Escape

Jared became my neighbor the summer of my tenth birthday, and even then I could tell his family was messed up. I was sitting on the cement steps of my front porch with a little red pocket knife, scraping the bark off a piece of fallen locust tree. I watched these new people across the street unpack everything they owned from a U-Haul truck. The parents looked mad as hell, and were muttering things under their breath. I saw two boys sitting in aluminum folding chairs on the front lawn, and I strained my head to try and overhear what they were saying. I got up and started walking towards them, stopping at the mailbox to get a better listen.
"You're a pussy," the older of the two said. He was holding something high above his head with his left hand, and was holding his brother down with the other.
"Give it back Mike!" the smaller boy yelled, hoping to get his parents' attention. Mike cuffed his sibling in the back of the head. I opened the mailbox and pretended to check for mail. Walking back to the porch, I sat back down. Screw this, I thought. Corrales was traditionally a quiet town, filled mostly with old people, farmers, and people who only spoke Spanish-it definitely wasn't ready for people like this.
School was back in session about a week later, and it turned out that the younger of the two kids was named Jared. He and I had nearly all our classes together, and even though he seemed a little strange, we talked. Not all the time, but on the school bus, or after school from across the street from one another-shouting matches. One day after school I decided to find out why he moved here.
"So why'd you move here?" I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and I noticed his small build through the thin cotton of his shirt.
"We moved cause Dad's job made him," Jared said. He looked over my shoulder at something off in the distance while I studied his face.
"Well what's he do?" I asked.
"Border Patrol," he said, this time sounding annoyed. He could tell I was going to as him another question and before I could he answered it for me.
"And because my brother was always in trouble with drugs. Dad almost lost his job cause of it," Jared said. His eyes were looking at the road now, and I knew he didn't like talking about it.
"Well it's different down here than it was in Texas-a lot different.

Seven years later Jared and I were sitting on the cement steps of my front porch, splitting a six pack of Corona and a jumbo bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. High School graduation was about a week before, and we never really stopped celebrating. The sun was just beginning to fall out of the sky, and I was starting to sober up. I took a large gulp of beer and snagged a few chips from the bag.
"Dude, can you believe we go to college in a few weeks?" I asked him, turning to look at him. He was licking the tiny red and blue flecks of flavor off the chips and then putting them in a pile next to him.
"Yea, it definitely went by fast, that's for sure," he said. Looking down at his little pile of chips next to him, I thought about what he said.
"Especially the last couple, since Mike's been gone," I said. Neither of us spoke for a moment, so I decided to down the last of my beer in violent gulps. He was picking up the remnants of his soggy chips and throwing them individually at cars driving by.
"Speaking of which," he said, "He just got out of rehab a few days ago." I put down my empty bottle and reached into the Styrofoam cooler between the two of us for another. The ice inside had began to melt, leaving behind a few floating squares in a pool of dirty water.
"Well," I said, "Did Camp Fuckup do any good or what?" Camp Fuckup was the rehabilitation center Mike was shipped off to after graduating high school. He'd been there for nearly two years, and although I had my doubts, the occasional report from a counselor there said he was making progress.
"I'm not sure yet. He's been crashing at his ex's place," he said. Licking the last few specs of flavor off from a chip, he stood up and walked towards the road. Throwing it at a beat up rust colored Chevy that coughed its way by, he turned to face me.
"We'll find out tomorrow," he said. "He's coming home."

I awoke the next day to the sound of my mother's voice coming through the thin wood of my bedroom door.
"Alejandro, se despierta. ¡La Fiesta de la cosecha es esta mañana!" I opened my eyes only for a moment to check the Speedy Gonzalez clock radio next to me. It read 9:30. It was supposed to scream Arriba! Arriba! about ten minutes ago-piece of shit. I unfurled my long legs out from under the blankets and noticed a muscle twitching in my thigh. I punched it a few times and it went away. The Harvest Festival started at 11:00 and I was meeting Jared out front in fifteen minutes.
"¿Me oyó usted? she screamed again. I swear to god Mexican women have the loudest voices in the whole goddamn world. I should just pay her the ten bucks it will cost to buy a new alarm clock and have her scream in my ear every morning.
"¡Sí mamá que yo le oyó! For some reason she thinks I can't hear her. It's probably because my Dad's half deaf from working construction his whole life. I slowly sat up and fumbled around blindly trying to find my contact lens case. I popped them in while sitting in bed and stood up to look at myself in the mirror, contemplating whether or not I needed to shower. Sniff Sniff-my Old Spice deodorant did the trick last night. I threw on the same jeans I wore yesterday and I rummaged through my dresser for a shirt. That's when I noticed my hair-fuck. My long curly hair was matted flat up against my head and I cursed my Mexican heritage. Pulling over my head a tee shirt with Dane Cook's face stamped in the center telling the world that "Kool-Aid is naughty," I tried running a comb through my hair. It hurt too much so I threw the comb down and walked into the kitchen.
In the middle of the room there was a hand-me-down table that my Abuelo supposedly built some seventy years ago. It was made of some ancient wood that you can't find in stores anymore. On this sat two place settings, one for my dad who was sitting in the next room watching a re-run of Live with Regis and Kelly, and one for me, even though my mom knew I wouldn't sit down to eat. Backed enchiladas sat cold on the table, and I grabbed a few as I walked by.
"Gracias Mamá," I said, kissing her check and heading out the door.

Jared was sitting on the burned, browning grass in front of his house, and when he saw me coming he jumped to his feet.
"Come on Broseph, we gotta beat all the old Mexicanos!" he said, throwing his head back and laughing. His long shaggy brown hair jutted out all over the place, and I didn't feel so self-conscious anymore.
"You don't pronounce the "x" asshole," I said, laughing and opening the passenger door of his beat up 75' sky-blue Lincoln Towncar with a squeak. He hopped in the driver's seat and turned the key. Nothing happened. I looked over at him and he held his hand up.
"Give her a minute," he said, "she's cold."
"This is New Mexico-it's never cold," I said. He rolled his eyes and turned the key again, this time pumping the gas pedal. The strained sound of a cat on it's ninth life came screaming out of the engine, and we started on the five minute trip to the center of Corrales. The Corrales Harvest Festival was originally meant for farmers to share their fruits and vegetables with the people of the town, but it soon branched off into more of a massive yard sale free for all. People from all sorts of backgrounds and businesses would set up card tables and sit on milk crates in an attempt to sell their shit. Jared and I had only started going last year, but decided to go again to make fun of the vendors.
I stared at the faded leather of the dashboard and felt the torn fabric on the bottoms of my thighs. It was itchy on my bare legs and I clawed at them like a child and his first encounter with poison ivy. I looked over at Jared and noticed the white knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel. I knew he was tense about seeing Mike, and as he parked the car I noticed that his whole body seemed stiff.
We got out of the car and simultaneously closed our doors with a slam. We headed down the sawdust covered dirt path and noticed there were a lot fewer vendors here this year. That was really a downer, and I knew Jared had been looking forward to this all summer long.
"Amigo, where the hell is everybody?" he asked me. We looked around and noticed that there were more fruit and vegetable stands than usual. In fact, that's all there was. We found a sign that read "The Corrales Harvest Festival has been separated by popular demand into two different weeks." It went on to say that today was solely the farmer's market half of the festival, and next weekend was when all of the vendors would be here.
"Well this blows," I said. I looked over at Jared, expecting him to be disappointed, but his face was instead illuminated by curiosity. I followed his gaze to the end of the path, where an old man sat behind a table crowded with corn and some other kind of vegetable I couldn't place. He was wearing a cut off shirt, and his jeans had countless holes in them. Jared started walking toward him slowly, so I followed him. Next to the old man on the ground sat what resembled a guitar. It had scratches and gouges all over the place, and it looked like it was missing a couple of strings. I knew Jared would know what it was-in two weeks he was attending New Mexico Highlands University for music.

One time I was over at his house hanging out and we locked ourselves in the basement. I was sitting on a worn lime colored couch from the seventies looking over at three objects covered up by bed sheets and afghans.
"Do you know what's under here Alex?" he asked. I looked at the stained sheets and shook my head no. He smiled and coolly walked over to the sheets. He pulled the first sheet off from the thing on the left. Underneath stood a light brown guitar and it said Epiphone on the neck.
"This was my first ever guitar," he said. "I got it the summer before I moved here, it's a Walmart special." I watched his eyes light up as he talked about it.
"What are those two?" I asked. He smiled now and stepped over to the next one. Slower this time, he eased the orange and green afghan up over the top of a black guitar.
"This is a matte-black Fender Stratocaster from the 1990's," he said. "It's not worth that much, but it's a beauty. You should have seen it before I got my hands on it. No strings at all and the neck was split right down the middle."
"Wow, so you like to fix them? I asked, knowing he appreciated my interest in something that I knew no one else gave two shits about.
"Yea, I love to take something broken and make it beautiful again," he said. I pointed at what I assumed was another guitar under a leopard print sheet and he nodded his head. This time he was even more careful not to catch the sheet on the neck.
"This is a 1960's Cherry-Burst colored Gibson Hummingbird, and it's worth more than your life dude."
"Where'd it come from?" I asked. He picked it up and put the strap around his neck gracefully.
"I picked it up at a yard sale a couple of years ago in pieces, and I spent an entire year gluing and replacing all of the parts. It's my favorite," he said. He rubbed his fingers along the outline of a blue hummingbird before looking up at me again.
"These are all awesome," I said. I asked him to play it for me and he took out a pick.

The old man was very clearly Mexican, a local no doubt. His skin was deeply tanned from years in the sun, and his face was cracked around the eyes and mouth. Jared and I were directly in front of his table and Jared was staring at the guitar.
"How much for the guitar?" he asked the old man. The old man stared back but said nothing, looking confused.
"¿Cuánto cuesta la guitarra?" I asked. The old man looked from me to Jared, who was examining the guitar from afar.
"Cuesta quinientos dólares," he said, his old Spanish sounding slightly different from what I spoke at home.
"That doesn't sound good," Jared said. I smiled at the old man and pulled Jared aside.
"He says he wants $500 for it," I said. Jared looked defeated for a moment before getting an assured look on his face.
"Tell him we will be back in a half hour with the money," Jared said.
"Are you serious dude?" Where are we going to get that kind of cash?" I asked.
"Just do it Alex." Jared started jogging back to the car while I turned around to face the old man.
"Vuelva en una media hora de pagar," I said. He looked me up and down for a moment before slowly nodding his head yes. I turned around and ran back to the car where Jared had the engine running and a smile on his face.
"Ready for an adventure Alejandro?" he asked me, a huge grin on his face.

We were back on the road in a flash and we drove past our houses, heading north on the Scenic Byway.
"Where the hell are we going?" I asked. He was still smiling, but he was tapping his fingers nervously on the steering wheel.
"We're going to visit Mike," he said. I looked over at him and he kept his eyes on the road. I looked out the open window at the old vineyards and inhaled the rich smells of freshly tilled earth and roasting green Chile. It settled me for a moment before where we were going hit me again.
"You know he's not going to just give you $500 Jared," I said. His smile disappeared, and was replaced by a look of mischief.
"I'm planning on it," he said. I processed this for a moment.
"You mean to tell me we are going to steal this money from your brother?" I asked, already knowing the answer. We pulled off the road onto a slender dirt road that led to a filthy time-stained trailer. I knew this place to be Mike's ex-girlfriend April's place. He threw the car in park at the end of the driveway and motioned for me to be quiet as we closed our doors gently. He grabbed something from the pocket of his door but I couldn't see what it was before he slid it in his pocket. We snuck up to the small trailer and peaked in the bedroom window. There sat Mike on the end of April's bed on top of pink sheets with a joint in his mouth and his hand on the TV remote. He looked the same as I remember him being before he left after high school-his black hair was still buzzed short, his face plastered with pimples, and he had a joint in his mouth. He looked to have gained a few more pounds, but he was definitely still the same asshole.
"So much for rehabilitation," I said. I looked over at Jared but he ignored what I was saying and peered past his brother down the small hallway into the living room. He motioned for me to follow him and we proceeded to the side of the house so we could see April better. She was sitting in a chair painting her fingernails the same shade of pink as her comforter, saying something to Mike in the next room. Her greasy black hair was stuffed into a ponytail and as she hopped up out of her chair and started towards the room, she began undressing herself. She wore a spaghetti strap black tank top with the word sexy spelled out in glitter and a skirt so short that it would make 1970's Jenna Jameson blush. Just before the doorway she bent down to unlace her glossy black prositboots and Jared and I made our way back to the bedroom window.
Now Mike was bare-assed, and the pink blanket was rolled down, exposing matching silk sheets. We looked past him to April who had just finishing taking off her clothes. Her tits sagged slightly and bounced awkwardly as she trotted into the bedroom. She paused to look at herself in the mirror before Mike waved her over. I looked at Jared who pulled a screwdriver from his pocket just as Mike started driving his former thigh vehicle. We went around to the back door of the trailer and Jared slid the screwdriver into the empty space in the door just above the bolt. He was about to pry it open when I held up my hand for him to stop. I tried turning the door knob slowly-it worked. I looked over at him and he chuckled under his breath. He put the screwdriver back in his pocket and pushed the door open carefully, me following him closely.
"How do we know where to look for cash?" I asked. He tiptoed through the kitchen and into the living room, where a red tackle box sat in the middle of the floor. A padlock rested unlocked on the ground next to it, and he turned around to face me.
"He always keeps his drugs and cash in that box. He calls it his "'Box o' Sunshine,'" he said. I laughed under my breath before we inched our way into the living room. There was no way we were going to be able to get to the box without directly being in Mike's line of vision.
"We need a distraction," Jared said. "Any ideas?" I looked around for a few seconds and shook my head no. I heard a strange noise coming from the bedroom to the right of the kitchen that we passed on our way inside. I pointed to the bedroom and shrugged my shoulders before making my way to the door. I tried the door-it was unlocked. I inched it open and immediately closed it.
"Dude," I whispered, "there's three fucking German Shepherds in there lying down in the back." He smiled and walked over to me, and I knew he had a plan.
"We're gunna to open this door and wait for the dogs to run into April's room, then grab the box and run like hell," he said. I nodded my head but grabbed his arm.
"Not until you tell me why the fuck you want that guitar so much," I wanted to know why he was willing to risk both our asses to get it.
"It's a 1961 Les Paul SG," he said. "It has Mother of Pearl inlay on the neck and frets, and after I fix it up, it will be worth about five grand." His eyes widened like the time in his basement, and I knew then it was worth it.
"Okay, let's do it," I said.
"On the count of three," he said. "One, two, three!" I turned the door knob and we raced to the back door until the dogs made their way into April's room. I crept into the living room to see the dogs licking and slurping bouncing sweating bodies, and I gave Jared the signal. He grabbed the box, latched it, and we raced back out the way be came, careful to close the door quietly. Sprinting back to the car, we flung open the doors and Jared backed up and onto the Byway.
I couldn't believe we got away with it, and I looked over at Jared. He was driving with his left hand, while he clumsily rifled through the open tackle box with the other. His slender fingers found something and he held it up to get a better look. A large gold money clip was pinched tight over a wad of crumpled up Benjamins like a clothespin holding up too many pairs of my Abuelo's socks.
"¡Mierda!" I said, "How much is there?" Jared tossed it onto my lap while he made an attempt to peer inside the rest of the box while driving. I slid the clip off from the bundle of bills and placed it onto the faded dash in front of me. Unraveling the bills I noticed we were going to be substantially short.
"There's only $350 here dude," I said. "We're screwed." He shrugged his shoulders just as we pulled back into the Festival parking lot. I got out of the car and Jared fished something out of the box and stuffed it into his back pocket so that when he walked he had a huge bulge.
"What the fuck's in your pocket?" I asked. He started walking towards the old man.
"You'll see," he said. I didn't think anything of it and I followed in his wake. "Ask him if $350 is enough," he said. I nodded and walked back up to the table and the old man looked me right in the eyes. He looked tired.
"¿Son trescientos cincuenta dólares suficiente? I asked him, unable to look at his aged face any longer. He stood up for the first time and sized us up. Gently taking his vegetables off from the table he placed the guitar in front of us. He shook his head from side to side very slowly.
"No es suficiente. Si usted desea lo, deme más." His voice was hoarse and dry, like it needed a bath. I looked at Jared and he got the message. I held my hand up for the old man and pulled Jared aside.
"What are you gonna do?" I said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a jumbled mix of dried buds and rolling papers he swiped from the tackle box. He dumped this into my cupped hands and dug back into his pocket for something else, pulling out a filthy stained glass bowl. He put that in my hands too and then motioned me back over to the old man. I got the idea.
"¿Está bien esto?" I said. The old man's body came alive for the first time as his eyes widened and he shook his head up and down. He picked the guitar up off from the table and placed it in Jared's open and waiting arms like an infant. He turned around cradling baby Paul in his arms and started back towards the car. I looked at the old man-he had a freshly rolled joint in his fingers and he licked it closed. He nodded at me in approval, and I followed Jared back to the car.
"You know you're fucked, right?" I asked. He opened the door to the backseat and placed the two-stringed music maker gently on the torn upholstery. Tracing over the outline of the words Les Paul on the neck of the guitar, he closed the door with a slam and rested his elbows on the rusty roof of the car.
"Yea I know, but I got Paul now so it's all good," he said. As we drove the short trip back home I thought about what he said. He put the car in park and I made my way across the road. Taking a seat once again on my cement steps, I realized that music was Jared's escape.