T.M. Spooner

Junior Duran pedaled down Front Street, took the turn at the light, and coasted two blocks up to the intersection. The clock on the Home State Bank read 3:47. He was thirteen minutes early. His pace slackened, and he released his hands from the handlebars. He pedaled just enough to keep the tires propelling forward, his back straightened, and the handlebars stayed steady without his guiding hands upon them.

            As he came up the wide sidewalk near Schroeder’s, he took the alley beside it and coasted in behind the brick building. The two dumpsters were there, ripe with garbage. A stack of produce boxes piled between them. Those were his to break down, but he would do that later in the evening, not all at once, on breaks from the dishwashing.

            Junior rode up to the gas meter bolted to the brick. Kneeling, working the padlock, he heard a ping against the bicycle. A pebble then bounced off the back of his head. He turned to find Luis Milan grinning.

            “Güey!” Junior called.

            Luis leaned coolly against the building while pulling a cigarette from a crumpled pack in his shirt pocket. A lighter sparked. Junior came over, and Luis stretched out his arm. They clasped hands for a moment. Junior stood by while Luis dropped to his haunches, his back against the brick. He drew from the cigarette and pawed at the pebbles near his feet.

            “Busy?” Junior asked.

            “Usual for Saturday. A couple of parties tonight. I’m off in an hour, and then it’s all you.”

            “Don’t leave me anything,” Junior said.

            “Don’t leave me anything,” Luis said. “I’m on again in the morning.”

            Luis slipped a folded newspaper page from his apron pocket and smoothed the creases—the classifieds from a month-old edition of the local Spanish language newspaper, El Diario.

“Here it is. This is what I’m saving for.” He held the paper out for Junior to see. Junior took it and looked where Luis had circled an advertisement in red ink. Ford pickup. Like new.

            “I already called the guy. He’ll hold it for me. I gave him a $500 down payment.”

            “How does it run?” Junior asked.

            “Runs like new. Clean. Low Miles. Only seven years old.”

            “When will you get it?”

            “End of the month. Ah, mi trokita.”

            Junior handed the newspaper back to Luis, who folded it and tucked it back into his apron pocket. He would take out the paper several times throughout the day as a reminder of what he was working for.

            “I’m tired of walking to work,” Luis said. “And tired of bumming rides to bailes and not being able to bring a girl home.”

            “You pick up a girl?”

            “Plenty of room in the cab or throw a blanket in the bed.”

            “You have your sights on some classy girls,” Junior said. Luis took a final pull on the cigarette and stamped it out under his shoe. He smoothed the blue suede on the tops of both sneakers.

            “The kinds that put out, cabrón. I don’t want no uptight girls.”

            “Keep it cool, mamón.”

            “You stay with Veronica. I’ll play the field and tell you all about it.”

            “You’d stick your dick in anything,” Junior said. “A pinche burro if it’d have you.”

            “You’re just jealous. What are you saving for, Duran?”

            “College. Can’t get anywhere without papers though. Without them, we’re invisible.”

            “Even with papers, we’re invisible. Don’t trust that shit. Once you’ve registered, they know who and where you are,” Luis said. “Either way, I got my paper. I’m getting my truck.”

            “I hope you get it.”

            “Working hard is the only way to get anything. School won’t get you anywhere.” 

            “It’s my plan, and I promised my parents,” Junior confessed as he turned, heading for the back door. Luis pitched a pebble at Junior as he was slipping inside the building. It missed and careened off the brick.

            Junior snatched his timecard from the metal slot on the wall. He punched in. Two stainless-steel sinks were stacked high with pots and pans. Junior slipped his apron over his head and tied it snuggly at the small of his back. Luis propped the back door open with a cinderblock. He came in and turned on the water in one of the sinks, and tested the temperature. Junior saddled up at the other sink, and they began to work, scraping away the caked-on grit. Luis did his part before clocking out.

            The solitary work allowed Junior time to daydream. He often envisioned his future, but tonight, his mind wandered to a time before he had crossed borders. He remembered the time, the year before they left, when they had driven to the ocean at La Boquita in Tio Hector’s extended cab pickup, and how he and his sister Luz had sat between their mother and grandmother. After they had cleared the mountains came the smell of the sea, the salty air weighing anxiously dense and heavy against their chests. He had asked Luz if she could breathe as well as before. Junior was seven and Luz six, but he was the frightened one. His breathing became rapid and shallow. I can’t breathe. Yes, you can, Junior, Luz had assured him. Yes, you can. Her gentle assurance allowed him to relax and realize only the humid air felt so different from the thinner mountain air. Everything would be fine, she told him.

              On a break, he pushed open the saloon doors and peered into the dining room. His gaze fanned the room as if he scanned an ocean at the horizon: the hot sand at his feet, the waves washing the shore, the scallop fishermen in the sunlight’s twinkle, and in the distance, heaving waves crashing violently against black rocks. He wouldn’t mention La Boquita to Luis. He would keep it to himself. Junior let the saloon doors swing shut, his pockets empty, and returned to his station.

T. M. Spooner is the author of the novels The Salvation of La Purisima and Notes from Exile. Among others, his short fiction can be found in The Almagre Review, Flying Island Journal as the recipient of the 2022 Short Fiction prize, and the Latin American Literary Review. Spooner has an M.A. in English Literature from Northern Arizona University.