Glitch

What Happened

Isabel ran a red light on the corner of 9A and 76th Street. The massive 1975 Chevrolet Suburban’s fender missed a pedestrian’s brittle hip by inches.

“Fucking asshole!”

Isabel jumped, startled by the curse her neighbor flung at her window. She checked the rearview mirror, horrified at what she’d almost done. Mr. Silva addressed all sorts of hand gestures to her, none of which bore her good will. Her body slumped over the steering wheel and she blushed. Had other drivers seen her run the light? She could still turn back and apologize to Mr. Silva.

“Don’t even think about stopping!” her brother said from the back seat. “We’re never going to get to Caldera if we stop every time you ignore a street sign.” Isabel scowled at him for a tenth of an eyeblink, but kept quiet. She was always hesitant to kick the hornet nest that was Fred’s temper. He resumed his deep soliloquy with his cell phone, bending over the touch screen as if the hurried clicks could take him away from this car ride.

“Where is the old lady?” her grandfather Albert asked. He was sitting bolt upright on the passenger’s seat.

Isabel sighed. So, it began. She brushed her dark hair away from her eyes and felt very tired. This was the preface to a loop of incoherent exchanges. The Alzheimer’s disease would make Albert ask the same questions over and over again. In the worst of cases, he would ask about his wife’s whereabouts every couple of minutes, in the best of cases once in an hour. Either way, it was impossible not to engage with her grandfather. The alternative was to ignore Albert, but Isabel loved him too much to do this.

“She went grocery shopping, Grandad. She’ll be back soon.”

“Soon?” Albert’s tone was distant as he fidgeted with the seat belt. The strap sat low on his belly and Isabel was relieved that the action of unbuckling it had become too complicated for her grandfather. At least that meant that her family was still able to take him out on car rides.

“Soon,” confirmed Isabel softly.

“Pardon?” her grandfather asked.

Isabel was silent but padded his chubby, wrinkled hand. Her grandfather smiled but continued looking out the window.

This expedition had seemed like a good idea. Yesterday. Isabel and her family had road-tripped up and down the country on the 1975 Chevrolet, reaching countless waterfalls, beaches, mountains and camp sites in the green behemoth. But Isabel’s uncle had taken the executive decision of selling the Suburban and Isabel wanted one last road trip with her grandfather. An American by the name of Taylor Swift, who was gracious enough to laugh over the phone and say he could guarantee he’d been given his name prior to ‘that girl’ becoming famous, was coming on the weekend for a final inspection. Isabel considered the Suburban a cache of good memories, an item on a dwindling list of comforts. Albert’s disease had taken so much from the family, most of all any sense of control or predictability, that Isabel refused to part with the car unless it was on her own terms. She was set on carrying out a parting ceremony in which her grandfather, her brother and she would watch the fishing boats return to the port at sunset and order crushed ice with syrup and condensed milk. They would wonder at the barren grey cliffs and how the rock halted exactly at the sea’s edge. They would tip their heads at the paragliders flying above the beach. When it was over, they would leave and ride back towards routine.

But today, Isabel’s palms were sweating.

Anxiety clung to her like vacuumed plastic wrap. Paul Hoffman, her perennial trigger into misery and self-doubt, had called yesterday and asked her to have dinner with him. Isabel said yes in a heartbeat, even though she knew there’d be emotional hell to pay the next morning. The two had gone straight to a bar, bought a couple of beers and then ended up in Isabel’s apartment. Paul had towered over her and kissed her with lips bitter from all the whiskey. She stood on the balls of her feet to reach him, which made her feel dainty and delicate, which made her feel happy and safe, which made her forget that most days she felt chubby and colorless.

Isabel allowed Paul to jump in and out of her life with the same result each time. He appeared only to deliver nights of raging sex which were followed by months of Isabel trying desperately not to lose the plot. Isabel kept telling herself that it was just a casual fling and that it was normal for him not to call, that the point of the whole interaction was to have ‘a bit of fun’ like all her friends told her she should. But then the ruthless doubt crept in: if she could be prettier, smarter, sexier, would Paul stay in touch? If somehow she managed to fix herself, becomes less damaged, would he grant her tenderness?

After the prior night, Isabel only felt qualified to curl up on the floor with a hangover that was equal parts low blood sugar and regret. Instead, she was driving towards Caldera with her grandfather by her side and her brooding brother in the back.

Isabel was suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation of pins digging into the center of her palms. Paul hadn’t texted that day and she felt like a complete idiot. The swirling smell of the old leather was making her sick. Her eyes were strained from the green gallop of the slopes and trees past her window. She focused on the uninterrupted cement in front of her. Her task was to keep her foot on the accelerator and steer the Suburban in a straight line. They were simple motions. The man in the back was her brother, the man next to her was her grandfather. Her name was Isabel.

But it was so damn hot inside the car.  She rolled the window all the way down and her hair hardly moved. She winked away the sweat that teased her eyelashes.

“When is the old lady coming back?” her grandfather asked her.

Fred grimaced. Isabel rubbed her temple.

“She went to the market, Grandad. She’ll be coming soon.”

“Soon?” he said slowly.

“Yes. Soon,” Isabel answered.

“What is she doing there?”

“She went to get groceries.”

Suddenly Albert flared up and slammed the dash in front of him. “Fuck that! The idiots! The bastards, damn it!”

Isabel’s heart shriveled, as it did every time Albert had one of his outbursts. Before the disease had taken over, he never raised his voice, much less to his grandchildren or children.  But now Albert was becoming increasingly unpredictable and aggressive. He grabbed the handle bar and shook it with all his might.

“God daaaaamn!” he screamed.

“Gran!! I got it, Ok? The guys are doing as you say! Ok?” Isabel yelled back.

Albert reacted instinctively to his ego being soothed. He kept on rattling the door but stopped screaming.

“When is the old lady coming back?”

“She went to get groceries,” Isabel croaked.

“Groceries?” Albert echoed.

Imploringly Isabel looked at Fred for a solution, but he shrugged.

“We can only ride it out,” he said calmly. “Turn in at the next gas station and I’ll drive for a while.”

Further on the highway dipped to a hollow and they were greeted by a traffic jam. The Chevrolet was stuck behind a disheartening long line of cars, set like marbles in a row. The signs of a prolonged stall were there: cars turned off, drivers outside making small talk, vendors weaving in and out of the lanes, and the lights of the patrol cars blinking mockingly at them a few kilometers down the road.

Isabel hung her head and accepted her defeat. They would never get to Caldera on time, even if they managed to survive the trip with her grandfather playing ball between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Peeling herself away from the seat, she reached for her cigarettes on the glove compartment and lit one. She took a drag meant to cover every tender space of her lungs. The nicotine swirled in her bloodstream but her nerves did not settle.

Albert then began to whistle and clap his hands, with no recognizable rhythm or pattern. He could go on this way for hours. Isabel’s throat tied itself in knots to keep from crying in front of Fred. She was tired of losing her grandfather. The disease advanced implacably, and at each stage it wiped out a different layer of consciousness. Isabel had said good-bye to Albert many times. First, she had parted with the man who was terrified at realizing he had dementia. Then she had hugged the one who said quirky things but that still knew what a fork and spoon were for. Last, she had let go of the man who no longer recognized her but smiled when she came into the room.

Who would she lose next?

“Isabel?” her brother began. Fred placed his arms on Isabel’s shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. There’s a turn off on that dirt road ahead. When this goddamn traffic jam loosens, we’ll turn back there.”

Isabel took another drag. She closed her eyes and her mind went to the yellow dress she’d worn the night before. It had slipped down, the daisies on the hem bowing to the floor. Kisses were an obsolete commodity for casual lovers, so why had Paul held her waist so tightly?

Fred placed his cell phone aside for the first time since the trip began and he opened the cooler in the back. Fred’s short arms were powerful, and Isabel jumped when slammed the lid on the leather.

“No ice! I forgot to put ice in the cooler, damn it!” Isabel’s brother cursed and again pounded his fist on the stiff cushion.

Isabel didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m sure at least one vendor has chilled sodas.”

Fred got out of the car and stormed off under the sun. There was a tall man with a puppy poking out of his shirt, chatting with the drivers on the street. His blond hair contrasted warmly with his tanned skin, and his smile was open and mellow. Fred rushed past the man, but not before he shouldered the puppy owner against a car. Amidst the instant outcry of the other drivers, Fred walked on without apologizing. Isabel winced, ashamed at her brother’s rudeness. The man waved his hand and resumed his conversation.

Isabel turned on the radio and clicked through the stations when the first notes of the ‘El Rey’ song reached them. It was an old ranchera that Albert used to love. The only time she heard her grandfather sing, drunk, was to that chorus.

It took Isabel a few moments to realize Albert was tapping his fingers to the beat of the song.

“Yo sé bien que estoy afuera, pero el día en que yo me muera, sé que tendrás que llorar.” 

Albert then began to sing along. Isabel stared at him. It had been close to three years since she last heard him complete a logical sentence. He’d been exposed to this song various times before but Albert hadn’t batted an eyelash.

“Dirás que no me quisiste, pero vas a estar muy triste, y así te me vas a quedar.”

Something about Albert began to change, though Isabel couldn’t tell what exactly. The transformation was subtle, but his features weren’t the same as ten minutes before. Isabel gripped the steering wheel tightly.

Had it been so long since she paid attention to her grandfather’s face that she’d forgotten that scar on his left cheek? His eyes were a deeper brown, and his nose bigger than she remembered it that morning. Pulling the hand brake, Isabel turned towards her grandfather.

Albert was sitting relaxed, his look attentive.

“Hi, honey,” he said.

His words cut across the space between them, clear with intention.

Isabel stood still, even though her head was exploding. Any movement she made could break the spell.

“That boy hasn’t changed a bit, has he? Same temper as when he used to kick his toy car across the room.”

Albert’s eyes were warm and focused. “You have time, honey. Don’t chase after people who don’t deserve you. You have time to find someone you’ll love with ease.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “A regina can’t be rushed.”

Isabel’s heart clunked in her chest, unable to make a decision between racing or sitting still. Her grandfather leaned over and hugged her.

“And quit smoking once and for all. Those things are foul.”

He held her for one more instant.

Albert pulled away, and before his back had reached the seat his eyes were empty again.

“No tengo trono ni reina, ni nadie que me comprenda, pero sigo siendo el Rey.” 

What would have happened if Fred remembered the ice

When Fred remembered family reunions, one in specific came to mind. In the summer of 95’, when Fred was fourteen-years-old, his uncle David decided to pick a fight with Krav Maga instructor Harris. Since the moment his uncle raised himself from the chair, everyone knew it was a bad idea. A bad, fucked-up idea.

It was with the same certainty that he knew his younger sister’s farewell trip was going to end in disaster.

Fred agreed to come along on this desperate, last into-the-sunset trip with his grandfather but he was not enjoying it. Neither was he making any effort to conceal his seething. Isabel kept glancing nervously at him in the rearview mirror. He loved his sister and he appreciated how she always tried to make people in their family comfortable, constantly seeking reconciliations even though she was the most unstable of the crew. But saints were exasperating, and his patience this week was threadbare. Isabel scheduled the trip on the last day of the month, when all the expenses reports were due, and he had to supervise his entire team’s deliverables. The car seats were as comfortable as riding in the bed of a pickup truck on top of a tire, and the stench of the exhaust that whirled back into the car nauseated him.

Isabel drove straight into a pothole and Fred felt the jolt in his bones. The shock of the concrete against the chassis traveled through the seat’s coils up to his brain, when he realized with dismay that another rage episode was upon him. He tried biting down on it, inhaling slowly, but it was inevitable. All he could do was be a witness to his own dreadfulness. It was like he was watching a movie, a projection of himself blowing up.

Fred’s leg twitched as he clenched the door’s handle. The rage was so intense he felt it on his teeth. He hoped that neither his sister nor his grandfather would say a word, move a muscle, before he regained control. He closed his eyes and for a moment he panicked, realizing that a part of him didn’t want to stop being angry. But he inhaled, the effort like drinking through a clogged straw, and counted to ten. He visualized huge, bright numbers. Slowly the crisis subsided, and Fred let himself fall back, exhausted.

Flaring up had always been easy for Fred. Whether it was piñata parties or driving during rush hour, his temper was triggered by the slightest provocation. Since these episodes were usually followed by deep regret, Fred tried to avoid stressful situations. He steered clear of bars and drunkards, took few courses at a time in college, and meditated in his office during his lunch break. Fred was terrified of hypothetical scenarios where he’d become a monster: what if he went without sleep for two days and his baby cousin decided to re-decorate his bedroom walls with crayons? What if he missed his mortgage payments and his mother picked a fight with him that day? But now the heat was irrevocably on, with the family company transitioning from a solid venture that manufactured plastic containers to a very, very big venture that manufactured plastic containers. The stakes were not just a matter of pride and corporate chest-thumping, but of stability. If everything went according to plan, Fred’s family would be financially sorted for a couple of decades. And as Albert’s medical bills kept piling up, this endeavor took an urgent tone. Twenty-four-hour care, physical therapy, nurses and medicines did not come cheap.

Fred’s cellphone beeped, and he jumped. He glanced at it and was lightheaded. His girlfriend was texting him.

Cue Fred’s latest source of emotional distress, another one that made him question his ability to handle life in general. His girlfriend was pregnant. She’d told him last night. He was silent after the news, putting on his best poker face. Emily knew him better than to think he was going to jump up and down on the sofa with glee, but after a few minutes of silence she expected an answer.

“This is happening, love, whether you’re on board or not. I just preferred you were in.” He’d left quietly, in part because his skull pulsed, the rushing blood not letting him think. When he got home the roar didn’t subside, not for the five hours he laid on the bed without sleeping a wink. When his alarm went off, he got up, changed his clothes and brushed his teeth to meet Isabel at their grandfather’s house.

Fred leaned forward, the sticky leather resistant to let him go. The smell of the old, faux hide was insidious. It slithered up his nostrils and then sat rooted behind his forehead. The breeze that blew through the window didn’t alleviate his discomfort, but rather it was a sensation slamming into his skin that let him know the air was moving.

He looked down at his belly, and he felt old and fat. In his daze, he’d picked swimming trunks that were red plaid, and his T-shirt was dull gray and riddled with grease stains. He wasn’t over thirty-five, but he felt like he was seventy. Fred leaned back against the clammy seat and closed his eyes.

Fred’s cellphone chimed again and he placed it face down on the seat. Emily was a serial texter and his phone would beep ten times by the time she finished writing ‘how was your day.’ He was sick to his stomach. There was a part of him that regarded children as deer let loose in a bar, an event of chaos for which no one could predict the outcome. Fred would like to see it through, but not at the cost of his parenting. How much of a father could he be if something as small as his sister’s driving triggered a spiral of rage?

The car stopped, running into a traffic jam. The line of vehicles stretched in front of the Suburban, an unmovable snake of cars basking under the sun. A highway collapse of this magnitude was caused by some major accident that would siphon hours from their trip. Fred’s heart fluttered at the sight since it meant the trip could be over.

“Isabel?” Fred tried to speak in a concerned yet disappointed tone.

“Don’t worry about it,” Isabel said dejected. “There’s a turn off on that dirt road ahead, we can hop on the other side of the highway from there. Trip’s over.” She sighed and lit a cigarette. By Fred’s count, it was the fourth time that year she’d quit smoking.

Suddenly, Fred’s grandfather screamed out and banged on the dash. Albert’s voice echoed in the car. Isabel soothed him and tried to pat him on his back, but her grandfather swatted her hand away. Fred’s anger flared up again, and while he kept his body still his thoughts were not controlled. Albert could be cajoled into silence if they resorted to violence. Fred’s father had done it, when he thought no one was watching. Fred was tempted, so tempted to make it stop. The ugly part of him egged him on. It would be so easy, especially since his grandfather would be oblivious to Fred’s violence.

Fred bit his tongue and stepped out of the car. He had to refrain, he had to move away. He paced back and forth and on the narrow stretch of concrete between the car and the culvert and then decided to have a soda. He knew he was addicted to the caffeine, but it was better than burying his face in cocaine. He opened the car door again and reached for the cooler, relieved at having remembered the ice. Fred drank half a soda in one gulp, his tongue tingling in protest.

A tanned man with long blond hair was leaning against the back of the Chevrolet, talking to a group of other stranded drivers. He held a small puppy in his hands, but Fred still gave him a death stare for touching his car.

“My bad, friend. So sorry,” said the man. He smiled and backed away, holding one of his hands up, cradling the puppy with the other one held against his chest.

Goddamn hippies, Fred thought. He didn’t smile back but he didn’t confront the man further for invading his space.

Fred sighed and pressed his free hand against the olive-green body of the car, a masochistic impulse wanting to feel the scorching heat of the metal. He had to call Emily and say he couldn’t be part of their baby’s life. He would be a liability to him or her. He’d pay and support the child but he couldn’t have anything to do with raising a human being. The next time he lost his temper, and there was nowhere to run, would he do the same thing his father did to this grandfather? Resort to fear to cut through the haze, be it that of old age or of new age?

Cicadas began to hum in the pastures bordering the highway, and for the first time since they left the capital Fred paid attention to his surroundings. The only greenery allowed to grow taller than the grass were the Guanacaste trees, embedded in the plains so they could give shade to the cattle. A great white bull made his way towards Fred, with an alarming sense of purpose. The animal stopped at the barbed-wire fence. The bull didn’t chew or flick its tail but stood there, a good six feet tall with its impressive hump and horns. It stared at Fred with what he could only describe as contempt.

Fred instinctively stepped to the side, trying to put some distance between him and the onlooker. A white bull, the green Chevrolet, Albert and himself: Fred’s mind could only go to the Gata waterfall incident. Being up a tree for over an hour with a bull wishing to gore you wasn’t easily forgotten.

In this particular trip, when Fred was starting the horrible throes of being a pre-teen, the entire family had filed into the Chevrolet and headed to the Gata waterfall. Fred’s mother sat brooding in the front seat while Fred did his best to behave like a spoiled brat. The pair had gotten into one of their most intense fights, thanks to Fred’s refusal to chaperone Isabel in the summer dance. Fred replied in monosyllables, cranked the volume on his headphones, spat pips out the window. His grandfather threw daggers at him through the rearview mirror but kept silent. When they arrived at the campsite, his grandmother started getting lunch ready and Albert suggested a quick hike to Fred. At the mountaintop the waterfall was underwhelming, and Fred was too busy scowling to realize his grandfather was sneaking up on the grazing cattle, and too wrapped up in his own mind to hear the wap! of a branch swishing on a bull’s behind. Albert dashed past Fred to scramble up the nearest tree, and Fred was barely able to grab the branches before the bull rammed into the trunk. The animal bellowed and stomped its hooves.

Fred’s fury rose and he gripped the tree trunk. His grandfather had always been a prankster, whether it was throwing rocks at beehives or smashing rocks against slate to get the howlers monkeys worked up, but this time he’d gone too far. Fred was about to begin a tirade against his grandfather when Albert cut him off.

“You have five seconds to tell me why you’re acting like such a brat or you’ll be walking home.”

Fred was defiant at first, his arms crossed in front of his chest, but after acknowledging the fact that he was stuck with his grandfather for who knew how long, he relented.

“Mom is pissed at me because I don’t want to chaperone Isabel. I don’t want to go to that stupid dance and I don’t get what the big deal is. I always do what she says but the one time I don’t I end up being the asshole.”

Albert didn’t take his eyes off the bull’s horns but his voice was sympathetic. “Well, I’d be pissed off if I were you. I know your mom worries about Isabel but we’re not in the Dark Ages. Isabel can take care of herself. What I don’t get is why you’re so worked up about this when I’ve seen you do far more boring things to appease your mother.

Fred sighed. “You don’t get it, Grandad.” The bull bellowed again and huffed. Fred held his legs closer to his chest. “Isabel’s whole class is going, right? And there’s this idiot named Rick. I’ve pummeled his face twice already. One more fight with this guy and I’m out of school.” Fred kicked the branch underneath him. “And Isabel likes him! She told me never to lay a hand on him because she has a crush on him.”

The bull slammed its horns against the tree trunk. “You would think someone would have filed those horns by now, eh?” Albert said. He was holding the branch in front of him so tight his knuckles were white. He cleared his throat. “Of course, that boy knows how to push your buttons. But if you don’t go, your absence will hurt Isabel more than your presence. She’ll start believing you won’t be there for her, ever.”

“I get that,” Fred said. “But what if I lose my temper and punch the guy? I can’t stop myself when I get angry.” Fred’s ears turned a bright red.

“Listen, Fred. You were born that way. Your anger is always on the surface. But you were also born kind, otherwise you’d never feel remorse. So, half the battle has been won.” Albert adjusted his seat and leaned back on the trunk. “Controlling yourself will get easier with practice, but it will be hard and painful at times. And that means you’re going to have to be brave. Take that bull, for example.”

Fred swore the bull was squinting at them.

“He doesn’t have a choice but to be brave. Those are the cards he’s been dealt.”

The Quiñones men had stayed up in the tree, watching the waterfall, and waited out the bull. The one that currently stared at Fred, at the edge of the highway, also grew bored and disdainfully walked towards its herd. It was disappointed at how dull Fred had turned out to be.

Fred softened his grip on the soda can and took a long drink, this time savoring the cold relief.

“Indeed, those were the cards I’ve been dealt,” Fred said under his breath.

From inside the car, the first violin chords of the ‘El Rey’ ranchera floated towards him. Fred opened the driver’s door to a haggard-looking Isabel slumped over the steering wheel. He nudged her aside and sat listening to the ranchera. His grandfather had loved that song.

“You know, we can still get to Caldera,” Fred said.

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Like Hell we can.”

“How much are you willing to bet?” Fred smiled.

Fred turned the engine on and drove on the shoulder of the highway until they reached the traffic patrol. All it took was a small bribe and they let the Suburban pass: the policemen were holding up traffic so the convoy of the President of the People’s Republic of China could travel safely on the road. A couple of thousand colones had persuaded the patrolmen that Fred and company were no threat to the diplomatic relations of their country.

They arrived at Caldera on time. His Grandad was quiet. And while Isabel was away buying some Churchills, his grandfather smiled and squeezed his hand. Fred turned and hugged Albert tight.

He was glad he’d tagged along this fucked-up ride.

Fred took out his phone and texted Emily. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a crap dad. Maybe he could keep his anger in check. Maybe he could find a way.

What would have happened if Paul had called back the next day

A most unfortunate event took place the day that Isabel decided to take her grandfather on a trip to Caldera, a nearby port that the family used to visit.  She was in a hurry to get the trip over and done with, since a man by the name of Taylor Swift was going to buy the old Suburban. Her brother Fred decided to accompany them. They took great care to make the trip as comfortable as possible for the senior Mr. Quiñones. They made sure to throw in the coolers (with plenty of ice), umbrellas, cigarettes and beach towels. Isabel was in an extraordinarily good mood, since she had received a call in the morning from a Paul Hoffman, telling her to please meet him later in the day.

It was so terrible when Isabel, trying to text Paul her ardent reply, ran over a certain Mr. Silva at the crossing of 9A and 76th Street.

What would have happened if Isabel missed an exit

—When is the old lady coming back?

—My friend, why are so obsessed with your wife coming back?

—I think she’s cheating on me. She says she’s going to the market but I don’t believe her.

—We’ve been through this before. She did spend half her day in the market, but because your kids were driving her crazy. I’ve seen troops of wild monkeys with less energy than them!

—The children were being children! They were a bit hyperactive, but nothing out of the ordinary.

—You were out of the house at the crack of dawn and came back long after sunset. You dealt with them when they were tucked in and wound down.

ISABEL:…….

FRED: ………!!

—What’s happening out there?

—Your granddaughter almost ran over a neighbor.

—Who?

—Mr. Silva.

—Oh, good riddance if she did. Silva is a low-life, anyhow. He kept hitting on his own daughter-in-law. On his son’s wedding day. Can you imagine?

—Hmm. That sounds like a right bastard.

—He is. Please tell me I won’t end up in the same place as him. I’d hate to have to share eternity with such a jackass.

—That’s not quite how it works.

—Hmm. Yes, I see.

—Well, let’s say you won’t have to deal with him once we leave.

—Ah, perfect! That is great news.

—Are you prepared for today?

—Yes, yes, of course. I don’t have a choice, either way, Hehe. I’m worried, however, that it’s going to hurt.

—Don’t worry, my friend. It will be over before you know it.

—Well, yes, I understand we’ll have an accident and then I’ll be free to join Nanette, and you, in whatever the afterlife looks like. But you have to admit that a car crash is not exactly a subtle way to go. And they will be affected by it. Isabel and Fred, I mean. Isabel will be in a wheelchair for quite a while. She won’t know if she’ll walk again. She’ll be scared.

—Your granddaughter right now is a bit lost. She needs a tool, one that is very effective yet very painful. I think you call it ‘rock bottom.’ She’ll remember how strong she is and she’ll ground her steps without fear. Fred will realize that a deer in a bar can be beautiful thing.

—A what?

Never mind.

—I know it’s for their own good. And yes, Higher Power and all. But I can’t stop worrying about them. I used to cringe when they were kids and ran too close to the table’s edge. Can you imagine how I feel now?

—I understand, my friend. But they will be better for it, ultimately.

—Will they be happy?

—That’s up to them, but they are good people. There is nothing to indicate they’ll make the wrong choice.

ISABEL:…

FRED:…

—Why are they so quiet?

—Fred’s girlfriend is pregnant, and Isabel is having a discreet mental breakdown because the man she’s in love with doesn’t love her back. 

—Fred’s having a baby! Oh, I wish I could’ve been around for that! Will it be a boy or a girl?

—It’s a boy.

—Oh, how wonderful. Although, Jesus, I hope he doesn’t inherit Fred’s temper.

—He’ll be a mellow child. Fred’s girlfriend is something to be reckoned with. She won’t let anyone subpar raise her child.  

—If I could only talk to them, just one time, please…

—No, my friend. We have already discussed this. I’m here to see you through while your body shuts down. You’re in the in-between and you need guidance, but we can’t intervene.

—Yes, yes, you’re right. Of course. Thank you for being here.

—With pleasure, my friend. Now, are you ready?

—Yes.

ISABEL:…..!!!!

FRED:…..!!!!

ISABEL: ——

FRED: ——

What would have happened if a puppy crossed the street 

The man turned his white T-Shirt up and tucked the warm ball of fur tight against his chest. He held the bundle with his hands, even though it was light enough to hang by itself. The little heartbeat calmed the man down. He pulled the straps of his backpack tight, gave his stalled car one last glance and said a little prayer for it to remain untouched until his return.

The few patches of asphalt that had been poured over the potholes on the highway were slick and melting, and the cicadas protested in the tall grass on the side of the road.  The shoulders on the highway were narrow, and walking was a risky business. He met chickens on the way, which were quick on their legs and seldom got run over. Tamanduas and opossums weren’t so lucky.

After walking for over an hour under the itching sun, the bump under his shirt was beginning to get restless. The highway curved upwards and he reached the hilltop. He was greeted by a beautiful, paralyzed line of cars.

The man smiled and punched the air with joy. A traffic jam, a captive audience for him to coax a ride. Finally, a lucky break. He knew it was due, and the Universe didn’t disappoint. He willed for the remainder of his day to be filled with positive energy only. He would find someone to help him with his car. He would arrive in San José in time to close the sale on the Suburban he’d been eyeing for the past two weeks. He would chill in his hotel room with AC and room service and share the scraps of his dinner with his furry friend.

Vendors ambled between the vehicles with plastic crates full of green mangoes, cashews, bizcochos and even pool toys. The man stopped for a snack before commencing the arduous task of being charming and securing a seat. Once he was reenergized, he scanned the vehicles. From his time spent hitchhiking in the United States he knew the prime targets were teenagers and rural citizens, since families in expensive cars tended to be more guarded and suspicious of strangers.

A short man burst out of a whale of a car and began kicking its tires. The hopeful hitchhiker stared, along with the rest of the stranded drivers, when the short man actually stomped the ground. Give him red hair, a big hat and a couple of guns and he’d turn into a cartoon character.

The hitchhiker’s heart beat fast when he realized the Yosemite Sam-wannabe reminded him of his father’s unpredictable, trigger-happy temper. It suddenly became a personal challenge to manipulate Grumpy and get a ride out of him. He had switched from jumping to shouting at someone in the car about needing sodas, and very specifically cold ones.

Hurrying towards one of the vendors, the hopeful hitchhiker bought three cans, the sides glistening with frost. He walked up to the huge car that Grumpy had burst out from. On the driver’s seat was a young woman holding an unlit cigarette, and an old man sat next to her. The hitchhiker pursed his lips and realized this might prove more difficult than he originally thought. The dark circles under the woman’s eyes were so deep they seemed embedded in her cheekbones, and she slumped over the steering wheel. Her pale skin contrasted with her black hair, a very tragic-looking Snow White. Her eyes were simultaneously doleful and vacant. The old man next to her was handsome, in a 60s corporate sort of way. His shoulders were strong and a swarm of black hair still covered his arms. The hitchhiker was unsettled by the passenger’s lack of expression. It struck him as if the old man was an empty throne, radiating power yet vacant.

“Excuse me, miss?”

The woman almost jumped out of her skin, alarm all over her face. Out of surprise or fear of being mugged, the woman was immediately on the alert. He pulled out one of the weapons against distrust, his smile. He would have to be stupid, at his current age of thirty, to ignore that his smile and looks were appealing to women.

The woman did not relax, so the man brought out his second most effective weapon.

“Oh, I’m sorry for starling you,” he said in a British accent. In his many travels, he’d learned that it was the one that most inspired trust, followed by German and Greek.

“May I?” and he offered the driver a light.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Long day?” he asked her.

She smiled crookedly and nodded.

“Isabel!” the short angry man walked towards them from the back of the car. “Have you seen the cooler?”

“No, Fred. No idea where it could be.”

“It’s pretty annoying when you forget the one thing you need, huh?” the hitchhiker butted in, giving his best David Attenborough impression. Grumpy didn’t smile, but the hitchhiker continued. “Tell you what. I hate asking for favors but if you lads give me a lift, I’ll trade you these sodas. My car broke down a few kilometers back and I need a ride to a gas station.”

Grumpy scowled.

“Where did you get those?”

“I got lucky” the hitchhiker lied. “They were the last ones from the vendors further down.” He pointed to the ones ahead of them. “These guys only sell mangoes and cashews.”

Grumpy took one of sodas, and opened the can. “Welcome aboard.”

The woman glanced back nervously when the man took his seat behind her. To lighten the mood, the hitchhiker decided to bring out the biggest gun of charm.

“Come out and say hi,” the man said, and a small, black nose appeared from between his shirt’s buttons.

The driver straightened and smiled.

“Oh my God, is that a puppy?”

Caught and bagged, he thought. “Yup, found this guy a couple of weeks ago in Puerto Viejo, trying to cross a busy road. If a truck didn’t get him, a stoner on a bicycle would.” The man was overcome with tenderness at the sight of the puppy’s tail wagging furiously. “I mean, look at him. He’s so tiny. I couldn’t just leave him there. Do you want to hold him?”

The woman smiled and straightened her back, somehow losing her tension and becoming more alert in one gesture. She took the dog carefully in her hands and the animal lunged playfully at her. The woman beamed at him.

“He’s got sass, hasn’t he?”

The man’s chest tightened at the woman’s transfiguration. But it was a nice tightening, like the squeezing of a strong hug. His throat went dry and he looked nervously for any place to rest his eyes that wasn’t the woman. He inspected the Chevrolet and decided he did not like this model one bit. Perhaps the Volkswagen camper was more accommodating. The seats were stiff, and the insides were too wide. He would write to the Quiñones family and back out of the deal. The man’s mood soured. Goddammit, he couldn’t believe he’d schlepped all the way to San José for nothing. He would have to come up with a convincing story for the Quiñones, in order to emerge with their understanding instead of their anger.

“God, I needed this.” The woman scratched the puppy’s head while the dog nibbled on her finger. “I was so high-strung up this morning I almost ran over a guy,” she blurted out. The shadows threatened to comer over her again, and the hitchhiker rushed to intervene.

“There’s no shame. Sometimes we wake up out of synch.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “My car didn’t really break down. I forgot to put gas in it.”

The woman laughed, and the hitchhiker almost forgot his British accent.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Caldera,” the woman said. “We wanted to take my grandfather for a trip before we sold this car.”

Grumpy interrupted them and stretched his hand to the man. “Sorry we didn’t ask your name. I’m Fred.”

The hitchhiker stretched his hand and smiled. “My name is Taylor Swift. But please, don’t laugh at my name! I’ve heard every joke there is to be said.”