Page 18 of A Hidden Past

He pulls away, and I get my first good look at him. He doesn’t look at all like Sumo Sam. He’s five-foot-eight and maybe a hundred fifty pounds of wiry muscle with not an ounce of fat on him. In fact, other than a rough stubble on his chin, he looks exactly like the kid I used to get high and boost cars with.

“Trying to live clean, man,” I say, “you know how it is.”

“For real, bro, straight up.”

That’s how most conversations with Marco go. He strings together a bunch of slang that sort of makes a conversation, and I reply pretty much the same way.

“So you’re a pool boy now? That must be why none of the bitches here look at me anymore. They’ve got a new boy toy to play with.”

That's another thing about Marco. He has a… shall we say, juvenile attitude toward women.

“Are you kidding man? No one’s looking at commoners like us.”

I think of Vivian’s dinner invitation and hope Marco can’t tell that I’m lying.

“Seriously, bro,” he replies. “I’ll be honest, I took this job thinking I could comfort some lonely housewives, you know what I’m saying? But they won’t even let me in the house.”

“What job is that?” I ask.

“Gardener, bro!” he opens his arms and looks down at himself. “You can’t tell?”

It’s true that his olive-green polo shirt and khaki shorts are stained with dirt and grass. “I guess I missed it. I was too busy looking at the caterpillar that died on your chin.”

Marco frowns hurtfully. “Hey man, ladies love this beard. This is how I get chicks.”

“I thought you said the women here didn’t like you.”

"Well, yeah, here. There’s women everywhere, bro.”

“Good point.”

“So you want to share a sandwich with me or what? I finished working already, and I don’t have to give the truck back until six.”

I hesitate, but my last appointment isn’t for another forty-five minutes, and while part of me says I should make an excuse and keep Marco in the past with all of my other mistakes, I don’t feel like sitting alone in the van, and despite my earlier spiel about Marco being yet another terrible thing to happen to me today, his cheerfulness is infectious, and I’ll take all the cheer I can get right now.

“Sure. Just as long as it doesn’t have chilis in it.”

He rolls his eyes and shoves me playfully. “Come on, don’t be a little bitch. Why are white people so afraid of spicy food anyway?”

“That’s offensive,” I say with a grin.

“So report me for a hate crime. I saw some cops here earlier. Maybe they’ll arrest me.”

“Did you hear what happened?”

He shrugs. “Probably some rich kid OD’d or something.”

I stagger when he says that, and he says, “Christ, did you trip on your own feet?”

I force a smile and say, “It’s just that you’re too beautiful. I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

“Just as long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

We reach his truck and sit on the tailgate. He hands me a half sandwich. It’s a Philly cheesesteak with a very generous helping of hot peppers.

“You can just pick them out if you want, sweetheart,” he says gently.

“Bite me.”

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