Page 1 of Summer Lovin'

1

ROMERO

Driving my classic 1954 Chevy truck for the first time in two years, I pull into the small parking lot of the Cultural Market, our local corner grocery store. It’s been a long time since I’ve stepped foot into this store—the last time resulting in my being walked out in handcuffs.

Yeah, I was kind of a juvenile delinquent.

Behind the counter, the woman who called the cops and owns the store, has her head down while she counts the coins a small kid dumped to pay for a piece of candy.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Patel,” I say as soon as she deposits the coins in the cash register and brings her head up, her tiny customer running out of the store with their treasure.

Her eyes grow wide, but her smile is wider. “Johnny Romero, is that you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She comes out and throws her arms wide. “Wow, you look so grown up, and not in handcuffs.”

I chuckle and wrap my arms around her. “No, ma'am. The only time I've ever been in handcuffs was when you had me arrested.”

“If I remember correctly, you never spent one night in jail.” She pulls back and places her palms on my cheeks, her older eyes kind. “But I had to have you arrested. I couldn't risk you not learning a lesson and changing your ways before it was too late.”

Smiling, I nod my understanding. “I harbor no ill will, Mrs. Patel. Joining the military and getting out of here is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She returns to the cash register, checking out another customer who I don’t recognize. This neighborhood is old and rundown, so I’m surprised I don’t know them.

“Are you in town visiting your mom, or are you back for good?” she asks while bagging up their items.

“Just a short visit in between assignments. I report for duty in Colorado next week.”

She smiles and sends the customer on their way. “So, what did your mother send you here for today? I bet she’s whipping up all your favorites.”

“That she is. She’s making mepozoletonight, and I need someguajillochiles.”

“Of course.” I follow her down an aisle where many ethnic staples and spices are stocked. “I know your mom misses you terribly, but it’s good you got out of this town and away from those boys you used to run with.”

A deep voice from my past calls from the doorway. “Holy shit. Is that you, Romero?”

“Speaking of one of the devils,” Mrs. Patel smiles and shakes her head.

I turn to see Frankie Mercado, wearing a dirty white tank top and long shorts, standing in the doorway with his arms wide. He’s about forty pounds heavier than the last time I saw him, pure muscle, and heavily tattooed.

Shit—did he do time and my mom never mentioned it?

“Holy sh—” I stop myself when I hear Mrs. Patel tsk. “Is that Frankie, or did you swallow him?”

“Go f…” He smiles at Mrs. Patel. “Finish your business and get out here.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Mrs. Patel shakes her head, shooing me out the door. “Take the chilies, enjoy your mom’s cooking, and keep your nose clean while you’re here, Johnny.”

I sling my arm over her petite shoulder and pull her close. “It was good to see you.”

Walking out of her store, I find the Mercado boys—Frankie, Jesus, and their father, Paco—standing next to a supercharged ‘72 Chevy Nova and a ‘64 Chevy Impala. Each one of them is greasy from head to toe, smudges of dirt and oil on their faces, arms, and legs.

“Holy shit.” I clasp palms with each of them, performing a complicated handshake we created in our adolescence. I’ve known these three since I was a baby. We grew up together, Paco and my father co-owning a small garage. When my father died, Paco offered my mother my father’s share of the garage—so she could turn it over to me when I turned eighteen—or he could buy her out. My father died suddenly—a heart attack while dropping an oil pan—and left us with a ton of debt and no life insurance. My mother had no choice but to let Paco buy her out, which allowed her to keep a roof over our heads.

Looking at these three knuckleheads now, I know what I’d be doing today if things had gone differently. Although I love working on my car, I’m glad I had nothing like partial ownership in a garage to hold me here.

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