FTER M ARGARET ’ S lesson, Rico focused on his work obligations, just as he did every day of his life. One time, years before, a new neighbor, a grown man from Mexico who was renting a room down the block, had identified himself as a “bus burro” in a local restaurant. Rico had laughed and so had the man, but the truth was that Rico was feeling more and more like a bus burro in his own life. He needed pleasure. He needed time off. He needed a Sunday without church and a Saturday without work, and a few days here and there when he didn’t have to scrub his hands and fingernails with gritty orange cleaner before he could feel good about picking up a knife and fork at the dinner table.
His mind drifted back to the cylinder of Rescue Remedy that had rolled out of Margaret’s bag toward his feet. What was Rescue Remedy, he wondered. Did it work, and if so, how? In his whole life, Rico had never felt rescued by anything other than his own willpower, the mighty force that stood between him and the many faces of trouble. It was willpower and nothing else that propelled him to place one foot in front of the other every day and just keep going. He never had the illusion he was working toward some specific end where life as he knew it would transform into something new and better, where he could lock up the garage and get on a plane for parts unknown with his pocket full of cash. No. For Rico, it was the beaten path, and that was that.
It had occurred to him, when Margaret mentioned that her schedule was wide open, that she didn’t have a job, and he wondered how she pulled that off. She wasn’t rich, obviously, with that disgraceful old car and that ancient adobe rental that, he had noticed, had duct tape stretched across a baseball-sized hole high up in the front window. Yet she had time to mosey to the library for the afternoon, to learn to weld, to move to New Mexico from New York, and who knew what else. From his observation, she only had herself to think about, which made a big difference. He himself had people coming out of the woodwork, and so did everyone he knew, most of whom, or perhaps all of whom, were chicanos from the South Valley.
Rico was squatting down in front of his tool cabinet, collecting a timing light from the second to bottom drawer, when he sat back on his heels for a moment to reflect on this. Was it true that he didn’t have even one Anglo friend or even friendly acquaintance to his name? He’d known a few in school, but that was more than twenty-five years ago. He had a few Anglo customers and several new Anglo neighbors and they were cordial enough, but he didn’t know them personally. He had noticed, though, that they didn’t come in packs, big families that included several generations all under one roof. They were more solitary as a rule. More disconnected, it seemed, though another way of looking at it was more unencumbered. More free.
Margaret seemed free for sure, but what did he really know about her? He knew nothing. Whatever was happening between them, whatever kind of friendship was brewing—if there was one brewing at all—had begun in the moment when he rerouted his embarrassment and shame into an apology, showed up at her door and, without saying the exact words, asked for forgiveness. It was a strange place to start. It was as if they had to start over before they had even started the first time. But having started at a low point, maybe even the bottom, they couldn’t go anywhere but up. There was more to it than all of that, too. It had to do with the belief that he really did deserve a second chance, and she deserved a second chance to get to know him, too. It had to do with standing up and saying no to the force that wanted to mow things down before they even had a chance to grow.
He straightened up and returned his attention to the engine he was in the process of tuning up. He still did his tune-ups primarily by sound, which was possible because most of his customers
His mind drifted back to the cylinder of Rescue Remedy that had rolled out of Margaret’s bag toward his feet. What was Rescue Remedy, he wondered. Did it work, and if so, how? In his whole life, Rico had never felt rescued by anything other than his own willpower, the mighty force that stood between him and the many faces of trouble. It was willpower and nothing else that propelled him to place one foot in front of the other every day and just keep going. He never had the illusion he was working toward some specific end where life as he knew it would transform into something new and better, where he could lock up the garage and get on a plane for parts unknown with his pocket full of cash. No. For Rico, it was the beaten path, and that was that.
It had occurred to him, when Margaret mentioned that her schedule was wide open, that she didn’t have a job, and he wondered how she pulled that off. She wasn’t rich, obviously, with that disgraceful old car and that ancient adobe rental that, he had noticed, had duct tape stretched across a baseball-sized hole high up in the front window. Yet she had time to mosey to the library for the afternoon, to learn to weld, to move to New Mexico from New York, and who knew what else. From his observation, she only had herself to think about, which made a big difference. He himself had people coming out of the woodwork, and so did everyone he knew, most of whom, or perhaps all of whom, were chicanos from the South Valley.
Rico was squatting down in front of his tool cabinet, collecting a timing light from the second to bottom drawer, when he sat back on his heels for a moment to reflect on this. Was it true that he didn’t have even one Anglo friend or even friendly acquaintance to his name? He’d known a few in school, but that was more than twenty-five years ago. He had a few Anglo customers and several new Anglo neighbors and they were cordial enough, but he didn’t know them personally. He had noticed, though, that they didn’t come in packs, big families that included several generations all under one roof. They were more solitary as a rule. More disconnected, it seemed, though another way of looking at it was more unencumbered. More free.
Margaret seemed free for sure, but what did he really know about her? He knew nothing. Whatever was happening between them, whatever kind of friendship was brewing—if there was one brewing at all—had begun in the moment when he rerouted his embarrassment and shame into an apology, showed up at her door and, without saying the exact words, asked for forgiveness. It was a strange place to start. It was as if they had to start over before they had even started the first time. But having started at a low point, maybe even the bottom, they couldn’t go anywhere but up. There was more to it than all of that, too. It had to do with the belief that he really did deserve a second chance, and she deserved a second chance to get to know him, too. It had to do with standing up and saying no to the force that wanted to mow things down before they even had a chance to grow.
He straightened up and returned his attention to the engine he was in the process of tuning up. He still did his tune-ups primarily by sound, which was possible because most of his customers
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