by Gary Soto
Grandfather shrugged his shoulders and winked at his grandson, who winked back and fumbled for the nickel in his pocket.
Mrs. Gentry counted out the remaining amount, and when she finished, she opened her purse and brought out a tiny striped candy cane.
“And this is for you, my little man,” she said, handing it to Rudy.
Rudy took the candy cane and said, “Thank you.”
Mrs. Gentry smiled and thanked him with a poorly pronounced, “De nada. Gracias a ustedes.” She lifted her nose and sniffed the air. “It’s a lovely morning.”
The three looked at each other. They were certain that she was loca.
When they got to the car, Rudy unwrapped the candy cane and placed it inside his bottom lip like a fish hook. While they rattled away in their car, Rudy sucked the stripes from the candy cane.
Chapter 3
Rudy and his best friend, Alex, stood at the stove making peanut butter tortillas, a midmorning treat. Estela sat at the table, painting her fingernails. She had a new boyfriend, a boy named Lucky, and she was waiting for his phone call. He was in bed with a hurt knee. He had fallen from his skateboard and snapped a bone whose name sounded something like papas or papi or Pepsi. Rudy thought Lucky wasn’t very lucky. Later, Rudy learned from his mother that it was his patela, the kneecap.
“Rudy,” his sister said, not looking up as she stroked red enamel on her fingernails, “you better take something to Tiffany’s party.”
“I am. I’m taking a towel,” he said. He snatched his tortilla from the burner. The flames were like the petals of a blue flower, but hot.
“No, I mean more than that.”
“Mom says I can take only one towel.”
“No, menso, take something to share,” Estela snickered at her brother. She wondered how he could have gotten through his first ten years of life without a lesson in manners. “Rudy, I know some of Tiffany’s friends. I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself—or embarrass me!” She knew that Tiffany’s party would be a hit.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be cool,” Rudy said. “I’ll show them some belly flops.”
“Rudy, it’s a pool party,” Estela said. “You can’t get your hair wet or monkey around in the water.”
“We can’t swim?” Rudy asked. “How come? It says on the invitation.”
“Forget what it says,” she said as she turned and faced her brother. “You see, you’re just supposed to hang around the pool.”
“But that’s not fair. I like to swim.”
“But you’re not supposed to. You’re just supposed to talk, have conversation.” She made a face at her brother. “Look, Rudy, I’m trying to teach you manners.”
“But I wanna fool around and have fun. Wouldn’t you wanna swim, Alex?”
“Yeah, it’s more fun,” Alex agreed. “Anyway, Rudy already has manners.” Alex licked the spoon and handed it to Rudy.
“You’re not catching on,” Estela whined. “It’s no use, you’re hopeless.” She wanted to pull her hair and scream, and would have except her fingernails were wet.
“When is the pool party?” Alex asked. He bit into his tortilla and, with eyes closed and his tongue rolling around in his mouth, savored the rolled tortilla slapped with a glob of peanut butter.
“This Saturday,” Rudy answered. He put the lid on the peanut butter and started to put it in the cupboard when Estela said, “Leave it out.” She got up, blowing on her fingernails. She threw a tortilla on the burner. “Aren’t they nice,” Estela said, admiring the even strokes on her fingernails. She held them over the burner, drying them even more.
Rudy and Alex smacked their lips and said, “Looks like blood.”
“You little jerks,” she snapped. “You just don’t have any taste.”
Rudy and Alex ran out of the house, giggling. They went to the backyard, where Rudy’s grandfather sat in the shade of the pomegranate tree. He was whistling while taping a splintered broom.
“See, it’s good as new,” Grandfather said. He tapped the broom against his workhardened palm.
The boys looked at Rudy’s grandfather but didn’t say anything. They threw themselves on the lawn. Rudy’s dog, Chorizo, who was sleeping with his legs straight up in the air, opened his eyes. He had a whiff of their midmorning snack. He rolled over like a barrel and approached the boys, whining for a taste of their tortillas. Each of them tore off a corner, and Chorizo snapped at the sweetness.
“Estela’s right,” Alex mumbled. “You gotta take something to the party.”
“Like what? Tiffany’s pretty rich.”
“I don’t know. Take something she ain’t got.”
“Like what, Alex?”
Rudy was always bad at choosing gifts. One Christmas he bought his mother a frying pan from a yard sale, and another time he bought his father, also from a yard sale, a fishing pole that snapped when he pulled in a tiny fish.
Alex looked around the yard. There was a rusty bicycle, lawn chairs, scraggly tomato vines, toys, a rusty push mower, and plastic bags of crushed aluminum cans piled against the garage. Then Alex’s eyes fell upon the inner tube hanging awkwardly from the garage roof.
“Like that!” Alex pointed vaguely.
Rudy followed Alex’s gaze.
“A garage?” Rudy asked.
“No, the inner tube!”
Rudy raised his head higher and gazed at the inner tube hanging from the roof. His face lit up with excitement. He pictured himself rolling an inner tube to Tiffany’s party, and pictured Tiffany’s friends all bobbing on the inner tube.
They jumped to their feet, brushing the grass from their pants, and then jumped for the inner tube, which was out of their reach. Even Chorizo, a pretty fat dog, leaped for the inner tube.
Grandfather rose with a sigh from his chair. “Let me help you, chamacos! Give me room.”
He poked at the inner tube. He pulled it down with the head of the broom he’d just fixed. Rudy remembered throwing the inner tube up on the roof years before, when he and Estela had come back from a day in the snow. It was the same Christmas he had gotten his mom that frying pan.
“Tiffany doesn’t have an inner tube,” Alex said. “You’ll be bad.”
“Yeah, I’ll be bad.”
But when they examined the inner tube, they noted an inch-long rip shaped like a clown’s mouth. The rip was laughing at them.
“Alex, it’s got a rip.” Rudy sighed. He poked his finger through the hole. It looked to him as if the clown’s mouth was smoking a cigar.
“Don’t worry,” Grandfather said. He rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “I’ll fix it in a jiffy. Give me room!” He took a roll of black electrical tape from his pants pocket.
Rudy and Alex looked at one another. They fell on the lawn, closed their eyes, and listened to the sounds of electrical tape being ripped and taped to the inner tube. They knew that Grandfather would make a mess of it.
“Órale,” Grandfather said. “It’s all done.”
When Rudy and Alex looked up, blinking from the harsh summer light, they were astounded at what they saw. The inner tube was mummified with electrical tape. It looked like something from another planet.
“Did I ever tell you about the time that I worked in a tire shop?” Grandfather said. “Me and Pete Salinas were just out of the army …”
Alex and Rudy lay back down, eyes closed. Chorizo joined them, his chest rising and falling and his tail swatting horseflies that had made it into town from the country.
Chapter 4
“All you gotta do is pound it nine times,” Alex explained.
The two boys had left Rudy’s grandfather pumping air into the mummified inner tube. They were now searching for another inner tube, one without a rip, one that they could use that summer and later in winter. They were at a gas station, and Alex was revealing one of the last secrets of the civilized world. He said that the soda machine would give up a soda, usually an orange and sometimes an icy root be
er, if you banged on the machine nine times.
“Go ahead, try it,” Alex said. He poured a handful of Corn Nuts into his mouth. Alex’s crunching sounds disturbed three sparrows drinking from a puddle on the ground. They broke skyward toward a tree, bickering.
Rudy looked around to make sure the attendant wasn’t watching. He started pounding. “Uno, dos, tres …”
Alex threw another handful of Corn Nuts into his mouth. When he helped Rudy pound the machine, the gas station attendant, who was sweeping near the air and water hoses, looked up in surprise. His face was smudged with oil, and behind the oil a stubble of beard clung to his face. He leaned the broom against the gas pump and tiptoed toward them in scuffed work boots.
“Seis, siete, ocho …” Rudy counted, his smile now ear to ear and bright enough to light up a room. He stopped before he got to nine and eyed Alex suspiciously. “It better work.”
“It works for me,” Alex said. He threw a third handful of Corn Nuts into his mouth and licked the salt from his fingers. “Wind up and give it a smack.”
Rudy, his smile now a dark line on his determined face, wound up to throw a punch at the belly of the soda machine when the gas station attendant yelled, “Hey, you knuckleheads!”
Rudy jumped. Alex spit out his Corn Nuts.
The attendant grabbed them by the scruff of their necks. “Smart alecks, huh?”
“No, Alex is smarter,” Rudy cried, pointing at his best friend. “Huh, Alex?”
“No, you’re smarter.”
“No, you’re smarter. You get better grades.”
“That’s ’cause my mom helps. You’re really smarter.”
“No way. You’re smarter.”
“No, you are.”
The gas station attendant had to laugh. “All right, you two. I’ll let you go this time. But I’m warning you. Ándenles, muchachos. Don’t be messin’ with the machine.”
The boys took off, a few Corn Nuts spilling from Alex’s fist. They ran up the street, feeling that they had escaped something terrible. They slowed when they saw a car stalled in the street. Two men had the hood open and were looking inside. One of them yelled, “Hey, vatos, why don’t you help us.”
“Yeah, let’s help them push the car,” Rudy suggested.
“Yeah, why not,” Alex said with excitement.
They hiked up their pants and crossed the street, looking both ways.
“I’ll give you a dollar if you can steer this cochito,” one of the men said. His cap fit low over his head, just above his eyebrows. “You think you can do it?”
“Sure,” said Alex. He had once driven a tractor, and another time helped steer the car while his father scratched his foot.
“Not you,” the man growled. “Him!”
“Me?” said Rudy, pointing a finger at his own chest.
“Yeah, you’re smaller. Your friend can help push.”
“I guess so,” Rudy said. He shrugged his shoulders and hopped into the driver’s seat, where he could barely see over the dashboard. The man turned the key in the ignition. He told Rudy that after the car started he should pop the clutch and put the car in first, then press on the accelerator. “Get it up to seven miles first—” The man stopped abruptly to ask, “How old are you?”
“Ten,” Rudy answered.
“No, make it ten miles an hour. Can you do that?” the man asked. He took another dollar bill from his pocket. The dollar bill stunk of motor oil.
“Yeah, I think I can.”
“Órale. Get ready.”
The man patted Rudy’s knee, closed the door, and joined Alex and the other man near the trunk. They started pushing their whole weight into the car, which squeaked and moaned. Rudy, wiggling the steering wheel, maneuvered the car, a Mercedes-Benz, he noted, up the street.
“To the right,” the man yelled.
Rudy turned the wheel to the right.
“No, to the left,” the man yelled.
Rudy turned the wheel to the left.
“No, right, no, left. Keep it straight, little man!”
“Oh, boy,” Rudy said. “This is hard. I hope Dad doesn’t find out.”
When the speedometer registered ten miles an hour, Rudy put the car in gear, released the clutch, and pressed on the accelerator. The car popped, a feather of smoke rising from the tail pipe, and then started moving down the street of its own sweet will.
“It’s going,” Rudy screamed. “Do something!”
He slid to the passenger seat as the man with the cap jumped in, revved the engine, and gave Rudy a thumbs-up sign. “Good job.” He gave Rudy another oil-stinky dollar. “Do you guys need a ride?”
“Can you take us to a tire shop? We’re looking for an inner tube.”
“An inner tube?”
“Yeah, I’m invited to a party. I want to take an inner tube.”
The man gave Rudy a weird look. “All right, we’ll get you there.”
They piled into the car. The boys sat in the back. The driver ran a hand over his face. His eyes were small, tired, and tangled with red veins. The veins looked like kindergarten scribbling—messy.
“Hey, Abel,” the driver said to the quiet man. “You know a tire shop? There’s one on Belmont, qué no?”
“Yeah, the one on Belmont, near San Pablo.”
They drove in silence. Rudy watched Abel thrust his huge hand in the glove compartment and feel between the cracks of the seats. Abel poked a finger into the ashtray and looked under the floor mats. He lowered the visors. He found two cigarettes and lit one. He crunched the cigarette out after three puffs, and then, with a screwdriver, he started ripping out the radio. The wires sprang up like flowers.
Rudy looked at Alex, who was big-eyed with worry. He wanted to ask, “Do you think this car is stolen?” But he held his tongue and looked out the window. The buildings seemed to go by very fast. His life seemed to go by very fast too. He couldn’t wait to be dropped off, alive.
“So what grade you little cholos in?” the man with the cap asked. He was steering with both hands on the wheel. His knuckles were tattooed with the word love.
“Fourth,” Alex volunteered.
“You guys gettin’ good grades? You two look pretty smart.”
“Yeah,” Rudy said, “but Alex is smarter.”
“No, you’re smarter.”
“No, you are.”
“No, you remember things better.”
“No, you do!”
“Give it a rest,” barked the driver. He braked and looked back at the two of them. For a minute, Rudy thought maybe he might wring their necks like chickens.
“You’re good kids,” he said. “Stay out of trouble.”
“We will,” Rudy promised. He looked at Alex. “Huh, Alex?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
The man gave each of them another oil-stinky dollar and opened the door for them. They climbed out and stepped onto the curb. The Mercedes pulled away with a roar.
“You think that car was stolen?” Rudy asked. In spite of the summer heat, a shiver ran up his back like a zipper. He felt cold, and suddenly full of fear.
“I think so,” Alex said. “No, I know so.”
A cop car had turned on its lights. It roared after the Mercedes, which pulled away and rounded a corner, tires squealing.
Chapter 5
Rudy and Alex stood in front of Belmont Tire, a one-time gas station and now, as the sign read, Empire of Recapped Tires. A loud air ratchet was bolting a tire onto a car. A tire iron clanged on the ground and a shiny, moon-faced hubcap was popped from a tire and rolled away. A customer’s little girl ran after it, squealing and giggling.
“Do you think they’ll give us an inner tube?” Rudy screamed over the noise. The tire shop seemed foreign, black with dust. They spied two workers in overalls—neither seemed friendly.
“What?” Alex yelled back.
“I said, do you think they’ll give us an inner tube?” Rudy screamed again, this time directly in Alex’s ear.
“Trust me, they’re my personal friends,” Alex said, bragging. He hiked up his pants.
“Really? You know them?”
“Really. My uncle worked here. Follow me.”
Rudy followed a happily whistling Alex into the yard of the tire shop. Alex kicked a tire out of their way and rolled another one down a passageway like a bowling ball. But they stopped in their tracks when they came upon a dog with mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown. The dog was chained to an air compressor.
“Cuidado,” Rudy said. “You didn’t say there was a dog!”
“Ay,” screamed Alex, jumping back. “Be cool, dog.”
The dog yawned at them, yawned and laid its shaggy head on its paws.
“He looks friendly, don’t he, Alex?” Rudy asked, his eyes big with fear. Alex had tiptoed behind him, his fingers gripping Rudy’s bony shoulders. “Hi, doggie. I have a dog at home. Chorizo. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, do you know Chorizo?” Alex asked. “You’d like him.”
There has to be a reason why he’s chained, Rudy thought. The perro looked dangerous with his two differently colored eyes.
But when the dog yawned a second time and its eyes became watery with sleep, the boys became braver. Alex once again stood tall as he hiked up his pants and muttered to Rudy, “Come on, let’s go.” They ventured deeper into the yard. Never had they seen so many tires, small ones for motorcycles and really large ones for tractors. Some were even taller than them.
A sloppy pile of inner tubes against the chain-link fence caught their eye. They hurried toward the pile and began to rummage through them.
“Do you think we should ask first?” Rudy asked. He stood up and watched one of the workers. He was on one knee, inflating a tire.
“Nah, this is just junk,” he said. “Anyway, they’re my personal friends. You know my uncle Lupe?”
“The one with the panther tattoo?”
“Yeah, him. He worked here. They know me.”