The Date

I left mum in the kitchen fixing dinner for José Luis while he was watching some noisy animation on the pad. Keeping each other company and discussing the non-sense that came out of their mouths did well for them. I had set myself for an evening drive choosing less traffic over peace of mind, accepting the occasional drunkard of a Friday night. Driving downtown and picking up a group of friends heading to clubs and bars, dressed sparsely and loud as ducks, was a way to take a bite of the night spirit. It was the only one I could afford or dared to taste since Micky had moved to Guadalajara convinced that he could make a business out of the pockets of gringos looking for a next-door exotic vacation. José Luis had not seen his father for three years. Not that I missed him but life was easier then. Was I angry? I had been. Very. Not for the reasons one might think of thou, not the obvious ones. The thing is Mikey and I had plans here in Houston. Our families had moved before we were born. They did it the right way, no river crossing, no smugglers involved and, when it was our turn, there was a proper job for him and a business project on my side. Things had worked for a while, things were literally working, but then he started talking with his brothers. They put this idea in his mind that there was a lot of money to make back in Mexico, either building cheap flats for American and Canadians or organizing trips for lazy travellers. This would have been something I could live with, if only he had come up with it before José Luis was born. I was angry because I knew that, if I had followed him, in two years he would have pulled some other deranged idea out of his hat. Plus I wanted José Luis to be American through and through and moving wasn’t going to help. The passport wasn’t enough. Of course, when he left my project went tits up too. I could not afford the risk with a two-year-old child to raise. Mum moved in with us a month later, bringing with her two pieces of luggage and her flowers pots and I picked up the driving gig. Not a lot of money but a decent hastle to keep things spinning. By the way, his real name is Miguel but he liked being called Mickey, another crazy idea of his.

Out on the driveway I turned around hoping to see José Luis making a show between the curtains and pulling out his freshly made toothless smile. Jesus, I loved that boy. My entire life for him. No kidding. That evening he did not pop up behind the window. No little waving hand for me as he was probably glued to the screen like a melting brown marshmallow. It was mid-February, second or third week, I don’t remember, even if I probably should. Temperatures could push beyond seventy-five degrees in Houston in that part of the year but a chill that I felt all the way to my nips made me think that I was probably dressed a bit on the light end. I considered going back inside tiptoeing right on my spot but then I said hell to that. It was Friday night for me too and a little daring silky shirt was fine to wear for my drive. If I got cold in the car I could always put up the aircon, I reckoned, and I set foot towards my scrappy hybrid Toyota.

Once in the driving seat, I secured my belt, checked my make-up and clicked my phone in its case. Before starting the engine I opened the app. Seeing that my stellar rating was still there felt good. After three years on the road, I was still at 4,97 and that had paid out a few bonuses every now and then. Yet, after so much time I was still nervous after every trip fearing that a douchebag could drop on me three stars or even less for no reason. The phone blipped ten seconds later before I could even put on some tunes and leave the curb. Black woman, mid-age, posing on her side in the profile picture, short hair and a fine nose. A safe journey, I thought, before spotting that she was on a slim 4,1, probably the kind of person that complains if there is traffic, accusing you to buy time and slamming the door at the end. I had one or two of those who, God bless, spared me their rating. I had heard from other drivers that perros like that could put you in real trouble. I put on some fine Ms. Lauryn Hill and hit the road in the direction of MacGregor Park, just beyond Brays Bayou, hoping that the first trot wasn’t going to screw the rest of the night up.

It was a glib drive from McKinney and when I got there I parked in front of a single-story red brick house with one of those loopy driveways that you see in front of a hotel lobby. My passenger wasn’t ready when I got there and I had to send a short message to get her ass out. She ignored it. When the door finally opened she looked like she did not give a damn’ churro about being late. Tight black pants, a jeans jacket and a pair of sparkly snickers at her feet. She was stunning, not that I had ever been interested in women, but she really was the kind you see rows of men turning their heads for. She locked the door leaving no light on inside. The girl must have plata I reckoned, enough anyway to live by herself in a four-bedroom house. Her walk was smooth, light steps and head up as if she knew that the world would move aside as she passed through. She came to sit in the front seat, smelling like a spicy rose and calling me by my name. Buenas noches, Paula she said, her smile two rows of perfectly white pearls. I did not pay attention to her Spanish and gave her my welcome as the app suggested the route to one of the bars downtown, the Sambuca, a fancy one where people go to eat and dance. The first thing that she did when we got moving was turning the volume up and slide the window down. Then she sang. Like that, as if she was in her own damn house. She sang Everything is everything. What is meant to be, will be and gave a smack on the gloves compartment. Musica perfecta, Paula, perfecta she said, at which I thought that either this woman was high on something or she was going to become my best friend ever.

It was a twenty-minute thing, give or take, enough for a good chat or to die under a thick silence. She did most of the talking, then quickly, as we hit the 69, she turned towards me and she put both her hands on her face, long fine fingers she had, and she said oh-my-god pausing at every single word. She said it twice, maybe three times, as I looked at her clueless, making sure that no boob drove in my lane. She said that my ring was beautiful and she had been looking for one just like that for ages. A few moments later I found myself telling her the whole story of my business project, the one I had put aside after Mickey left. She asked all sort of questions and twice put her hand on my arm, her fingers tight over my green silk shirt as if it was the most normal thing to do with a stranger. I told her that I had kept a few other rings, as a memory, even if a couple of extra hundred dollars could always help, and that thing got her thinking. When we arrived at the Sambuca she promised that I could count on her five stars, made a move to open the door and then pulled back on the seat. She told me that she had an idea. She did not want to sound indiscreet and all but I could take her number and I could call her. We could meet for a coffee or something and I could show her the other rings. Before I could say yay or nay she took my phone and typed the ten digits. I probably hardened up a bit and she stopped right before pressing the green button. Julene she said. I know I replied as I had been staring at her name on the app during the entire ride. She wished me a good night and off she went, her walk slow and confident as before. As I drove on Texas Avenue, looking at the twinkling lights of the Friday night, I saw the five stars coming through.

It took me a week to call. Before doing so I checked the meaning of her name as if that could be of any help. God knows how many times I fooled around with my five rings during those days. I even pulled out my old tools, well kept on the top shelf of my bedroom wardrobe, folded in the soft purple bag I had made myself. Some required polishing and maybe sharpening but all in all, they were still in a decent state. I remembered how many hours I had spent in the garage of our house with those riggings in my hands. I thought of Mickey too and about how stupid he had been. His voice came to my mind, smokey, low pitched. I realized I did not even know if he had a new family. The last time we had spoken was two years earlier. Not a nice talk. Finally, I picked up my phone as, in the end, what was there to lose. Julene replied straight away, full of life, as she had been waiting for it. She suggested we meet on a Thursday at seven-fifteen, a decent time if you think of it. She would see me at Cellar 7, a wine bar on Maine Street where I had dropped several of my riders off. That evening, before leaving home, I changed three times and I ended up wearing the same damn’ green shirt I had the night of the drive, doubting my choice the very moment I started the engine of my car. I checked over and over the time and that the rings were in my bag and of course Julene arrived late, as unapologetic and as gorgeous as the night we had first met wearing with two large gold circles on her ears. I did not know where to put my feet in that fancy place but she had a smile for every waitress. We sat on the high chairs by the counter, which I found very uncomfortable, feeling like I could precipitate on the floor any time. She asked if I liked wine and she took my nod for a yes. I heard her ordering two large glasses of Merlot St. Francis, which I saw went for $ 58 dollars a bottle. When they arrived we clinked. Our hands touched for a second and, after that, we did not mention the rings a single time for the whole night. We never had wine with Mickey, beer or tequila rather, mostly for him. Julene’s wine on the other hand felt warm, safer, as I had always wanted it to be.