Abuelo was the picker. Ap\u00e1 was the packer. Alex and I took turns harvesting grape and carrying the heavy boxes of fruit down the row to our father. We had started out a group of seven, but the foreman said the group was too large. So t\u00edo Rafael, who was an exceptional packer, was asked to form his own group with t\u00edo Ram\u00f3n and Juvenal, our cousin. That made sense since that was also how we split up between two cars to get to the fields. We came together as a family again during lunch hour but the rest of the day Alex and I had to stand opposite of Abuelo, who reprimanded us at every turn. We worked too slowly. We talked too much. We left the grape too shiny. Since his hearing wasn\u2019t very good, we learned to whisper and to catch the words through the dusty leaves, over the sound of the squeaky hinges on three pairs of scissors.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you going to do with your first check?\u201d Alex asked. This was a question my father had asked us almost every day that first week on the job. It was his way of encouraging us since we were going to give up most of our summer to farm labor. Abuelo had already made it clear we were not going to be allowed to vegetate in front of the television when school was out. \u201cAl fil,\u201d he said. To the fields. Like every other kid who, at fourteen, was old enough to work.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When the task became tedious, when the heat became oppressive, we threw that question out as a way to keep going. No one was going to stop us from dreaming.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to buy a pair of dress shoes that aren\u2019t made of plastic,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cPlastic?\u201d Alex said, pausing for a second.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, fake. They make your feet sweaty and stinky. I hear that the ones made of leather keep your feet fresh.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay, but what do you want leather shoes for? You\u2019re not going to the prom. You don\u2019t go out on dates. You have no girlfriend. You don\u2019t dance.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNeither do you,\u201d I countered.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSo what do you want them for?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I wanted to say that I wanted to feel like a man for once, but I didn\u2019t really know what I meant by that. I had seen pictures of Abuelo in his youth, his mustache so black and preened to perfection, showing off the tattoos on his forearm. He was wearing dress pants and a pair of shoes that shone so clean and new they made him look respectable, despite the tattoos. During Ap\u00e1\u2019s days as a musician, he was also pictured with bright shiny patent leather shoes. All the glamour of their pasts was on display in the footwear. Their present was dirty sneakers and work boots. That was my present as well. I wanted to claim my moment of glamour.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cTake that box out,\u201d Abuelo barked. He was only visible from the waist down, but I could see how he pointed to a full box with the ends of his scissors. I imagined his mustache punctuating his severe expression underneath that hat he always wore when he stepped out of the house.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It was Alex\u2019s turn, so he crossed underneath the vines. The rustling reminded me of rain. An odd image to invoke in the near hundred-degree heat, the sand around my sneakers growing warmer by the hour. Another desert deception, like a mirage.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
As soon as Alex was out of earshot, Abuelo began his griping. \u201cI\u2019m not sure what your brother is thinking, skipping school and running off with your good-for-nothing cousins. Without school he\u2019s going to end up here, with us. He thinks this life is easy, well, he\u2019s about to find out.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I knew by now that Abuelo did not want a response, just a listener. I let his words dust each bunch in my hand as I inspected it and determined that it was ripe enough to pick and place in the box. One thing I did admire about Abuelo was how he dropped a bunch so fearlessly from as high as the vine, confident that it wouldn\u2019t fall apart, grapes bouncing off in all directions. When I asked Ap\u00e1 about this he said that it was decades of skill. \u201cAnd he doesn\u2019t give a shit anymore,\u201d he added. \u201cHe knows the packer has to clean it before it\u2019s packed.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Abuelo kept on: \u201cAnd your father, running around with that woman, as if he were a teenager. Even you boys don\u2019t bring us that kind of trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Trouble meant that Amelia, Ap\u00e1\u2019s soon-to-be wife, was pregnant. I didn\u2019t particularly like her, but I liked Abuelo less, and I didn\u2019t appreciate any poison coming from his mouth, no matter where it was going. He voiced these things to me, to Abuela, but to no one else. He was cowardly that way.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to use the toilets,\u201d I said, and walked away.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At the end of the row, Ap\u00e1 stood at the packing table, shifting his weight and shaking his leg. I knew how painful it was for him to stand all those hours from 6:00 a.m. to quitting time, sometimes as late as 2:00 p.m. He saw me coming and smiled. His dark skin looked even darker with that red shirt he was wearing.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s Alex?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI told him to bring me some water. And I\u2019m thinking why don\u2019t you go get me some water too.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I pursed my lips. I knew the code. It was my father\u2019s way of letting us stretch our legs, and to give us a break from Abuelo.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
As I walked out into the dirt avenue toward the water truck, my body ached just watching people bend, then stand still as they picked grape on the hot soil, the long sleeves of their flannel shirts covered in sulfur. My eyes became moist. I felt sorry for Abuelo and Ap\u00e1 and everyone else who had to do this an entire lifetime. I was not yet out of high school, but I was already certain this would not be my fate. All that talk about colleges in my homeroom got me excited, though I had not yet revealed to my family what my plans were for the near future. I didn\u2019t want anyone\u2014especially Abuelo\u2014to get in the way. But I wasn\u2019t too sure about Alex\u2019s fate now that he had dropped out of school.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSave me some,\u201d I said to him as I approached.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIt tastes funny,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything tastes funny here. Even saliva.\u201d I poured water into the paper cone. In a few hours, when the cones were exhausted, there would be a single dirty cup sitting on top of the tank. At that point nobody cared about hygiene and passed the cup from mouth to mouth.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what are you going to do with your first check?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. Save for a car.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cA car? With the little money we\u2019re going to make? You\u2019re going to start with a tire?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cOr maybe a fucking bicycle, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t take his snapping at me too personally. The heat gave all of us short tempers.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We each filled a cone of water to take to our father. We already knew where his paycheck was going\u2014to the new baby.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of car?\u201d I said, as a way of assuaging Alex\u2019s hurt feelings.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cA convertible. I want to ride with the top off.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Alex with his baby mustache that would never grow beyond chicken scratches was only fifteen but he already knew how to drive. I wasn\u2019t sure how this came to be since I was a year older and I had never even practiced getting behind the wheel of car. Driver\u2019s ed was still a semester away.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere would you go?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. I\u2019d just go.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And I realized that this was his way of dreaming about leaving. I had been plotting my escape as well.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My father took the cones and threw the water into his mouth. He crushed them and dropped them at his feet. They looked so out of place there, white crinkled paper over a small graveyard of discarded fruit not good enough to pack. He smiled. My father had a handsome smile but I resented it because he never got me braces and my crooked upper row embarrassed me. When I was younger I kept pleading until he finally shut me up by telling me that they would straighten themselves out naturally. \u201cMy teeth used to be uglier than yours, right Ap\u00e1?\u201d And Abuelo agreed from the couch, complicit in the deceit.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When we took our places at the grapevine again, Abuelo was gone. Our respite from his supervision was extended.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe hates to work, doesn\u2019t he?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, and so he takes it out on all of us.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Usually it was Abuela who worked in the fields and Abuelo stayed home to cook. But his younger brother, t\u00edo Justo, had come to visit from who knows where and he wouldn\u2019t stop teasing his older brother about how he had become the woman in the marriage.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should lend him your aprons, Mar\u00eda,\u201d he called out, and no one dared laugh. T\u00edo Justo cackled at his own jokes for all of us.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Even my grandmother wasn\u2019t amused. She stood behind the stove, making faces, bothered that Abuelo had asked her to do the cooking, which she didn\u2019t like to do. Nor was she much good at it. We couldn\u2019t stand Abuelo, but we sure did appreciate his skills in the kitchen because Abuela\u2019s dishes were usually inedible.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
T\u00edo Justo was the only person who could shame Abuelo. He ridiculed Abuelo\u2019s belly, his bald spot, his lack of gold jewelry and flaccid muscles, and the fact that he didn\u2019t pay attention to young women anymore. At the supermarket t\u00edo Justo would goad him, elbowing him whenever a pretty young girl walked past them. Abuelo looked so awkward trying to keep up with his brother\u2019s ogling. The entire theater of masculinity was mortifying to all of us because my father never acted like that and neither did he expect us to.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And so here Abuelo was, trying to prove to his brother that he was still a man by coming to work and forcing Abuela to stay home, and I knew that neither of them was happy about the arrangement. It almost made me feel sorry for him, until I saw him walk back to his spot.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cRemember when someone we know bought exercise equipment to impress someone else we know?\u201d I said to Alex. The mischief in my tone made me blush. We had reached that part of the day when we started making fun of Abuelo.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Alex giggled. \u201cI certainly do. I still use it. All he did was remove the packaging.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you\u2019re ever that mean to me when we\u2019re old, Alex, I promise you I\u2019m going to kick my nice leather shoe up your ass.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if you\u2019re as ridiculous as they are when you get old, I\u2019m going to run your ass over with my convertible.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We couldn\u2019t contain our giggling. And it wasn\u2019t until Abuelo told us to cut it out that we slipped back into the coma of the hot weather.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At quitting time, we weren\u2019t as relieved as everyone because our car was parked the farthest. This was one of Abuelo\u2019s bright ideas: to show up before everyone else so that we could nab the best parking spot on the side of the road. Sometimes it paid off because the work route took us toward the road and we were the first to reach our car, but if the route took us away from the road, we had the longest trek to Ap\u00e1\u2019s precious blue Mustang.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sure enough, we were the last to leave. And just as we settled into the hot vinyl seats, another heartbreak: the car wouldn\u2019t start.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNow what?\u201d Abuelo said. He wiped a ring of sweat underneath his hat.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Ap\u00e1 said. \u201cWe have gas. Let me check under the hood.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
As my father went out to inspect the problem, Abuelo went at it: \u201cWhat does your father know about cars? He\u2019s always buying these useless pieces of junk. He never has any money to invest on something that\u2019s not going to leave us all stranded in the middle of the desert. And now with another mouth to feed on the way, he\u2019s going to be broke for the rest of his life.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Wound up by his own anger, Abuelo got out of the car to join my father.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what the fuck does he <\/em>know about cars?\u201d Alex said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We were getting too sweaty in the backseat so we got out as well, only to find Ap\u00e1 and Abuelo arguing as one pulled on this wire and the other yanked on that cable.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThis is a piece of shit car,\u201d Abuelo said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re not being very helpful, Ap\u00e1. Why don\u2019t you go back inside?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Abuelo grumbled but he did just that though not before calling the obvious: \u201cAnd keep your eye out for anyone passing by, maybe all we need is a jump.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cDo you want us to walk to the main road, Ap\u00e1?\u201d I said. And that\u2019s when the tears started welling up in his eyes. So he smiled as he wiped them away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cDude,\u201d Alex said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t do anything,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But I had<\/em> done something. I had reminded him of what was upon us: Alex wasn\u2019t doing well in school, Ap\u00e1 was expecting another child with a woman I didn\u2019t want to accept as my future stepmother, Abuelo was inflicting his insecurities on all of us, and I was about to leave forever, though no one but me knew that. Or maybe my father did know\u2014a parental intuition that told him he was about to lose his son. But at the moment, here we all were, stuck because my father bought the cheapest car he could afford. We had worked close to nine hours and now he had to watch his sons beg for help from a stranger on the side of the road.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThis is not the kind of life I wanted for you,\u201d he said, weeping with his hands flat on the car.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The raised hood kept us hidden from Abuelo\u2019s sight, but neither Alex nor I knew how to comfort our father. We were not used to gestures of affection. That was not manly behavior. Alex kept knocking on my elbow with his fist, as if encouraging me to make the first move. But I didn\u2019t know what that move should be.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cStop crying, Ap\u00e1,\u201d I said. \u201cDon\u2019t let your father see you.\u201d I couldn\u2019t help but blurt out a phrase my own mother had said to me many times when I became too emotional when my father was nearby. It felt useful but not right. \u201cAlex and I will get help,\u201d I continued. \u201cYou wait here in case anyone passes by.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Ap\u00e1\u2019s sniffling was the last sound we heard as we made our way to the main road. It was going to be a wait because these were the grape fields and it was past harvesting time. Even the stragglers had made it home by now. Our best hope was one of our kin, an undocumented alien taking the back roads for safety, or a driver who had made a wrong turn somewhere. The nearest payphone was miles away at the closest gas station.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think is going to happen?\u201d Alex said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh, don\u2019t worry, a truck will come by and give us all a lift to the gas station.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo, I meant, about Ap\u00e1.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh,\u201d I said. I looked behind us. Abuelo was looking our direction as if that could make us walk any faster. We were hungry and thirsty, and I knew Alex\u2019s legs were as weak as mine at the moment.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI think he feels bad he left us with our grandparents after our mom died. And now that Amelia is pregnant, that means he\u2019s never coming back or even coming to get us.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSo that\u2019s it then.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYes, that\u2019s it. And Abuelo is pissed because he knows Ap\u00e1 will be asking for money from him and Abuela.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat a shitty father,\u201d Alex said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I didn\u2019t want to ask if he meant Ap\u00e1 or Abuelo or both. I didn\u2019t want to know. I didn\u2019t care. I was sleepy suddenly and I began to fantasize about the college dormitory room I remembered from the brochure that awaited me in a year or so. It would be the first time I would have my own bed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When we exited the blocks of grapevines we were met with a breeze. It was refreshing and liberating. But there was no movement as far as the eye could see. And not much sound, except for the vibrations of the telephone cables above us.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSo what are you doing with your first check?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Alex smiled. \u201cBuying my dad a car so he can get our asses to work. You?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSame thing.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat about your fancy shoes?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I shrugged. Fancy shoes seemed so useless all of a sudden. But a bicycle would have helped. I let out a laugh.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s so funny?\u201d Alex asked.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNothing. I was just thinking that maybe you weren\u2019t wrong about the bicycle after all.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI told you, stupid. You and your fancy ass shoes. Where do you think you\u2019re going?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The answer was complicated: I was going to leave eventually. I was going to leave him. But that didn\u2019t seem like the right moment to tell him. So I simply said, \u201cNowhere. I\u2019m not going anywhere yet.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s right, Turr\u00fatut. Like it or not we\u2019re stuck here together you and me.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I had the strangest sensation that Alex was trying to tell me something, but I was too brain-dead. Or maybe I was reading too much into his words. Our father had abandoned us, but my leaving was not the same thing. And not for a few more years. Perhaps all he needed was reassurance. Especially after seeing my father break down in front of us.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHey, listen, Alex, it\u2019s going to be okay. I\u2019ll always be here for you. I promise.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Alex looked at me intently. We had to try to read each other\u2019s minds. Unlike Ap\u00e1, he was not one to let his defenses down. We locked eyes for a few seconds and then he turned away. We slipped into silence again. That was all the sentimentality we were going to manage between us.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n No car passed us by for an additional thirty minutes but we didn\u2019t have to wait any longer because the blue Mustang came speeding out of the dirt avenue kicking up dust. My father honked the horn and our bodies jumped with excitement.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWe got a jump from the foreman,\u201d Ap\u00e1 said. \u201cHe was making one last inspection and your grandfather spotted him.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Abuelo raised his chin slightly, acting like the hero of the story.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I patted Abuelo on the shoulder in gratitude. \u201cGood job, Abuelo!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAnd don\u2019t you dare stop anywhere, Ap\u00e1, in case the car won\u2019t start again,\u201d Alex said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I piled on.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cListen to your sons. Listen to your sons,\u201d Abuelo said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Alex and I climbed in and we set off for home. I made eye contact with Ap\u00e1 through the rearview mirror for a fleeting moment. In the back seat, as we sat side by side, a glorious comfort came upon me and I might have held my brother\u2019s hand if it weren\u2019t the least manly gesture of affection I could imagine. So instead I joined the banter and laughter until we reached the freeway, where we blended into the traffic, just one more anonymous unit of Mexicans in the desert. It felt good to be in the company of these men. For once, I felt I belonged to this private world we called manhood, which wasn\u2019t perfect, which was sometimes painful, but was my birthright.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Abuelo was the picker. Ap\u00e1 was the packer. Alex and I took turns harvesting grape and carrying the heavy boxes…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":322,"template":"","categories":[9,49,142],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-321","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-literary-features","category-nonfiction"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n