Page 19 of A Hidden Past

He laughs and says, “So, you like the truck?”

“It’s nice. Is it yours? I thought you said you had to bring it back.”

He scoffs. "Is it mine? Come on, dude, you know I don't live like that. Even when we were boosting, I had to give the rides to someone else. No, it's the company’s. But I get to drive it forty hours a week.” He pats the bed and adds, “It’s got wireless phone connection, navigation, satellite radio, heated seats… it’s like a freaking Mercedes with a bed. Only the best for rich people. They can’t even see other people drive shitty cars, so the landscaper makes sure that we get the top of the line.”

I shrug. “Beats boosting, am I right?”

Marco looks me up and down, and I feel a chill. I’m not afraid of him, but I’m afraid of the life I left behind. Everything that’s happened—the drugs, the cops, Marco showing up—is beginning to feel a lot like that life coming back to me.

“What happened to you anyway, dog? After you got caught.”

“What do you think?”

“I mean, you didn’t go to jail, or there’s no way you’d be working for a company here in the rich part of L.A.”

I sighed. “No, I didn’t go to jail. The judge gave me probation and community service and told me that if I ever stepped outside of the law again, he’d make sure that I got every possible punishment the law could throw at me.”

Marco shook his head. “Pinche pendejos. I'm telling you, man, it's all about stepping on us. It's not about race or religion or whether you're gay or straight. They just want people to believe that, so we don't pay attention to the real problem. The rich people are stepping on the poor people. They always have. That's why there's so much shit in the world."

“I mean, he gave me a break, so…”

“He didn’t give you a break, ese, he gave you a warning. He said, ‘Do what I say, or you’re going to prison for life.’”

“Well, I wouldn’t go to prison for life for boosting a car. That’s like ten years max.”

“Nah, bro.” He shook his head again and said forcefully. “It’s for life. Once they have you in their system, you’re always in their system.”

His smile is gone, replaced by the hard look that characterizes the other half of his personality. This conversation isn’t new either. During the rare occasions when I would question whether or not we should be stealing cars, this was the look he’d adopt. He’d get on the tangent of poverty and wealth and end up spouting the same rant he’s spouting now.

I’m not interested in hearing that rant again, so I try to turn the conversation by saying, “Well, hey, we get to drive cool cars without the cops trying to drag us to jail, so that’s good.”

It’s a weak attempt at changing the subject, but it seems to work. Marco nods and stays silent a moment, then smiles and says, “So you been doing anything on the side?”

Okay, it doesn’t work quite so well. “No, man. Like I said, trying to live clean.”

“That why you haven’t talked to me in three years?”

My smile fades. I start to stammer an excuse, but he laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “I’m just teasing you, bro. I get it. The cops were watching you, and you couldn’t risk them getting to me. I appreciate it, man. Omerta, right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“But hey, we’re out now. You’re the world’s hottest pool boy, and I’m the sexy, exotic ethnic gardener.”

“Man, don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“What? I’m proud of my ethnicity, bro, I don’t need to hide from it.”

“I know, but…”

“But what? Relax, dog. I’m living the dream.”

“Even though the women don’t like you?”

He grinned at me. “Like I said. There’s women everywhere, bro. I don’t just work here. I work weekends at UCLA. Man, there are some babes there. Sometimes I end up with three women in one night.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure you do.”

“On God, brother. You don’t even have to try there. You would definitely not have to try. You’d have girls all around you on their knees begging for it.”

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