Posted 6 years ago at around evening time by oso
Part I here.
I was only three blocks from Karen’s condo when the back tire blew out. It was the first time I had ever had a blow-out. Didn’t feel at all like an explosion, but all of a sudden I was riding on the rim. I was supposed to be on my way downtown to pick up my little sister. My cell phone battery was out so I couldn’t call anyone for help. Nor could I go back to Karen’s place because she lives in a gated community and I didn’t know which unit was hers. Three blocks ahead was a Chevron that I decided to roll into at 5 miles per hour.
Ten different people. Seriously. Ten distinct individuals – of all classes and races – each denied me. All I was asking for was 10 minutes of their time to use their jack. Just enough time to slip the flat tire off, put on the spare, tighten the bolts and voila, they’re good to go. Not a single person obliged. Mostly I was met with a “Sorry, but I …” that faded off into the chilly, starless night. But two people were so bold as to say, “you know what, I really can’t be bothered by this right now.” They were both on their cell phones. And that’s when a reinforced “ethnic” stereotype came into my head:
Pinches gringos egoístas de mierda. Voy a pedir ayuda en el McDonalds porque sé que un Mexicano va a echar la mano.
“Aylo, waylcom to Mecuhdonulds, are you uhready to ourdur?” She was pudgy and beautiful, maybe indulging in too many flour tortillas since crossing the border. Despite the sterile shopping plaza, the ugly crimson uniform, and the UV lighting, she ended her inquiry with a big and genuine smile. I tried to hide my frustration and smile back.
“Hello, I was wondering if anyone here has a car jack?”
Still smiling, she raised her eyebrows for a second and then looked over at her co-worker. “Uh, Juli, ven, no sé que …”
Car jack, I realized was one of those words that they certainly haven’t come across yet. I broke into Spanish.
“Bueno, es que mi llanta se ponchó y quiero saber ¿si alguien aqui tiene un gato?”
She did the motion, the universal gesture for jacking up a car and with a sympathetic tilt of the head said, “no, no creo. ¿Tú Julí?” But Julí only had the same sympathetic head tilt as she mumbled, “no, tampoco.” Then they started to giggle because a guero was speaking to them in Spanish with a Mexican accent. It’s a reaction I’ve become accustomed to.
“¿Y nadie en la cocina?”
“Haber … Oye, Raúl vente acá … ¿tú traes gato?” Raúl looked about 21, maybe 22, with thin, black whiskers and squinting skeptical eyes beneath a blue bandana. He made the same gesture, the car jack.
“Sí, pero está medio chingado.” The girls broke out giggling again, full of pena por su lenguaje. But his response was music to my ears.
“¿Sí? Me lo prestarías? Es que se ponchó mi llanta?” He was caught off guard by my response and turned in confusion to his co-workers, then back to me.
“Sí, espere un momento.”
We walked out to my car in silence. It was already 10:15. Our breath was visible in the cold, our footsteps audible in the suburban silence. I was grateful, but I didn’t know what to say.
“Gracias por la ayuda.”
“No, no, para nada,” he said awkwardly. We came to his car, a beat-up, dented Toyota, old school, maybe even 80′s. Embarrassedly, he clarified, “mira, traigo este coche ahorita porque choque en mi Honda.” He anunciated “Honda” like a proud father referencing his son.
“¿Neta?”
“Sí guey, estuvo cabrón.”
“¿Pero estás todo bien?”
“Sí, sí, no me hizo daño, pero el honda salió en el yonqui.”
“No manches, que mala onda, ¿tuviste seguro?” He said yes, that he was insured, but I sort of doubted it and didn’t want to push the issue so I didn’t ask if they’d cover the costs.
We were down on our knees now, looking studiously at the blown-out tire. He asked, “¿y de repente se fue?”
“Sí guey, todo estuvo bien y de repente, se chingó.”
As we continued jacking up the car, the countries, cultures, and languages between us fell away. At one point, the lever of the jack slipped and hit me hard on the hand. He shouted “¡aguas!” and then looked confused, unsure if I understood the modísmo. Raúl, it turns out, is from Durango. He crossed the border four years ago and hasn’t been back since. He misses his family and his friends. December and January are always tough months. This is when the festivities, the parties, the big dinners all happen. Es la temporada de hacer desmadre con los muchachos del barrio. La Jolla is nice, but just like any other city. Too many rich kids with not enough respect. His job is ok: “somos puros Mexicanos,” he told me as if it wasn’t common knowledge that San Diego’s entire food industry is run by “puros Mexicanos.”
He never once asked me why I spoke Spanish. I volunteered that my ex was from neighboring Coahuila, but that I had never once been to Durango, not even Gomez-Palacio, just a few miles from Torreón. I asked him if he had a girlfriend.
“Mira guey, yo tengo cuatro años aqui y nunca he podido conseguir una guera.” He said it with such frustration and desperation that I couldn’t stifle my laughter.
“¿Sí? ¿Y echas las ganas? ¿Sales a los bares y antros?”
“Sí guey, salimos, pero las chavas de acá no nos hacen caso.”
“¿Sabes porque guey? Es que las chavas de acá son mas frias.”
“Sí, ya se.”
It sounded like the right thing to tell him … that American girls just weren’t as easy to talk to as Mexican girls. But as I said it, in the back of my head, I was wondering if I believed it. I remembered “las fresas” – the daddy’s girls – of Garza Sada with their turned-up noses. The way they’d pretend I didn’t exist at Italian Coffee Company even as they started to throw in more English words into their catty conversations. But I also remembered how easy it was to meet girls when Tenchitos and I would hit up Cafe Iguana. An American in Mexico has no problem meeting girls. Tenchitos has to sometimes beat them off with his broom. But Raúl is right, a Mexican in America is hard-pressed to find “native love.” Why? Is it because there are more Mexican men in America than American men in Mexico? Is it racism? Are Mexican women more open-minded or more malinchista?
It took some adjusting, but we got the spare tire on.
“¿Los tornillos están bien fijados?” Raúl inquired as I cranked the last bolt in.
“Me parecen … ¿como ves?”
He squinted his eyes even more and pronounced, “sí, se ve todo bien.”
We both stood up straight, full of the smug pleasure that men derive from fixing mechanical problems. He gathered his tools and was about to jog back into the kitchen of McDonalds. I wanted to express my thanks, but didn’t know how. I had asked 10 different Americans to help me and not one of them did. Offering him money though didn’t sit well with me. It would somehow change the meaningfulness of our conversation and reinforce the positions that society and chance have placed upon us.
“Oye …” I said as a way to get his attention before he ran off. And then I tried to think of what to say next … “uhh, mira, solo, para tu tiempo.” I reached into my wallet and put $20 into his hand.
“No, no, en serio, está bien …”
“No, por favor, yo te saque de tu trabajo …”
“Bueno, soy Raúl,” he said, reminding me.
“Yo, David. Nos vemos.”
“Nos vemos.” He turned and walked away, then started jogging to the back door which leads to the kitchen.
For 15 minutes Raúl and I got along extraordinarily well. But I knew that “nos vemos” was an easy lie. We wouldn’t see each other again. It dawned on me that if we were both bloggers, we would have had something in common that would trump our otherwise completely different situations. And – just like HP, Myke, and Karen – we’d continue to hang out from time to time.
Down the on-ramp, merging onto the freeway, I considered the possibility of heading back to the McDonalds one night and inviting him out to beers. We could go to some hipster bar, drink Bohemias, and spit game at the blonde girls.
But I was sure he’d question my invitation. Was I gay. Was I fetishizing his Mexicaness or trying to impress the hipster girls with my “multiculturality.” It seemed too complex and much more likely was that I would write about it on my stylish laptop while he recounted to his friends about the “pinche gringo que habla como un verdadero norteño.”
As a constant confrencer, do you find it hard to...
Using
That’s paisanos for you. Always willing to give a hand. That’s a very cool connection you made with Raul. Me cais bien Oso, eres bien buena onda.
Using
once, when hanging out with one of my mexicano guy friends, we saw this car filled with blond women drive by. he turned to me and said, “ése el sueño mexicano.” i rolled my eyes in exasperation, but i knew it to be true. it doesn’t matter if a girl is otherwise unattractive, it’s by my experience that mexican guys love blondes.
nevertheless, when i was in college, my chicana girlfriends and i used to hit all of these clubs where they would play rock en español. there were tons of young guys from mexico there who would buy us drinks, ask us to dance, etc. it was great. they treated us more like “women” than our american (even mexican american) counterparts.
so what does that say about mexican guys? i dunno. i guess they’re equal opportunity employers.
Using
Os, this is post is so awesome. It’s amazing how much you realize about the people around you when a simple thing like a tire busting open. I experienced something like this about a year and half ago, when my car’s front tire busted right on South Congress Avenue in South Austin. I had people of all races and colors stopping and asking me if I needed help, a lot of them were “private school Catholic rich kids”–fresas or daddy’s little rich girls, who wanted to know if I needed help.
However, just a year before that, I lived in Hyde Park, one of the whitest, yuppiest and UT-centric neighborhoods in Austin. My beat-up old Hyundai broke down and no one, nadien even bothered to stop. They’d look away como si no estuviera ayi.
I realized then, that those damn UT people are so cold, at least the yuppie ones in Central Austin.
In East Austin—it maybe sketchy—pero siempre ay algien como los chavos que conoci en el Sapo Verde.
By the way, you’re Spanish dialogue is great.
Using
When I was in high school I only dated white chicks (if you can even call it dating) not because I preferred gueras but because they were the only ones that paid any attention to me. The chicana girls viewed me as not being “mexican enough.” I don’t know if it was because I wasn’t dark enough or whether it was because I didn’t dress like a cholo. What’s up with that? In the end I was viewed as a coconut…I mean how was that my fault? You get what you can que no?
Using
Same thing happened to me once. . .i got a flat in a “white part” of dallas. . no one. . not one person even offered any help. . even when I asked.
But when a friend and I got a flat in my hood. . .people were coming out of their houses with jacks ready to help. Some people are just not willing to get down and dirty and do some good, hard working labor. . .even if it’s for someone in need. A lot of people are too caught up in their day to day lives to worry about John or Juana Doe who just happened to run into some bad luck all of a sudden.
I’m glad el camarada helped you out.
Using
The raza loves fixing stuff. One of those peeps (my kind) helped me get my motorcycle jump started. Chingos of people drove by me and just looked. The one dude who was cutting my neighbor’s yard, came down all swetty, and offered to help me get it started. We did it.
btw, Great story Oso. If you really would like to invite this dude out, maybe you can tell him to bring some friends and meet you and your friends out at some place.
Using
But Raúl is right, a Mexican in America is hard-pressed to find “native love.” Why? Is it because there are more Mexican men in America than American men in Mexico? Is it racism? Are Mexican women more open-minded or more malinchista?
Come on dawg, take off the culturally sensitive glasses, the answer to this seems so clear I sometimes think your dodging it on purpose: it is because white American women are some of the most materialistic, racist people out there. En serio.
If you don’t have ‘something to offer’ them on the materialistic side, you just aint going very far.
On a more serious side though, your post reminded me of growing up in my neighborhood. My mechanic throughout my time in Compton was my next door neighbor that I referred to as ‘Uncle Lee’. Although it must have seemed strange to everybody else to see me refer to a black neighbor as ‘uncle’, in many ways he was exactly that. My mom, my lil sister and me hadn’t moved into Compton for longer than a day when he knocked on our door and introduced himself and told us that if we needed anything that he was there for us. He also insisted that we call him ‘uncle lee’ as he saw himself like an uncle to us, always willing to help whenever we needed it. And he wasn’t lying either. Year after year, he would call us if our dog got loose, if he heard strange noises he would rush over, he would give us advice on how to deal with various neighborhood problems, and among many other things, he would work on my car. I had real junkers too. My first car was an early 80′s Regal with eight bullet holes on the side that I bought from a childhood friend (who is now dead, btw, RIP homie) for $800. Not even a month after I bought the car did it start to break down and everytime it did there was uncle Lee offering to help me fix it. If it wasn’t him it was the immigrants down the street whose house I would spend hours a day at. Many times the pay was simply a 12 pack of beers and a night of drinking it up with them. This upbringing, this neighborhood bonding and taking care of one another is so hard to explain to people that didn’t grow up in the same environment. As you know, I now live in an upper middle class neighborhood, and I couldn’t even tell you who two of my neighbors are, and this despite the fact that I live right next to them, in a condo. Contrast that to where I lived in Compton, I could literally drive down my street and introduce you to almost everybody that lived on my street and many people that lived on the next streets over. It is truly like I am living in a different world. Sometimes I think to myself that even if I become so successful in life that I never have to live in a bad neighborhood again, that if I had kids, I would do it anyway, just so that my kids could experience the same thing. To deny them that experience seems as if I was robbing them of education itself.
Oh yeah, something to keep in mind in case this happens again, there was another option you didn’t mention above. I don’t know if you know, but you can drive a car a very long distance on a flat tire. Sure it takes a long time, but little to no damage will result because of it. I once got a flat in Compton and didn’t have the resources to get to the tire shop without my car. To my surprise a friend of mine down the street suggested I ride it there with the flat, that very little to no damage would result because of it. At first I didn’t believe it, but since I had no other choice I did it anyway. I drove the car from Compton to Hawthorne, a good 10 to 15 miles, and when I arrived at the tire shop they replaced the tire with no problem at all. Nobody would have guessed the car was driven so long on a flat.
Really good post, Oso. Makes me think of actually writing something on my blog…nah. LOL
Using
…donde están los celulares cuando los necesitamos??? It is hard to believe that you were “ignored by 10 different people! I loved your fiction story, you’ve got and avid fantastic mind…Can’t wait to read more
Using
Some thoughts:
-I hope you have invested in a jack that works. You should always check that a car has an inflated spare and a jack that works.
-Fixing mechanical problems are a Mexican pastime (and source of endless creativity).
-Gringos believe in self-reliance – fix it yourself (and don’t bother me).
-Pay phones…where are they now?
-Inviting the dude for a beer would have been cool. Homo-sociality is much more acceptable in Mexico.
-Men having trouble meeting women (and vice-versa) is a universal complaint. Sometimes being exotic is a plus and sometimes it is a minus. And some guys just have all the luck…
-It is good to be a gringo that speaks spanish, isn’t it?
Using
Funny.. the white american chicks (and chicos) that come down here are generally all about going out with locals, marrying them and taking them away.
Could it be the lure of the exotic?
Using
That’s refreshing really — actually all of the unsolicited roadside assistance from my piece’o'crap Volkswagen, has been from white men.
Here I go again, playing Devil’s advocate.
“If my mama or my daughter were out here, I’d want someone to help her too,” said a young white man in North Austin.
“God bless you,” said a white manin Houston after he changed my tire. He had a two kids in the car.
Once I just pulled over and a white haired good ole boy pulled his Lexus over, showed me his cell phone from his drivers side window, and when I declined, he waved and drove off.
I’m just stating that as a fact, I never really realized there was a problem.
Using
It was very nice to see you at the blog thing.
xo
lpc
Using
Love the story. I could feel Raul’s loneliness, something lots of paisas experience “cuando se van p’al otro lado”.
Please be sure to send his manager a letter explaining how Raul went above and beyond the call of duty. Heck, maybe even McD corporate HQ would like to hear that story.
Using
Wonderful story Oso!
That’s one of the little things I miss from Mexico…people over there always are willing to help you; here on the other hand you’re always on your own.
Such a pity…in so many aspects.
Using
Oso
Using
ROFL. “Naitive Love” … a so much to say, so little political correctness left in my monthly quota.
Using
i haven’t read all of the comments and perhaps someone has already said it. . . but his difficulty in attaining dates may be related to classism more than “pure” racism, no?
Using
I love your style of storytelling.
Using
Keep the stories coming… I love ‘em!
Using
damn good post. you had me laughing outloud at some points at q malhablado eres. y no se por que pero, tus malarazones me dieron nostalgia.
just one question, what made you change your mind about handing him the 20?
Using
Oso…. crees que ca*o(excreto) dinero???
sabes con cuanto me voy a NY. con 6 dlls. ida y vuelta, cuarto y traga incluido…
cuando junte unos 300 dlls me voy contigo… yo encantado bro.
Es màs… deja lo empiezo a planar… mty-tijuana-sn diego=D.
Using
Oso,
This was a great post, I loved it. Even in NYC I stop to help people much more than I’m supposed, much to the horror of most of my friends. But I get a different reaction here, people don’t believe that I’m Mexican! I’m 5’10″ and speak better English than Spanish now, and whenever people ask me if I’m “Spanish”, I correct them and tell them I’m Mexican and I almost always get.
“Funny, you don’t look Mexican, you must be mixed.”
(sigh)
Keep up the good work.
df
Using
I shouldn’t say “white Americans’ unwillingness to help” because about half of the people that refused to help me weren’t white, but they were obviously born in America.
Using
Hey oso, I really loved this post. It brings back to mind a theory that my dad and I have been formulating over the years. He is from South Africa (but now an American) and as such is constantly commenting on Americans and thier characteristics. One thing that we have noticed, something made mroe salient by Antonia’s and my recent trip to Europe is how isolationist Americans are just going about thier daily lives. Nowhere is this true so much as at restuarants. Have you ever tried talking to strangers at a restuarant? They look at you like you have broken some sort of law. Tell a joke and they aren’t even sure if they are supposed to laugh. Americans do not want to interact with eachother except when it suits them. I, like your above-mentioned friends, probably would not act this way in public. Americans walk around like little rafts floating down a river of entitlement.
I am sincereley glad that the people who I care about are usually not this way. There may in fact be thousands of people who are not. This is just an observation that my dad and I have made.
Upon further thought, our observations have been geographically limited to Orange County… that may affect the conclusions…
Using
My guess is that Eric is about as real as the REALdoll.