ABILENEHe nodded yes and said,"Si." I tossed my knapsack into the back seat and climbed in.
The guy wasn't much older than me and had the look of a cowboy, unshaven face, the beginnings of wrinkles around his bloodshot eyes, callused hands. He didn't speak again until we reached the city limits. Where you goin'?" He said out of the corner of his mouth, he never took his eyes from the road. His rough hands gripped the steering wheel so tight I thought they might break it.
"I don't know, I'm supposed to meet someone here and I lost the address."
We came to a traffic light and stopped. He finally turned to face me, "You can ride to my home if you want."
The light had turned green but he didn't notice. Glancing up at the dusky sky, I said, "Might as well, it's been a long day."
It was dark when we pulled into a gravel driveway in a run down section of town. Jose', or as I would call him, Joe, invited me into the tiny, sun-faded house to meet his wife and children, all eight of them. His wife, Rosita fixed us some re-fried beans on tortilla triangles and Joe brought me a Dosaqui beer. Rosita spoke no English so I just sat and watched the children play on the living room floor as she and Joe talked. I figured they were talking about me, they kept looking my way. Joe brought me another beer and sat down beside me, "You stay here and help fix car?" I told him I'd be gratetful and he said something in Spanish to his wife who brought me a wool blanket. The kids were rounded up and put to bed, Rosita left the room and Joe brought me another beer but I couldn't finish it, my eyes just wouldn't stay open any longer. The sun was shining through an open window when I woke up, I heard banging from the driveway and went to investigate. Joe was cobbeling up some ramps. I helped him finish and we pushed the Mustang up, blocking the rear tires with more scrap wood. He told me then to ask Rosita for a beer, saying she'd know what I meant.
I'd never eaten re-fried beans before but by the end of the week I spent with this family I learned to like them. Rosita was a good cook and I soon learned enough Mexican to tell her so. Mostly rice and bean dishes with vegetables grown in the small back yard, all very spicy from the jalapenos. They had meat only on Sunday, when a neighbor or relative brought a live chicken and Rosita butchered it in the back yard. As far as I could tell, welfare was the only money they survived on. With eight kids, the monthly check must have been a good one, it provided lots of beer, along with a new clutch, pressure plate and throwout bearing. The machainic tools were something from a suburban housewive's kitchen drawer though, a hammer, a pair of pliers, and little else. Somehow we managed to drop the transmission and replace the parts in two days, when we were done we drank for the next three. Joe thanked me over and over for my help as he dropped me off at a condemned motel in another part of the same seedy neighborhood, the white section. I found an unused room and set my knapsack on the floor next to the moldy mattress, my home for the next three weeks.