beats in my neck and my temples and my fingertips. My eyes avoid the rearview mirror as a hot itchiness grows in my underarms and I want to take off my sweater. He must be blind. Maybe it’s because of my clothes and the way I now cut my hair. Outside the yellow sun hangs over the mountain range. A hazy smudge of burnt color. We pass low spindly pine trees and a wide mesa plain covered by clusters of shaggy cactus in prickly silhouette. A honking caravan of vintage cars approaches from the opposite lane—two black and three yellow—and they flash by and disappear behind us.
He taps the steering wheel with his fingertips, clicking the plastic. He begins to whistle.
After a while he looks at me: You want another root beer, Gabe? You drank the last one up pretty good.
I shake my head.
Maybe later.
I nod.
He regards me.
You know, I hope it didn’t bother you what I said about them Asians being quiet. I think it’s good you’re a quiet guy. More people should learn to listen, is what I say.
Sure.
I didn’t mean to make any judgments about quiet people, per se.
I know.
It’s just when these people come to this country and won’t learn English, how can a person like that listen? No, it’s a different thing.
Maybe I’ll have that root beer, I say.
Sure, buddy, he says, leaning back. He lifts the ice chest lid for me this time. The can snaps open and hisses. He hands it to me. The can is slippery with ice and nearly slides out from my hand and I steady it and thank him.
It’s just people like that made me want to move up here, he says.
I know what you mean.
You do?
Yeah.
He thinks about this and nods. We pass through a thinning in the trees and dappled light illuminates his face followed by a sharp light which then slowly fades. I notice where shadows fall beneath his eyes from worry. We round a curve and his face catches the sun again and I notice that his glowing stubble has red ends and they cover wrinkles at the edges of his mouth.
So you like it up here? I say.
Sure.
It sounds nice that you don’t have any crime. Where we live it’s a big problem for my mom.
Is that right?
Yeah.
He shakes his head, true concern on his face.
She has to sleep in the back of our house because of drive-by shootings, I say.
You can’t be serious.
Oh yeah, I nod. We get all kinds. The Mexicans come up and it’s like they’re still roaming all the barrios killing each other down in Mexico. They have their neighborhoods they mark up with graffiti. Like pissing dogs. The new ones have macho mustaches and slick their hair back like they’re some kind of Spanish Casanovas, but they’re like these short Indian-looking guys. The Cambodians are the worst. It’s like their war isn’t over yet.
You know, he says, getting excited, his eyes widening, I really know what you mean.
Suddenly he looks upon me with fatherly concern. An overwhelming warmth spreads within me like an intake of hot sour breath. Blushing, I turn away.
He leans forward and fingers open his top shirt button, barely able to restrain himself. A gold chain connects to a pendant which rests against a nest of chest hair. He pulls it out.
Here, take a look at this, he says, handing it to me.
The warm sweaty metal feels heavy in my fingers. It takes a moment of fumbling for the latch to snap open. There’s a picture of a pretty blond girl inside.
He seems to be nervously studying me as if to see what I think of her.
Who’s this? I finally say.
She was my daughter.
The photo is a cutout from a color snapshot and you can see where the edges were trimmed with scissors to make it oval. She looks about twenty and is smiling and you can see her baby fat beneath her pale skin and she wears some sort of a fitted suit and looks nothing like this man. I want to ask him what he means by “was,” but I do not.
He unbuttons his shirt further, then peels back the damp fabric to reveal more of his chest. Matted chest hair clings to the shirt wool, then pops back. It seems weird that he would do this, and I look down.
Look here, he says.
There is a quarter-sized red scar on his chest, and suddenly he takes my hand in his sweaty palm and leads my finger to it. I have to force myself not to jerk away, this is so surprising. His black chest hair feels thick against my fingertip, the skin warm. A pulse beats, though I do not know whether it is his or mine.
It’s a bullet hole, he finally says.
I do not know what you are supposed to say to something like this. Some people seem to have words for everything, but not me. In my throat a lump swells and ebbs. I cannot even get myself to ask how it happened.
I’m telling you, buddy, he says, buttoning back up. You should think about moving your mom to this place. She sounds like a real nice lady.
II
We come out of a hilly forest onto a high plateau meadow of grass which glows light green in the sunlight, and my words will no longer come. We ride quietly. Having no words makes me nervous and I glance at him and then quickly back to forward and I do this again several times and then finally I ask him how come things are so safe around here.
It seems to me with so few people around you could not get away with any mischief without people noticing and anyway people wouldn’t be so cramped and uptight and crazy, but this question feels like something which would please him. He tells me the locals keep it clean. That there is not a mall or a McDonald’s for a hundred miles. Only decent people live around here.
But how do you keep undesirables out? I say, adding that my mother’s safety makes this of particular interest to me.
He shifts excitedly. You know how journalists keep coming up here to study reports of alien abductions?
Yeah.
Well there’s plenty of abductions, but it isn’t aliens that do it.
I keep still. Menace fills the cab like steam in a shower and we pass an old meadow of brittle brown grass and an abandoned shack sits at the edge of it, the windows slotted, by a tight cluster of ragged trees. Their branches look like the teeth of an old rusted saw. Our tires crackle over a patch of windblown gravel, then continue their smooth rubber hum.
These locals are crazy, he says. They take troubles into their own hands. When undesirables come up, they tell them to get lost, and if they don’t, that’s their own peril.
We come into large fields of low alfalfa traversed by long shining pipes standing on tripods, spraying water each thirty yards. Rainbow colors glow faintly in the mist. Probably there are a million places you could buy a plot of land and build a small house and live for really cheap. So many people live in dumpy little houses in LA and complain about smog and crime and even about all the complaining people. Why they stay there I do not know. This could be a farm like where Mom grew up. Only no peasants live on the land. No people for hundreds of yards, no groups of them for many miles to bother you.
So they keep it safe here, I tell him.
Sure.
That’s good.
The man notices me nod approvingly as I stare out the window.
I’ve lived here eight years since it happened, he says, pausing. It is clear he means something about the bullet and his dead daughter. We are quiet and I want to say something to make him feel better. We pass a sixteen-wheeler whose wind shakes and rattles our cab. I tell him some rotten stories about LA so he can think about how much better things are for him now, though I am careful not to ask him about his daughter. Watching Tomas has given me plenty to talk about, though I do not tell him he is my brother but make it seem like the gangsters I describe are just people I have seen in school.
He shakes his head, bewildered. That’s a hell of a childhood to live through, he says.
I let him sympathize for me, lowering my head towards my lap. In this way I do not have to put another word in for twenty miles.
III
He tries to tell me about hunting trips he used to take with his brother, which is how he found out about this region originally, though he finally falls silent. He seems preoccupied and, sensing him glance my way a couple of times, I wonder if he is worried about the ordeals I have to go through being a school kid in Venice. To tell the truth, I only lasted in Venice High less than a week. I feel bad I told him those stories. At one point, out of the blue, he tells me the girl in the locket picture was his only kid. I do not know what to say to this—it seems weird he would keep telling me this sort of thing. His worrying fills the car, which reminds me of driving with Mom. She will worry about me like crazy.
Look, buddy, he says. We’re coming to the place I told you about. Let me buy you lunch.
You don’t have to do that.
Oh it’s no problem.
This is the first time I have ever heard of a tow truck driver buying his customer lunch, but for some reason he keeps insisting. He will not take no for an answer and seems to get sore so I keep quiet.
He parks in a dirt lot and we head towards an old diner.
Though the wall-like windows are tinted, walking towards the restaurant I can see faintly within a few people sitting in booths.
Suddenly I notice my reflection in the mirrored glass and it appears so obviously Asian I almost stop in my tracks. My eyes look narrow, and my hair straight and coarse and black. He must be blind. I have slender Asian hips, and my cheekbones are too high. The way the sunlight hits my face you cannot even make out my eyes. My eyes jerk away. Everyone will be able to tell. I might even look Mexican, but not white. My heart thumps in my throat—if someone recognizes me after what I said to him about Asians—I don’t know. I avoid the tow truck guy’s face—annoyed that he didn’t notice and keep me out of this place with its people. The idea of firing him or insisting on waiting in the cab even occurs to me—my right—but that seems ridiculous. Suddenly I stop before the door.
He turns and looks at me. What’s the matter, buddy? Aren’t you coming in?
I look towards the truck which sits unlocked in the sunlight.
Sure, I tell him.
Inside, the tinted glass makes the room darker. My eyes relax after the outdoor straining but immediately dart around to see if anyone is studying me. A number of people sit in booths of crusted brown vinyl, but they do not look our way and we sit at the counter.
As he sits his jeans move loosely over his wide thighs, and his faint reflection appears on the polished countertop. He sets down his elbows and leans forward.
Susan, he calls out.
A waitress enters the room from the kitchen door and struts our way, fingering her large earrings.
Hey-llo, Stone, she says, then looks down at me. Who’s your friend?
His name is Gabe.
As she gently scrutinizes my face, my eyes find the countertop. She seems to sense something strange but breaks into a smile. She is a person who looks young for her age—smooth skin, but with something older in her eyes—and her forearm is so delicate you can see light blue veins beneath her arms.
Nice to meet you, Gabe.
She asks me what I want to eat and I tell her a hamburger and the man makes his order and tells her to add fries and a chocolate sundae to mine and she goes off into the kitchen. While she is out of the room I relax a little, noticing that near the ceiling the walls are bare drywall and the carpeting is not wall-to-wall, but one beige piece spread upon bare concrete. When she comes back he has told me the prices of housing in the area, in case my good mother decides she would like to consider relocating. As the waitress nears us, I try to get him off the topic (in case she might put location and face together and think I look like an Asian or Mexican) by bringing up a hunting discussion we covered earlier.
He ignores me by turning to the lady and telling her I’m from Los Angeles but I’m different and what a smart kid I am to listen to.
She looks at me, So you’re from Los Angeles?
I nod.
Yeah, we get a lot of travelers coming through, she says. I don’t think too much of most of them.
Oh, he’s okay, the man says.
She pretends to scrutinize me: You’d better not be too nice to the boy, Stone. He might have a rich mother who’ll come up and jack up our housing prices.
She winks at me and thucks down a water glass. Ice clicks against the sides.
The man tells her my mother has to sleep in the living room due to unprovoked drive-by Asian gang shootings, but I do not remind him it is really that the gangs are Mexican—which I had told him—or that they are mad at me and my brother—which I had not.
The waitress shakes her head sympathetically and clicks her tongue. She seems about to say something but the door opens, letting in a breeze and a sharp flood of daylight, making her face and the room glow like breath-blown embers. She frowns as she sees a teenage girl coming in, and without a word she walks off and puts her head into the kitchen door, as if she were preoccupied.
The girl sits right next to us, shifting about as she gets comfortable on her stool and setting a handbag on the counter, her leather strap drooping off the edge. She opens a plastic menu.
The waitress comes back, ignoring the girl.
It sounds like you know how to take care of your good mother, she says to me. She is speaking very loudly.
She doesn’t pay attention when I nod, but steps in front of the girl. Suddenly she takes the menu from the girl’s hands.
The girl looks up. Why’d you do that?
You know what’s on the menu, Becky. Just tell me what you want.
The girl looks at her in disbelief. They know what’s on it, she says, gesturing toward some men in a corner booth, But you don’t take menus away from them.
You gonna order, Becky, or what?
Oh, did you forget? You already know what I want. I always get the same thing.
The waitress sighs. With a hand on her hip, she just looks at the girl. The girl seems to feel her stare.
What? she says.
So you gonna pay for it?
The girl rolls her eyes. It’s your money. If you want to throw it away, fine.
The woman glances around, as if embarrassed the girl would talk so disrespectfully in front of others. It’s just that you seem to want to be treated exactly like any paying customer, you’re so grown up.
Fuck you.
The waitress reaches over and slaps the girl’s water glass on its side, sending ice sliding across the counter. She throws a rag on the puddle and walks into the kitchen.
The girl swears to herself, then under her breath adds the word bitch.
We all sit quietly. So far the girl hasn’t paid me much attention. With the waitress gone, I tense, just waiting for her to look over at me. It is always young people more than grown-ups who notice there is something about me. The girl does not touch the rag, and water runs along the table in a spreading puddle. The tow truck guy reaches for the rag and mops the mess up, although it gets soaked before he can sop up all the water. Some drips onto my lap and I have no napkin and am too embarrassed to ask for one, so I stop the cold liquid and sliding cubes with a finger, then roll my wrist sideways to sop it discreetly with a sleeve. Perhaps this will not draw the girl’s attention. But as I sense her glance my way, my hand stops. The tow truck guy seems embarrassed and pretends not to notice. It is obvious, though, that we are both aware of this girl sitting there.
Finally the waitress comes back. She sets down our plates with a distracted plastic smile and then snaps up her rag. Mist sprays across my face. She disappears again.
Bitch, the girl says.
The man’s left cheek twitches violently, followed by a slight shudder of his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything though.
We eat quietly, then the waitress returns. She seems slightly aloof and embarrassed now, even while she tries to make small talk with us. She wipes up the counter as she tries to trade words with the tow truck guy, pointedly ignoring the girl. If only she would not mention where I am from in front of the daughter. But finally she does, saying something about teenagers being no better here than in LA.
The girl squints evilly her way. Then, her eyes slide toward me and begin taking note of me for the first time. They hesitate on my face as I eat, carefully. She knows something. On her wrist she has a strange, slug-sized, delicate tattoo and her fingernails have the chipped faded remnants of black fingernail polish. It is all I can do to keep spooning food into my mouth.
You’re from LA? she says.
Sort of.
What do you mean sort of?
Santa Monica.
Is that your Olds on the back of the tow truck?
Heads turn towards the window to the truck where the Olds sits high upon its back, bright as a seashell’s interior.
Why’d you paint the chrome white like that? she says after not getting a response.
No reason.
Well, there must be some reason.
Because it looks good.
No it doesn’t.
She expects an answer. The tow truck man pretends to study his sandwich.
Let the boy eat, her mother interrupts.
The girl says something unkind and gets up and leaves the room, thank God. The waitress looks after her and picks up her glass and silver and drops them clattering into a dish bucket and mumbles something about the ignorance of young people but seems visibly relaxed now. The man is deadly still. The sandwich remains uneaten on his plate. The waitress mumbles something about the girl being a little bitch and the man excuses himself and goes into the bathroom. She looks after him, her rag hanging limply in her hand. When he comes back she asks if I am old enough for coffee, and the man answers yes for me, and she flips over the cups and fills them both. It smells good and warm and you can take the aroma in deeply.
That’s it kid, he says. Drink up.
He takes me around the booths and introduces me to the people he knows as I follow him around. Something about this feels weird, like maybe it is the way a man would show off his son, and as people look at me curiously I wonder if they know about the dead daughter. He seems to expect me to stand beside him like a statue on display. But as we move around the tables I find myself not minding that he would introduce me like this. Maybe I even feel a little proud, keeping close beside him as men reach out and shake my hand, or just nod at me. To those people he does not know, the waitress introduces us with a few sharp words, giving each man a sarcastic title, making them chuckle. In the corner booth he makes references to the gangs my mother has to endure. When he refers to Mexicans, an old man whose hand shakes from age as it holds a cigarette looks away from him as if from embarrassment. The old guy taps his cigarette and stares out the window.
IV
Now I suppose it is possible the old guy thought I was Mexican. Or maybe he did not like Stone saying these sorts of things, or he could even have hated Stone. I wouldn’t know, but I got the feeling we should leave, though Stone stuck around talking to the old guys, who obviously did not want him there. I have noticed that lots of times people have no clue where they are welcome or not, though that has not been my problem—at least, I know when to leave, although maybe not necessarily when to stay.
After all, I would have gotten out of there the second the old guy turned towards the window, but later when we got onto the topic of hunting outside Navarro, the man turned back to him and you could see the interest in his eye. This seemed to satisfy Stone—seemed to give him what he wanted—and soon after, we left. Me, I don’t know that all that nervousness was worth it for a couple of sentences exchanged about hunting.
In some way, though, I got the feeling he wanted those old guys to like him, in front of me.
He takes me into the kitchen to tour the facilities. Why he would do this, I do not know. The cook and dishwasher are Mexican and, away from the old men, the moodiness of a moment ago seems to have left him. The long steel counter is cluttered with glinting dishes, and a back door opens to daylight which seems to give the doorframe a rectangular halo. The brightness makes everything inside the kitchen appear slightly blurry.
It seems strange that he would want to show me the kitchen, but he does and seems proud of it, and finally explains that he owns a small part of the restaurant, a very small part. As he shows me around, the two Mexicans look upon him with their arms crossed, and once they trade amused glances behind his back. They appear only a few years older than me. Though I try to avoid their eyes, once the cook seems to wink at me, though afterwards I am not sure if this really happened. They should not take such liberties. Finished with the tour, Stone tries to think if there is anything left to show me. Not thinking of anything, he still seems reluctant to leave. They are watching us. A tap drips water and a bird chirps shrilly outside. The branches of a leafless tree appear dark and thin against the clean sky. This man, he must be blind.
My eyes ease towards the sunny back doorway where I would like to go, but he just leans against the counter lost in his mind. The Mexican workers trade more looks.
Maybe we should go now, I say.
He seems to pull himself out of his thoughts, looking up at me.
Sure, buddy, he mumbles distractedly.
I start towards the door to the main room, but he nods at the back door. Why don’t you go out the back and I’ll just use the bathroom. I’ll splash some water on my face and meet you outside.
I hesitate. The cook and the dishwasher stand between me and the doorway.
I’ll be out in a second.
Sure, I say.
He ambles towards the main room. Not wanting to be in this room alone with the Mexicans, I bow my head to avoid their eyes and hurry towards the back door. Their eyes feel as strong as desert sunlight through my shirt back.
The air feels fresh against my face but beneath my legs the dark asphalt is hot like an oventop, even through my jeans cuffs. Car metal bathed in sunlight clicks and snaps. As I walk past the cars I wonder if I am being followed but do not dare turn around. Ahead, there’s a sliver of shade thrown against the stucco wall by a protruding rain gutter, and I move towards it and then lean against the wall.
In the corner of my vision the cook and dishwasher linger in the doorway as I look across the highway towards a dark grove of bow-legged trees. Beside me the shaded paint feels cool through my shirt, and I lean my cheek against the coolness and it is then that I feel them coming. It takes them a minute.
Yo, one mumbles.
It is just like Tomas and his friends all over.
Yo, you hear me?
I turn. The youngest one, who is maybe seventeen but taller, nods at me and slips against the wall, leaning a shoulder in. His skinny friend with hunched shoulders and hands shoved in his pockets trails him, like a little magnet.
What is it?
The tall one nods at me, What’s your name?
The tow truck guy told you.
I forget.
Gabe.
The other one snickers. It’s possible the bigger one meant something funny, or just that the little one is nervous and laughs at whatever his friend says. It is hard to feel them out clearly, which maybe means I am too edgy.
Yeah Gabe, nice to meet you.
He puts out his hand. I look at it and hesitate, but shake it. His skin feels clammy, and his grip is loose.
So what you doing around here?
My car broke down, I say. Like the guy told you.
Yeah.
Sure, the other one says.
His leader peers across the lot towards the back door. Is the big guy your friend?
I shrug.
He’s just towing my truck.
They trade glances. So he’s not your friend? the big one says.
I just met him.
Because you seemed really friendly.
He scratches the pimple on his chin. I try to think of something to say. A sparrow perches on the leafless bough, perched on its claws. Against the sky it appears as a black silhouette.
Hey. Who do you run with? the little Mexican says.
Shut up, the big one says, nudging him. He gestures for his friend to wait, holding his hand out flat. The little one frowns, looking at his shifting feet.
Run with?
I think you know what he means.
Nobody, I tell him.
He studies me.
So then what about your car?
It isn’t mine.
You steal it? he says, eyes widening, as if he might be in the presence of someone supremely stupid.
No I didn’t steal it.
What then?
It’s my brother’s.
Some kind of a brother you have.
What do you mean by that?
Let you drive a car like that. Could be dangerous.
Finding no words, I shrug and look away, which is difficult since he stands so close I can feel his hot breath in my face. These guys are from little small-town gangs at best. There is no way any of them would deal up here because the wetback cowboys would kill them. They are nothing. Nada. But they know they have me here alone and you can feel their excitement at the novelty of me. They want to make a bigger deal about this than anyone from back home—from a real city—would bother about. Like a short man with a stiletto, annoying yet dangerous. I try to glance over at the back door, but Stone is not there. All I can see are some chrome pots hanging from the ceiling inside.
Where you taking it to? he says.
I gotta go, I say, stepping aside.
They tense, stepping towards me. The wall is behind me and in my jeans pocket my ice pick seems to announce itself. Maybe I should lower my right hand toward it, but they could notice. It is hard, but I keep my hand in front of me, a knuckle pressed against my belt buckle.
What’s the hurry?
I told the tow truck guy I’d meet him by his truck.
Stone?
Yeah.
He has a name, he says.
I don’t answer him.
He know you’re Mexican?
I ain’t no Mexican.
What do you mean by that?
Nothing.
We say nothing. They do not look at each other, though something is going on between them. The leader eases his hand lower by his back pocket. In the high dark branches of the leafless tree yellow blossoms perch like brilliant algae. All birds have stopped their chirping and it is deadly quiet. No sound on the highway. In the restaurant no sound, nor in this parking lot. Something about the heat. The time of day.
My hand muscles twitch. About my temples beats a nauseating pulse and a glitter of sunlight flashes up in the roof gutter and blinds me to a dark bird fluttering past.
Then Stone’s voice calls from the doorway.
The cook and the dishwasher back away, but the big one keeps his eyes on me. It is like I have no skin and he is looking inside me. Now that words do not need to come, it is easier to hold his stare. The little one looks at the ground, giggling at himself, while the big one mad-dogs me. He doesn’t even turn around as they pass Stone and return to the kitchen, then he lingers in the doorway, still eyeing me.
My guess would have been that Stone wouldn’t notice, but he senses something and turns to the big one and tells him by name to cut it out. He swats his hand at the space before their eyes, as if he could cut up the feeling or disperse it. The boy takes a step backwards, but Stone lunges forward and holds up a palm. Rattled, the boy retreats to the kitchen and I realize now that they are only small-town boys, poseurs, although there were two of them and only one of me and probably they had more to prove. Or maybe they were just bored and curious and wanted to sniff me out.
Suddenly Stone actually shoves the little one after his friend. They seem as surprised as I am.
What you do that for, Stone? the big one says, sounding hurt but standing his ground in the doorway.
You want to mess with my customers?
We were just talking.
You want me to tell Susan and she’ll tell your mother. Big man.
I don’t care.
Get back inside.
You think I give a shit? he says, but backs inside. Stone looks angrily after him with his chin outstretched and his cheeks red until the boys’ feet back clearly beyond the threshold. Stone’s hand is open like a board and even from this distance you can see that his nostrils are flared.
The boys mumble but disappear.
Satisfied, he turns and ambles towards me. He sits on the hood of an old blue Chrysler to catch his breath, crinkling the metal, and lets his chin double up as his head sags forward towards his chest. The back of his arm comes up to wipe his forehead.
Hope they didn’t rattle you too bad, Gabe.
No problem, I say.
Sorry about that.
I wave with my hand to indicate that it is nothing, nada. It is an awkward ghost of a gesture I have seen Tomas use adroitly many times. Immediately I am sorry I used it, but he does not seem to notice it is not an Anglo movement.
He half smiles upon me, father-like, then pats my shoulder. Damned spics, he says almost gently.
As he shakes his head, I look away and nod, and then we walk to the cab. He complains and for a minute I think he speaks of the boys, but then realize he means the old guys who looked away from him inside. They do not understand the urgency of our situation. They have not lived in Los Angeles like him and me. They think they have the luxury. He is the one with the engineering degree. The sorrow. He sadly shakes his head.
I would like to voice agreement with him, but I do not. We sit for a few minutes in the hot, stale air as he contemplates the empty field which spreads out before him. Hot air rises from the hood and blurs the horizon. I would like to roll down the window but do not. He does not seem to notice how quiet I am, or how still my hands are in my lap. Finally he reaches below the wheel and starts the truck and we pull out onto the faded highway then enter the cool shady timber of the woods that lead to Oregon.
V
We pass the state line from California into Oregon. The road sign is so faded and weathered by the sun you can barely tell it was once green. I can hardly make out the faint word Oregon.
With him now focused on the road, I relax and notice more about him. His shirt is damp and dark at his breasts and underarms and also now along his sides. Each time we emerge into a clearing and sunlight peeks below the window’s top edge, it catches his face, which glistens with sweat. Lit like that, his eyes appear amber and warm even when he squints. My father’s were light like that—or I should say they are. He is alive, but I can barely remember him.
We enter fields of light green that glow in the afternoon and meadows of yellow flowers. Once again sprinklers feed crops with spray that billows upward in the shape of silver umbrellas, catching the sunshine. We enter woods again and pass a logging rig, its platform loaded with great timbers cut and stacked. In its wake dry needles scatter and settle upon our windshield. The dirty glass glows in the flickering sunlight. Stone turns on the wipers to push off the dust.
He seems rattled and after half an hour we pull over beside a meadow and he reaches back and pulls out two beers and offers me one and he pulls out two folding chairs and sets them on the cab top. We sit in the sunlight, eyes closed but warm, smelling the grass and pollen and pine needles. Even through my socks the roof metal feels warm. A semi passes and the wind ruffles our clothes and vibrates the cab roof but it settles and remains quiet for some time. He senses that I do not like the taste of the beer and laughs, and lets me grab another root beer. It goes easily down my throat.
It reminds me of when Tomas and I were little and my father would bring us to the highway that runs along LAX to sit on his Corvette hood and watch the underbellies of landing planes. The metal glinting against the sky. The white sliver of beach to the west, before the ocean, and the thunderous crack of jets and waves. That was before Tomas had found any Mexican friends, and we had run down the highway looking for rocks to take to the beach and skip over the water.