A So-Called Vacation

by Genaro González

  “No wonder my oldest boy said there was a pretty, new girl in camp.”

  “I guess you could say that.” She neither blushed nor missed a beat. “I am pretty new at this.”

  “Dad,” Gus said under his breath, “because of you we’re going to lose street cred in front of everyone.”

  But their father merely asked, “Mind if my boys tag along with yours until they learn the ropes?”

  “Mine don’t mind if yours don’t mind getting beat. My boys thrive on competition. People say they’re the best pickers in camp … maybe in the next camp too.”

  “Well, my boys might as well learn from the best.”

  Don Pilo turned to Paula with a pleasant smile and removed his hat. “You’re welcome to tag along too, señorita.”

  One of Don Pilo’s boys ran over and whispered something in his ear. Before the boy could return to the field, Don Pilo had him shake hands with the newcomers.

  By now the Borrados were well into their respective rows, so Gus and Gabriel plodded to the far end of the field. While they waited for the Borrados to start new rows, Gabriel monitored their moves. Observing those swift movements that seemed a smear of activity instead of discrete actions, he twisted their nickname into a more kinetic moniker: borroso—blurred.

  But even after they all begin a new row, the Borrados lost them in a matter of minutes. Only Paula kept up the pace for a while, and only because the oldest one helped her with her row.

  Gabriel’s excuse for falling behind was that he was observing the Borrados’ technique, until he ended up overwhelmed by their sheer oddness. The oldest, around Gus’s age, barely came up to Gabriel’s shoulders. The other two—one probably Gabriel’s age, the other younger—were even more puny, but could still beat Gabriel by a country mile. Simply watching them produced a despair that fatigued him.

  As he studied them that day, it was obvious they had inherited neither their energy nor their work ethic from their father. Physically, Don Pilo appeared as unimposing as his sons, even among migrants who frayed and shrank by the time they turned forty. He spent more time shepherding his boys on the field than harvesting. He reminded Gabriel of a general who stayed behind the lines to command his troops. In fact, his flirting with the camp’s women seemed so innocuous that even the most possessive husbands and fathers did not take offense.

  His sons, though, rarely stood still, even when they were idle, yet Gabriel never saw them perspire. Instead of sweat beads their skin oozed a sticky sheen, like the fruit nectar that the local canneries distilled. It gave them a slightly odd waft, like the fragrance of fermenting fruit that most girls liked, but that made them few friends among males. Soon the Borrados were left with two less friends after Gabriel and Gus realized they were being befriended simply to whet the Borrados’ competitive streak.

  That evening, when the van returned to the shack, both brothers tried to jump out at once, only to find that their bodies and wills had become numb during the ride back. Since Gus reached the door first, Gabriel and Paula knew he would claim the only cushioned chair inside, an old recliner that no longer reclined, so they sprawled on some rusty porch chairs instead. Their father remained behind the wheel for several minutes longer. When he finally managed to reach the porch steps, he tried hard to grin but could only manage a grimace.

  “I’ll never tell Mr. Woods he works us too hard in the garage,” he called out to their mother.

  “At least come indoors, mi rey. You’ve been outside all day.”

  “I would, but I’ll bet it’s cooler out here.”

  He had barely finished the phrase when Gus walked out with a perplexed expression. “I just realized there’s no bathroom.”

  Their father bleated a weak laugh, his first since morning. “You didn’t go all day?”

  “I was constipated from all those bologna sandwiches. I only took a leak in one of those gross portable potties. I was waiting for a real toilet.”

  Their father indicated a trio of cramped cinder block structures a hundred yards down. “This is as real as it gets. A honey wagon comes over and cleans them out every few days.” Gus responded with an incredulous look. “Those? Those are for field hands!”

  “Welcome to the club,” said Paula.

  “Son, in the old days you just found tall grass and crouched.” He moved closer to Gus and cupped his hand to one side of his mouth to shield his daughter’s ears. “Then you checked around to make sure there were no snakes that might try to mate with your manhood.”

  “I get the picture, Dad. So I should thank modern science.”

  “You could also thank God they’re not next door, or downwind. And before you ask about the showers, it’s the unit with the propane tank.”

  Their mother came out and began massaging Dad’s temples. “So tell us more about the bad old days, mi amor.”

  “To begin with, I wasn’t this tired.”

  “We weren’t this old either,” said his wife.

  “At least this will jumpstart my plan to do car repairs. Otherwise that bad back act won’t be an act.”

  Paula stretched to either side to show off her limberness. “This year’s track and field training paid off.” She turned to Gus. “I told you not to take weight training.”

  “I already told you guys, I need to bulk up.”

  “Oh, right. Bulk.” She tapped her temple. “Here’s where you need to add bulk. More brain and less brawn.”

  “My own brain tells me tomorrow’s payday,” said Gabriel.

  “Whatever we get,” said Gus, “won’t be enough for today’s torture.”

  That evening, while the rest of the family ate dinner, both brothers lay motionless in their cots, moving just enough to crack joints they never realized they had.

  “Are you two on a hunger strike?” Their father was already eyeing the remaining slices of Spam on the skillet.

  “Why bother with food?” said Gus. “You just burn it off working.”

  Their mother answered, “So how are you going to put on pounds for football if you don’t eat?”

  “Anyway,” said Paula, “you’ll have all weekend to recover. Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “It’s also payday,” their mother reminded them. “And you’re going to need all your energy to spend that hard-earned money.”

  Gus tried hard to muster some enthusiasm, but his hoarse cheer sounded more like a groan.

  6

  By the time Gabriel opened his eyes the next morning his surroundings already felt less foreign. The cot and cold showers would still take some getting used to, as would the heavy fumes whenever his mother lit the small kerosene stove. But for now he could overlook all that, because this day had the same lazy luxury it had back home. Today was Saturday.

  The family put on the clothes they had set aside for the weekend and walked to the far end of the camp to the crew leader’s quarters, a faded but spacious clapboard house that dwarfed the shacks.

  Their father, falling behind, tossed a pebble that tapped Gus’s pant leg. “Pick up the pace. Stop dragging your feet.”

  “I’m slowing down for your sake, Dad. Besides, it feels like we’re slaves going up to the big house.”

  “Slaves didn’t get paid, and they didn’t get to go to town on weekends.”

  They were almost there when Gabriel noticed an oversized wrench in their father’s back pocket. “What the heck is that, Dad?”

  His father reacted as if he had not been aware of the heavy tool. “This? Why, a good mechanic always carries a tool or two.”

  “And you want everyone to know you’re one, right?” said Gus.

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Just don’t make it too obvious,” said Gabriel.

  “And don’t take it out,” added Gus. “People might think you’re trying to mug them, what with it being payday.”

  When they reached the house, Gus immediately bounded up the front steps, but before he could knock, his neighbor Victor called out: “Don Rafa’s no
t ready yet.”

  The other heads of households, almost all men, had been loitering for some time around an enormous propane tank that sat on top of heavy metal struts. No one seemed to mind waiting, as they carried on simultaneous conversations. Even their father entered into an animated debate, and in the heat of the discussion he absentmindedly pulled out the large wrench and began using it to punctuate his remarks. The other two workers backed off a bit and watched it with due respect.

  Suddenly, during one of his flourishes, their father accidentally struck the tank, and the unearthly, metallic gong resonated deep and echoic like a bell in a cavern. It startled everyone slightly, but it completely unnerved a quiet, solitary man leaning against the huge cylinder. He was massive in his own way, and the clang nearly made him jump out of his skin, clearing a height that appeared impossible for someone his size.

  “It’s my nerves,” the quiet man explained with a flustered smile, as the other workers struggled to keep straight faces. “Any sudden noise sets off my nerves.”

  A moment later their father again banged on the tank. He turned to apologize to the man, who reacted with a second hyper-startle and a nervous giggle that allowed the other men, still trying to stifle themselves from the first reaction, to break into open laughter.

  “It won’t happen again,” said their father. He wore a sheepish smile that seemed deliberate and that made Gabriel wonder whether the clang had been intentional.

  “I swear,” he added. “Look, I’m holstering my weapon.”

  After that the enormous man kept a close watch on the tank with an anxious look on his face.

  Suddenly Don Rafa, freshly shaved, opened the front door as the strong tang of cooked chorizo and buttered biscuits wafted throughout the porch. The men lingering by the propane cylinder now backed away, worried that the ruckus might have brought Don Rafa out. But another man, lurking by the tail end of the tank and oblivious to the crew leader’s presence, took advantage of the silence to bang out his own gong with a large rock. When his antics were met with absolute silence he popped his head out with a baffled look and met Don Rafa’s gaze. The color drained from the man’s face by degrees, until he resembled an ashen chameleon trying to blend with the dull-silver cylinder.

  Don Rafa merely thumped his round, taut torso with a satiated smile. “Don’t tell me that’s the dinner bell already.”

  The women tending to the children under some shade trees were the first to laugh as they joined the men flanking the main walkway. Don Rafa set up a folding table on the ample porch and began reading from his ledger to a burly paymaster with a strong family resemblance. As each name was called the paymaster placed the money in an envelope and handed it to the head of the family. Each head came up to the table several times, depending on the size of the family, and each time someone in the crowd made a disparaging joke about the wages.

  By now Gabriel assumed their family would be called last since they had barely been added to the payroll. Gus, on the other hand, was growing impatient, and when the crew boss finally called out his name, he immediately raised his hand and yelled, “I’m right here, sir!”

  Several workers found this amusing, especially when Don Rafa himself paused to give the strapping young man a slow, deadpan going-over. “I’m not your coach, son. I’m not calling roll.”

  Gus ignored the comment and cleared the porch steps in one jump while the crowd chuckled again. Don Rafa, thinking he could milk the workers for another laugh, added, “You don’t trust your father to collect your pay?”

  By now Gus sensed he had broken an unspoken code and could only gulp down his shame. Fortunately their father covered for him.

  “I asked him to get it for me. For him those stairs are a cakewalk. For my aching back they’re torture.”

  The ancient prankster, hunched over from decades of stoop labor, answered, “Hombre, you’re still in your prime. I should be the one complaining.”

  “Anyway,” said their father, “he’s saving up for Disneyland.”

  Gus endured the next round of catcalls as he walked away with his wages. Only Señor Serenata’s son, Victor, cheered. “Disneyland! All right!” Like most of the other young men, he wore going-out clothes and was fastidiously groomed.

  Their father waited until Gus was close enough, then said softly, “Watch your step next time.”

  Gus turned to him for an explanation, but his father did not say anthing. Still in the dark, Gus asked outright, “What are you talking about, Dad?

  “I’m saying don’t let them know we’re new at this. It could mess up my plans.”

  Gus seemed on the verge of saying something, then thought twice and turned to Gabriel as a sounding board. “Look, I’m not the one telling the entire camp about my aches and pains.”

  Gus waited until the rest of the family received its money before counting his. If he had expected it to take his mind off unpleasant matters, it had the opposite effect. “This is it? I irrigated that field with my sweat, and this is it?”

  Their father, who had just finished collecting the rest of their wages, returned the look. “What did you expect? You only worked one day. And not that hard, I might add.”

  Gus glanced at the other envelopes his father held. “So let’s see how much you made, Dad.”

  “Well, when I was your age, I made a lot more than that.”

  Paula pretended to take his side. “And that was before adjusting for inflation. Right, Dad?” She massaged his neck where it merged with his shoulder, the way she always did, but this time he pulled away with a grimace.

  As he turned away, their father noticed the hefty envelopes Don Pilo held fanned out, as if ready to reveal a full house. “Well, neighbor, you collected quite a wad there.”

  Don Pilo shrugged. “My boys did most of the work.”

  “That may be true, but we fathers do the work of raising them right.”

  “Don’t forget their mothers.”

  “I’m not. But in your case you’re both mother and father to those kids.”

  The flattery had its effect, even though Don Pilo did not acknowledge it. “I know some people don’t put much stock in what I’m about to say, but I’m saying it in all sincerity. Each and every night I ask my wife’s soul to help me guide our boys down the right path.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that, not a bit.”

  Don Pilo squirmed in silence, as if wondering whether his homily had lacked the proper humility. Or perhaps he detected a touch of disbelief in the reply. But before he could replace it with something more convincing, their father added, loud enough for the benefit of people close by, “Still, you earned a small fortune. Me, I didn’t make much, but I know how I’ll spend it. I’m buying parts for our van.”

  The remark took root at once, as someone added, “I just wish they made spare parts for people.”

  Don Pilo nodded. “That trip up here puts a lot of wear and tear on an engine.”

  Their father masked his smile, knowing he could not have asked for a better straight man. “True, especially from where we both came from. It’s a good thing I know my way around cars. Mechanics like myself can cost an arm and a leg.”

  Don Pilo gripped his pay envelopes, as though he might lose them to a con man.

  “But not me, Don Pilo. I’m the working man’s friend. And people here aren’t exactly rolling in clover.”

  Gabriel sensed Don Pilo’s suspicion, so before his father could exacerbate things he interrupted. “Let’s get going, Dad.”

  “Where?”

  “Where else? To get those parts for the van.”

  When his face failed to register a connection, Gus added, “Remember your plan, Dad.”

  For a moment he remained in the dark, then all at once his beaming smile told them his mental lightbulb had clicked. He waited until Don Pilo was out of earshot.

  “When you’re right, you’re right. Once they see me in action they’ll line up with their money. Who needs Don Rafa’s crumbs when I’ve go
t these babies?” He held out his hands proudly as if he were a surgeon.

  “Of course,” said Gus, “it would be better if it were on someone else’s car.”

  On the road to town both brothers sprawled in the rearmost seats while their father memorized landmarks for a return mental map. Gus recounted his money several times as if it might have multiplied in the interim. “God, I sweated blood for this. Whoever said it was easy …”

  “That was Dad,” said Gabriel. “Back home he said it practically grew on trees.”

  Gus did not back his remark, and his father responded with a disapproving glance through the rearview mirror. His mother, hoping to cover his gaffe, changed the topic.

  “This place isn’t so bad. But it’s a shame our neighbors are such a bad influence.”

  “You said it,” said Gabriel. “Those Borrados are a bunch of weasels.”

  She stared at him, not quite believing what she had heard. “I meant our other neighbors. It’s bad enough that Señor Serenata likes the sauce so much. But to think think that his oldest son—”

  “His name’s Victor,” said Gus. “He’s the only one who took my side after I screwed up with the crew boss.”

  “Yes, I heard him. But he’s headed down the same path as his father. Be careful. There’s something about him I don’t like.”

  “You got your neighbors mixed up, Mom. Gabi’s right. Victor’s an okay guy.”

  “I didn’t say he was okay!”

  “Fine, but you did say it was the opposite neighbors we should worry about.”

  “You mean Don Pilo?” asked Paula.

  “No, the old man’s harmless. It’s his kids.”

  “How can you say that?” asked their father. “They’re great kids.”

  “To you grown-ups they look nice.”

  “Did I say nice? I said—”

  “Okay, Dad, to you they’re great. But they’re actually like those bad seed kids in horror movies. They’re evil.”

  “And all we’re saying,” said their mother, “is that we’re glad they’re next door. They balance out the bad vibes from that other young man.” Before Gus could remind her that he had a name, she added, “Victor.”