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Chapter Thirteen
VICTOR
So yeah, I totally lost it last night at the game. When my dad kept yelling at me from the stands and I knew that Monika could hear his rants, it pissed me off so much that I couldn't control my anger. I took it out on the other team, on Dieter, on my friends...
Control is the only thing I have left. And now I'm losing it.
This morning, I'm about to leave the house when mi papa stops me in the hallway. "You're a moron, Victor," he says.
"Thanks, Dad."
Leave it to Papa to constantly remind me that I'm not even close to meeting his expectations as a son.
"I'm late for work," I say, expecting him to fling another insult because that's what he does best.
Papa hates where I work. He also thinks that football and being a jock, two things that define me, are a waste of time. He goes to the game for exposure and to fake everyone into thinking he's a supportive father. Truth is, he'd rather me join the Future Entrepreneurs of America. The fact that I didn't try to get a prestigious internship at a Fortune 500 company this past summer irks him. He'd never brag that his son is an All-State high school football player who works at an auto body shop getting his hands dirty and making crap money.
He wags a finger in my face. "Do you know what Jack Weigel's son did this past summer? He worked for a banking firm downtown."
"Besides playin' football two times a day this summer, I've had a job."
He shakes his head in disappointment. "You call going to that run-down body shop a job?"
"Si."
"Don't delude yourself. Working at the body shop is a hobby at best, Victor. How much does Isa pay you?" Papa asks. "Minimum wage?"
I shrug. "Sometimes less."
"You want to make minimum wage the rest of your life?" he asks, disgust laced in his voice. "I'll tell you what. I'll build you a choza in our backyard so you can live in it and get a taste of what it feels like to live on minimum wage."
"She's familia," I say, and hope to leave it at that. It's hard, because my veins are starting to fire up and my body is getting rigid. As much as I tell myself that his words mean nothing to me, my body reacts uncontrollably.
"Isa is trash," he spits out, his top lip curling.
Stay in control.
I walk past him and step out of the house into the fresh air.
I drive the old rusty motorcycle Isa gave me as payment last summer when I worked for her. It's not long before I cross the tracks and head to Fairfield, the same town as our rival school. I ride through the streets, completely aware that it's enemy territory but acting like I don't give a shit. Well, I actually don't give a shit. If someone wants to come at me, I'm game. Let's just say I've never backed down from a fight. I may have even started a couple.
Or more than a couple, but who's counting.
It's not that I like to use my fists, but I'm used to it. When I was younger, I would cower in fear when someone picked on me. One day I was at my cousin's wedding, and mi papa pulled me aside after some pendejo at the wedding pushed me. Papa grabbed my shirt and told me I needed to toughen up if I ever wanted to be a real man.
After a while, he stopped being my hero.
And I became an asshole.
"You're late," Isa says to me as soon as I step in the shop.
"So fire me." I slip into my blue work coveralls hanging on the wall by the back office.
She whips a dirty rag at me. "You know I can't fire you, pendejo. You're the only one who'll work for a hot meal, a couple of bucks for gas, and a beat up ol' motorcycle that ain't worth the price of gas you put in it."
Isa looks tough with her hair pulled into a tight ponytail and coveralls that were definitely made for a dude twice her size. That, on top of the Latino Blood gang tattoos she got when she was in high school, makes her look like one tough Latina.
I've got to give Isa props, though. She didn't know shit about cars before Enrique, the guy who previously owned the place, died in some sort of gang warfare. Supposedly he was shot execution-style right behind the front desk of the body shop. In his will, he left the place to Isa. He also left her the debt on the place. Instead of selling it, she's been determined to learn everything she can about being a mechanic to keep this place running.
Two cars are on the racks. One is an '82 Mustang needing new brakes, and the other is a beat-up old F150 that needs an engine rebuild.
"Here," she says, handing me the work orders for the cars. "Start with the Mustang, 'cause that's a fast turnaround and I can use the cash." She pauses and then adds, "I'm behind four hundred bucks on this month's mortgage payment."
"Maybe stop givin' me a couple of bucks for gas," I tell her as I walk over to the tool chest and pull out what I need. I'll work for free and she knows it. Being at the auto shop is where I want to be whether I get paid or not. It's my escape. "Or sell the place and move on."
"I can't do that," she says, pushing her shoulders back as if that'll make her look and act tougher. "I need to keep this place open. For me."
And for Enrique, but she won't admit it.
"Don't stress," I tell her. "I'll put fliers around town and drum up business."
Her harsh features soften just a little. "You're too good to me, Vic. I don't deserve you."
Deserve me? "Hell, Isa, I'm an asshole."
"I know. But you're the nicest asshole I've ever come across. Now get back to work," she says as she playfully punches me in the stomach.
I work on the Mustang while Isa starts taking inventory. It would be sweet if this car was repainted and the inside was detailed and restored. Once upon a time, this car would've turned heads. Not now. Well, now it turns heads because it looks like a pile of junk, not because it's a cool car.
I finish with the Mustang and get working on the F150. The engine rebuild won't be a piece of cake, but it's right up my alley. When I'm working on cars, I can escape the rest of my life. I feel more at home in the auto body shop than at my own house.
"Hello! Anyone here?" I hear someone call out.
I look at the entrance and see Bernie, a mechanic who helps Isa at the shop a few days a week. The dude has been in love with my cousin since he started working here, but she pushes him away. I've got to give him credit because he's got the cojones to keep coming back for more of her verbal assaults.
"I thought I fired you." Isa growls the words as if she's a feral animal. "Get out of here."
Bernie, a thirty-something dude whose hair is brushed neatly to the side and is the walking definition of a nerd, walks over to Isa. "You fired me because I asked you out."
"Exactly."
Bernie holds his hands up. "That's irrational, Isa."
"No." Isa walks toward the front desk, putting a barrier between her and Bernie. "What's irrational is you wanting to ask me out. It's never gonna happen."
"Why not?"
She glances up at him. "Because I don't date."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Okay, let me put it this way." She slams her hands on the desk. "I don't date nerds. Now get out."
Bernie, who you'd think would be a pushover, ignores her. He walks over to a car on the lift and starts looking at the paperwork while whistling. He starts working on the car.
I have to say their interaction is pretty damn entertaining.
"You want me to call the cops?" Isa calls out angrily.
"Go ahead," he says.
"Don't test me, dork."
Bernie stops whistling. "Did I ever tell you that you're sexy when you're being obstinate?"
"Fuck you," Isa says while flipping him the finger. She storms upstairs to her private apartment.
"You're asking for nothin' but trouble," I tell Bernie.
Bernie shrugs. "I'm in love with her, Vic." He stares longingly at the door where Isa just disappeared. "And I want a chance if she'll give it to me. Haven't you ever wanted to date a girl so bad that you were willing to do anything to have a chance with her?"
"No," I tell him, thinking of Monika and the way I've felt about her for years. "I'd give up if I were you."
"Well, it's a good thing you're not me." He holds out his palm. "Can you hand me a socket wrench?"
"I thought she fired you."
"She can't afford to fire me, Vic." He smiles mischievously. "Don't worry, I'll break her down eventually."
"You know she stores a gun under the front desk, right?" I warn him. "I don't think she'd be afraid to use it."
"Some girls are worth the risk," Bernie says. "Haven't you ever been in love?"
"Yeah, but I gave up a long time ago." My best friend won her over the second he asked her out.
"One thing my father taught me before he died, was to never give up. Ever." He gazes longingly at the door to the upstairs apartment. "Well, unless she shoots me. Then I guess it's over."
