THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2008
Daylight creeps into the game cave.
I turn to Caleb. “We played all night, man. We played all night.”
Caleb Ta’amu does not respond. His wide body is sucked into the sofa, long hair frizzing wild, eyes bugging on a flat screen, zombied out on too much Halo.
I toss my headset. Dig through fast-food wrappers on the coffee table. Grab my phone and shove it in Caleb’s face.
He slaps my hand, pissed I’m messing with his gamer trance. “What the hell, T?”
“Check the time!”
Caleb checks it. He whips off his headset. “Do not tell me it’s tomorrow.”
“It’s tomorrow, Caleb.”
He drops his controller. Hops to his feet. “You gotta get outta here.”
We sneak upstairs. Caleb opens the door. He rubs his eyes in the gray morning light. “Second day, junior year. We’re off to a stellar start.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re killing it.”
“You gonna try and make first period?”
“I guess. You?”
“I guess. If my dad doesn’t strangle me first. You better go, T.”
* * *
I hike the sidewalk-less, residential streets of SeaTac, Washington. Drizzle spraying my face. Water sloshing through my shoes. A mile of dark, evergreen-tree-lined streets. Shabby houses, beige apartments, barred windows, rusted cars on blocks …
I arrive at my destination.
But I can’t go inside.
I stand, stuck in this spot on this potholed road, soaking up rain to the rumble soundtrack of Sea-Tac Airport jumbo jets.
They come. They go. Move in and out.
I cannot move.
And I can’t stop staring at the dented-up front door of a tiny, falling-down rental house—our tiny, falling-down rental house.
And I can’t stop thinking how we got here.
How two summers ago, we rode the happy housing bubble right into a bright blue, boxy, four-bathroom house down in Des Moines. My mom and dad’s marriage needed a spark. My dad hoped a big new house would do the trick.
One year later the housing bubble popped.
The whole economy popped.
Orders for Boeing planes slowed way down and Fauntleroy Fabrication in Seattle—where my dad machined airplane parts and my mom was a warehouse clerk—went belly-up.
Papi’s fat union check was gone.
Mami traded her living-wage job for part-time work at Walmart.
And we went from being a family that didn’t worry much about money, to one that did.
I’ll never forget the night last spring. My dad drove me and my sister, Xochitl, ten minutes from Des Moines to SeaTac. And he parked right here in front of this rental. Right where I’m standing. He told us he’d done the math and decided it would be better to hang on to some savings and walk away from the new house now, than be stuck owing way more than it’s worth. He’d rather tank his credit for years than put us in a deeper financial hole. He said we’d swallow our pride and move on.
Then he pointed at the dented-up metal door. And said we’d be living here for a while.
The drizzle turns to showers. I take a step toward that door.
But I can’t do it.
I can’t open up.
Cuz I can’t stop thinking about my big brother, Manny.
And I can’t stop thinking about us back when we were still living in our old house—the solid little house we all grew up in—the one where we still lived when Manny left us for Iraq. For years, every time I saw our front door, I’d have this hope he’d be inside when I opened up. My brother would be sitting there, smiling at me like he never went to war. He’d be ready to toss a baseball. Take me for a ride in his Mustang. Fishing at the Des Moines pier. Slurpies. Double-scoop cones. French fries and homework help.
I’d see that old door, and I’d feel that stupid hope.
But Manny’s tours of duty kept getting extended.
So I gave up hoping for Manny.
And I settled for hoping I’d walk in and catch my parents dancing or cooking together again, teasing each other like they used to. Something would click and they’d remember how good they were before my brother shocked us with his big announcement.
Spring of his senior year, Manny sits us down and tells us he’s off to basic training right after graduation. He says he’s been planning this ever since those towers fell a year and a half before.
My mom flips. She tells him he can’t go because he’s headed to college. She tells him he can’t kill people for this lie of a war. That’s what Mami tells him.
My dad?
He gives Manny a back-pounding hug. Tells him he’s proud and gives him his blessing.
And that’s the start of my parents fighting their quiet war at home.
The front doors have changed since then.
But Mami and Papi haven’t changed.
Screw it. I’m soaked to the bone and freezing cold. I walk up. Turn the knob. And push in that messed-up door.
* * *
My big sister is sitting at the table. Xochitl is postshow buzzed. Scribbling in her journal. Badass in her purple-striped hair and tattooed arms. Smelling like cigarettes and beer.
She shakes her head at me back and forth, dramatic, fake-parental, wagging her finger, then pointing at the spot on her wrist where a watch would go.
I shrug my shoulders. Make a pleading face, playing like I’m in big trouble.
She chokes back a laugh.
I can’t help but laugh out loud.
She shushes me, leaves the room, and returns with a towel. Throws it at me.
I sit at the table. She sits across.
It’s been so long since the two of us hung out.
And so long since we played Radio Xochitl. I raise my pointer finger in the air.
My sister smirks and shakes her head no.
I bob my head. Oh, yes.
She looks to our parents’ room. Mouths the words, It’s too late.
I know she can’t resist showing off. So I press the invisible power button and Xochitl starts singing.
She’s Aretha Franklin. Powerful, even with the volume on low.
They say that it’s a man’s world.
She keeps her eyes on me.
But you can’t prove that by me—
I mime spinning the dial. Xochitl babbles gibberish as stations fly by.
I stop and she belts out norteño—Los Tigres del Norte.
Somos más americanos que toditos los—
I turn the dial. Xochitl busts it.
My method on the microphone is bangin’
Wu-Tang slang’ll leave your headpiece hang—
I spin again and again and she doesn’t miss a beat. Dixie Chicks, Café Tacuba, Jill Scott—then serious and intense with some Ani DiFranco …
What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I’ve got everything I want and still I want more
Even in a whisper, Xochitl can kill you with a song.
I poke that power button in the air.
Radio Xochitl fades to silence. She’s smiling, loving this.
I’m smiling. Loving my crazy sister.
The doors have changed.
Thank God Xochitl hasn’t.
Copyright © 2018 by Patrick Flores-Scott
