—2— Diego
Diego
Me and a basket.
Living next-door to a basket case.
Crumbs of the banana-nut muffins scatter over Tía Lottie’s breakfast table. I sit in a chair on one side licking a finger. Basket’s on the other, emptied except for that damned papaya.
I hate papaya. That’s Tío Marcos’s thing.
Probably why I hate it.
I should’ve thrown the whole basket away just like that Wyatt told me to. But like he said, who doesn’t love muffins, right?
Damn, I hate how good they tasted.
Wyatt, with his basket and his tight little mouth and offended eyes, as if I declared war on him for not knowing a wrench from a ratchet. Who cares what you call a tool as long as it does its job?
I don’t trust nice guys. They always want something.
They just smile and wait for you to hand them what they feel they’re owed. Just for being nice. Just for smiling. They keep score. They show up on your driveway and offer welcome baskets, and then you owe them conversation for the rest of your life.
Sounds like a living hell to me.
I lick the last crumb off my palm and have a stare-off with the remaining papaya like it’s Tío himself. Yellow-green. Overripe and ugly. He used to slice the stuff open and eat it with lime every Sunday after church.
Don’t like to think about the last time I stepped foot in one.
My phone goes off at the kitchen counter where I left it. Only one person on earth ever calls me anymore. Don’t even have to check it to know who it is.
I take the call to the back door. “Hey, Tía.”
“Why do you sound disappointed to hear from me so soon?” asks Tía Lottie, sounding like she’s swallowing up a smile. “Have you eaten?”
I don’t peer back at the table full of crumbs. “Yep.”
“How’s the house?”
Didn’t take very long for her to lose all faith in my capability of looking after it. “Burned to the ground. Good thing you called. Wanted to ask if your insurance is decent.”
“Diego.”
She says my name so sweetly. It’s worse than when my tío says it harshly. “House is still standing,” I revise my answer.
I hear her smile when she says, “Good to hear. Did Wyatt stop by yet? I told him you’d be staying there awhile.”
In other words, she gave him a loaded warning. “Maybe.”
“Diego.”
Again, with the sweet tone. “Muffins and papaya.” I lean back against the doorframe.
“Wyatt’s so thoughtful. I hope you were nice to him.”
“He left without a black eye.”
“Please be kind.”
“I was. Didn’t you catch the no black eye part?”
She moves on. “Your tío says the yard needs mowing, what with all the rain we got last week. Sweetheart, can you manage that? Sooner than later?”
I flick a finger at the flimsy little hook they use for a lock on the back screen door, wondering how low the bar was set on their faith in me, if cutting grass is the test. I already figured I’m the last resort on a long list of people to look after this old house.
“Of course, Tía.”
“Make sure you get all the weeds. They love popping up in the front all over the place, stubborn things.”
“Got it.”
There’s always this breathy hesitation right before she says goodbye. I feel it every time. The held-back words. The questions. The are-you-okays.
She knows better than to let any of them out.
So instead she says: “You should try the papaya. Wyatt always finds the best ones.”
I’m sure he does. We hang up.
In the afternoon, I’m at the auto shop, a ten-minute walk into town from the house.
Through a connection of my tío’s, I was hired here to keep my hands busy.
My immediate supervisor is a skinny dude a few years younger than me named Joel, whose dad runs the place or something.
I learn quickly that I was hired for engines, not conversation.
That’s just how I like it. Engines are logical.
They work or they don’t. They don’t judge you.
They speak in clicks, squeaks, and screeches.
You find the problem. Fix it. And they stay fixed if you do the job right.
They don’t bring you a basket of passive aggression.
And insanely fuckin’ tasty muffins.
“Your aunt and uncle are good people,” Joel says when we’re taking a five in the break room. It’s the first time since I’ve been hired that he’s started up conversation. I hope this doesn’t become a habit. “Marcos and my own pops go way back.”
“Okay.”
He waits for me to say more.
I don’t.
“Well.” He takes a slurp of his Coke and tries again. “Do you know their neighbor on the left side? Wyatt?”
Why is it everyone’s mission in town to talk about that guy?
“He’s real nice,” Joel goes on. “My wife Mindy’s friends with him. He owns a flower shop. Just look close enough, you’ll see his fingerprints all over Spruce. Down at the park. Inside the church.”
The way he just invited himself up on the driveway.
Kicking my tools around.
Bearing that basket like he’s the self-appointed head of some neighborhood wellness committee.
Smiling.
This is what happens when you give in to the smile. You turn into a greasy mechanic going on about fingerprints.
But there’s something about that Wyatt I can’t put my finger on …
Joel nudges me. “What? Hate flowers or something?”
Guess I’m making a face.
And I guess I make another one, because he shrinks away and immediately seems to regret nudging me.
A head appears at the door. It’s the guy from the front whose name I never learned. “Hey, I got someone out here who needs—”
“On it,” I say, not caring what the job is.
I head into the garage and fling a rag over my shoulder. The customer, a fidgety twenty-something with short curly hair and a goatee, starts spilling his story. I’ve already popped the hood and am scanning the engine, gnawing on the side of my tongue.
“Folks at Fairview Auto said I needed a mass air flow sensor,” he goes on, sounding overwhelmed, “but those go for over $100 plus labor, so I wanted to get a second opinion. The car wasn’t this rumbly before.
All I went in for was a damned oil change, and they offered a new air filter, I said sure, but then the check engine light came on a day later, and so I went back, and their computer says I needed to replace my mass air flow sensor, which I guess is just a coincidence ‘cause I—”
“No such thing as coincidence.”
He jumps when I speak for the first time. “Huh?”
I get out my torque wrench and work on the cover.
The filter flops out like a dead fish the second it’s open.
I pull it out. Show it to him. “Does this yellowed-ass thing look new to you?” I turn the filter over and run a finger over a wide circular indent, which the customer appears surprised by.
“Jammed this old thing in wrong. See? Didn’t even seat it properly.
No wonder the car thinks your sensor’s fucked.
” I go to the wall, fetch a new air filter, tear it out of the box, and pop it in.
“Bright white. New.” I wrench the cover back on.
By now, Joel’s come out of the break room to watch the show, his eyebrows tugged together.
“We can unplug the battery and clear the code,” I explain, wiping my hands with the rag, “but in three, maybe four more driving cycles, should clear itself.”
The customer blinks at me. “So … I don’t need a new sensor?”
“Pretty sure that’s what I said.” After a quick look, I slap shut the hood. “Saved you a couple hundred bucks. You’re welcome. Send my regards to Fairview Auto.” I head back to the break room.
Few minutes later, chatterbox Joel’s back.
“The car’s running smooth as butter now.
Wow. That was … That was somethin’. Don’t like to talk bad about another shop, but Fairview almost did that guy dirty.
” He shakes his head and whistles. “You saved him a lot of unwarranted trouble. Your uncle didn’t say anything about you being a car whisperer.
” He smiles. “You’re a good man, Diego.”
“Wouldn’t go that far.” I sip my coffee and look away.
He chuckles. “You allergic to compliments or something?” At my silence, he lifts his hands. “Got it. Anyway, Mindy’s stopping by with the kids in a few minutes, so uh … so I’ll be …” He runs out of words and shuffles off.
Like I said, engines are easy.
People, I gave up on understanding long ago.
When I’m back home, it’s the evening, but the sun’s still up like it’s high noon. It bakes me alive as I yank the cord of the old and stubborn lawnmower over and over, trying to wake the dang thing up.
I spot Wyatt in his kitchen window. Watching.
The next instant, he’s gone.
What’s his problem now? Is this prehistoric mower breaking some neighborhood sound ordinance? He about to report me to the noise police?
Though he didn’t exactly look mad.
Maybe he knows some trick to getting this thing started. He’s going back and forth in his head on whether to come out and help. Making a spreadsheet and flowchart. A list of pros and cons about whether helping me out will make things better.
I don’t get that about guys like Wyatt. The less nice you are, the more determined they are to make you like them. Like it’s an arm wrestling match in slow-mo, but with smiles.
He should give up. Stay in that house. And leave me alone.
Everyone else does.
Always had a set of eyes on me, ever since I was a kid. Scared of me. Or waiting for me to fail. Teachers. My tío. Doesn’t make a difference, they’re all the same.
But someday soon, I’m gonna get that car in the driveway up and running again, have all my shit figured out, and tear down the highway to wherever. Everyone else can eat my dust.
Except maybe Tía Lottie.
She’s always been an exception.
Probably the only reason I agreed to stay here.
That, and kinda having fucking nowhere else to go, I guess.
I’m fucking dying in this heat. I take a break between yanks of the cord to peel this tank top off. Takes an effort, with as sweaty as I already am. Tuck the drenched-ass tank into the waistband of my jeans. Then I’m back to yanking away.
Taking the shirt off must’ve been the trick, because after way too many tries, I finally get the mower chugging to life. Off I go.