No Way, José

No Way, José
by Shannon Chapel

Look up shit-for-brains in the dictionary and you'll see a picture of yours truly. Yep, that's me, the pathetic-looking gringo in the ridiculous sombrero, sitting under a Joshua tree in the middle of BFE. God, what an idiot! You'd never know it by looking at this particular snapshot, but I'm actually a pretty smart guy. College degree and everything. So where did I go wrong?

I'm your typical white-bread, white-collar American male. I spend my work days in a small telemarketing office on the California coast crammed into a three-by-five cubicle alongside other white-bread, white-collar American males, and we hammer out our livings on telephone dial pads, convincing bored housewives to spend their husbands' hard-earned dough on this, that, or the other thing. The money's not the greatest, but it keeps me indoors. I'm not built for manual labor.

I was content, satisfied, or at least I thought I was until Pilar sashayed into my life.

Pilar Lupita Guadalupe Romero Martinez. Ah, even now whispering her name sends a shiver of desire through me. I knew she was trouble the moment I laid eyes on her, but up to that point the most dangerous thing I'd ever done was ride my bike to work without a helmet. I was intrigued by the potential danger of it all. I was thirty-nine, divorced (though I still wore my wedding band, but that's another story), no children--I was stagnating, and I craved a little action.

Pilar worked for a temp agency. Our receptionist, Karen, had an abscessed tooth, and for three straight days Pilar nearly stopped my heart when she walked through the door. I was attracted to her; I was terrified of her. She was way out of my league. I couldn't even bring myself to speak to her, but on her last day ... well, on her last day Pilar took matters into her own hands.

The office was heading home for the day and I was the last one out the door. It whooshed closed behind me and Pilar spun around to ask, "Have you ever been to Joshua Tree National Park?"

I took in everything about her in less than five seconds: the way a strand of her long brown hair got hung up in her eyelashes, the tinkling chime-like sound of her bracelets, the barely-detectable scent of her perfume, the way her shapely calves tapered to delicate ankles that disappeared inside crimson stiletto heels. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I stood that way for what seemed like hours until finally, gratefully, Pilar's smile softened slightly around the edges.

Man, you are totally blowing it,  I thought. Say something, you idiot!

"A few friends and I are having a fiesta tomorrow night near Skull Rock," she said. "It's something we do every year at sundown. Traditional attire, of course. There'll be lots of good food and  ... anyway, I'd love you to come."

I booked a one-hour flight to Palm Springs and rented a car. It took me forever to find a poncho and sombrero to top of my ensemble, but I was persistent. If Pilar wanted traditional attire, by God she was going to get it. This was my chance to do something right for a change--to make a good impression, not just on Pilar, but on all of her friends too. I pulled into the park, took my change of clothes into one of the public restrooms and walked out into the Southern California twilight a changed man. This is it!  I thought. This is the first day of the rest of my life.

Cars blocked the road and I had to pull over. The walk to Skull Rock from where I'd parked wouldn't have been that bad--it was only about three hundred feet--but it was stifling. July in the California desert can be brutal, and I knew it had to be at least 100˚. I'd barely locked the rental before beads of sweat began to trickle down my back. God, how can they stand this heat?  I wondered.

There weren't as many people as I thought there'd be--maybe fifty total--but the night was still young. I was stumbling my way across the hard-packed, uneven ground toward the center of the action when I heard, "Hey, you made it!"

I turned to see Pilar, and she was--

"Wait, I thought you said 'traditional attire'?" I looked around, embarrassed: I was the only one dressed that way. People were looking at me and whispering to each other in Spanish. Children giggled behind tiny hands, pointed with tiny fingers, and I wished I was invisible. So much for a good impression, jackass.

Pilar smiled and took my hand. "Did I? Oh well," she said, and the touch of her flesh let loose a current that ripped through me with such force it damn near buckled my knees. "Come on, let's eat."

And I was hungry. I hadn't realized how famished I was until the mouth-watering aroma of chipotle beef reached my nostrils. What a spread! There were enchiladas, tamales, pork carnitas, homemade chips and pico de gallo ... I was reaching for a fish taco (Is that tilapia?) when I heard, "Well, lookie here."

I turned around, and the biggest dude I'd ever seen outside of a Prison Break  episode was glaring at me like he wanted to twist my pea-sized head off my shoulders. He was shirtless and brown, a smirk spread across his goateed mouth. (Call me old-fashioned, but you should never trust guys with grillz.) I marveled at the tattoo sleeves that colored his muscled arms from shoulder to wrist ... but it was the heart-shaped tattoo over his heart that caught my eye: "Pilar," I read aloud.

Shit.

I'm not much of a fighter. I avoid confrontation at all costs and have lived with the shame of being beaten up by a girl in the fourth grade for thirty years. The little bitch kept stealing my lunch money, so one day I decided I'd had enough and told her no. The resulting ass whooping wasn't a pretty sight.

"Gabe Vernon," I said, extending my right hand.

"You going for the white meat now, Pilar?" he asked, completely ignoring me. "What, your own kind ain't good enough for you?"

Pilar pushed him backward, distancing the space between us. Her hands looked like a child's against his massive chest. "That's enough, José. He's just a friend, okay? Can't we just eat and have fun? Why do you have to ruin everything? I'm sorry, Gabe. I--"

"You make a habit of holding hands with your friends?" José asked, moving her aside. "Let's go, cabrón. No one makes a move on my wife and gets away with it."

Wife! 

José stepped toward me, his fists clenched. They were the size of dinner plates.

I'm gonna die.

"Put your hands up, man. Let's do this thing."

"Nope." I put my hands up alright, but they were palms out, fingers splayed, begging for mercy. "I don't want to fight you."

"What do you mean, you don't wanna fight?"

"I mean I don't want to fight. How about I just get back in my car and--"

José stopped and stared at me like I was a six-foot, six-eyed stink bug standing on its hind legs smoking a Savinelli. It was obvious my pacifist approach to life was foreign to him.

"You can't be serious," he said. "You think I'm just gonna let this slide? Put your hands up."

"Hmm-mmm."

"Do it."

"No."

"Put your goddamn hands up!"

"No way, José."

That is the last thing I remember before waking up the next morning under that damn Joshua tree. My jaw hurt like a mother, and someone had driven me out to the middle of nowhere and dropped me off. I had no idea where I was or where I'd parked. There were a few dirt roads nearby, so I figured it was just a matter of time before someone came by to rescue me.

As I sat there pondering my fate, a car pulled up and three children of various shapes and sizes hopped out. I recognized them as the ones who'd laughed at me the night before. The bigger one, a boy who appeared to be about twelve years old, ran up and snapped a photo of me with a Kodak instant camera.

That's weird,  I thought. I didn't know they still made those.

The boy's mother reprimanded him in Spanish, and he tossed the snapshot into my lap before running behind the car to urinate. Wonderful. Preserved for posterity. I wonder if anyone has a picture of Rhonda Coogan beating my ass?  The thought made me smile.

"You need some help, mister?" the woman hollered. "I can give you a ride back to the campground."

I looked at the children, imagined their taunts and teases--how they could make fun of me in their native tongue and I wouldn't even know it.

"No. Thank you, though."

"You sure? It's no trouble."

I waved them off. "I'm sure. I think I'll just sit here for a while ... enjoy the morning."

The boy started giggling, and the woman smacked him in the back of the head, silencing him.

As I watched them drive away, a wall of dust and debris in their wake, I wondered how hot it would get and how long a human being could go without water. I wondered why Pilar had invited me in the first place. I thought maybe she's one of those women who likes drama--gets off on watching her man fight for her. I wondered who she invited last year.

"It is what it is," I said aloud. "Wish I'd taken that ride."

I should have stuck to the monotony of urban everydayness,  I thought. I wonder how much bike helmets cost?



Word count minus title (according to Microsoft Word)--1,653
Written for April 2010

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