Somehow, Nikan’s romantic Sunday brunch with Alejo ends up as an entire day spent with a princess, an athlete, a brain, a basket case, and a criminal. When each presents a unique and difficult challenge to authority or learning, can Nikan and Alejo use the 1980s movies Nikan’s Aunt Winnie raised him on to help?
How can Tootsie change the princess’s mind about being her true self? Will the athlete benefit from a little Top Gun? What can Footloose teach the brain? How will Pretty in Pink bring out the best in the basket case?
And when Nikan, Alejo, and the criminal find themselves in dangerous pursuit of something valuable, will asking, “What would Indian Jones do?” save them?
“So, when I was little,” I said on the exhale after a deep drag, “my parents sent me to live with my Aunt Winnie.”
Juan started forward again. “Why?”
I shrugged in an effort to pretend the whole thing didn’t still bother me a little, then followed. “The combination of work and raising a third kid was overwhelming, they’ve since told me, so ...”
“They chose work?”
I offered half a nod. “The family owns a casino on an Indian reservation. I would go back -- w-o-o-d --”
“Wrong.”
“Just checking to see if you’re paying attention. I’d go visit when school was out in summer, over, ya know ...”
“Vacation.”
“Right. My older brother parked cars for rich people who sat and gambled all day.”
“Like a, eh, valet?”
“Exactly.”
“They kept him?”
It was a logical question, one I hoped wouldn’t be asked.
“They did. They kept him and my sister.”
“Why them and, eh, you not?”
“That, Juan, is something I’m honestly still trying to unpack.”
“’Cause you’re queer?”
I weighed the notion with a back and forth hand gesture. “I don’t think so. Native American culture is nicely evolved on that. There are ancient words for queer people, words for more than two genders, even. My parents ask about boyfriends and when I’m gonna bring one for a visit, so I think it’s all cool on that front.”
I wondered if Juan was going to come out to me. When he didn’t, I continued my life history.
“Anyway, Isapo -- my brother -- was supposed to lock the door to his office, but I knew he never did. So, one lovely July afternoon, just to be a dick, I grabbed a set of keys to a Ferrari 250 GT California Spyder and took it for a little ride.”
“No shit.”
“Now ask me if it was worth the trouble I got into.”
“Was it?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” It suddenly dawned on me that likely wasn’t the right answer to offer a teenager on the precipice of making major life choices. “At the time. I wouldn’t do it now, because I know it’s disrespectful to the car’s owner, and getting arrested would cost me my job.”
Juan scoffed so hard it tousled my hair.
“Yeah. Okay, millennial.” I mocked myself for his gratification. “My parents were pissed.”
“No parents here to care.”
“Where are they?”
Juan turned to look at the building right across the street. Now that I paid attention, I recognized it as the one ICE had raided a month or so earlier.
“You live here?” I asked.
He shrugged. He didn’t trust me. I didn’t blame him. Maybe he didn’t trust anyone. So, I kept talking.
“Aunt Winnie didn’t speak a word to me for days. Her visible yet silent disappointment was worse than my parents’ yelling. She’s the reason I gave up these things.” I took one more drag, then tossed what was left of the cigarette to the ground. “They’re bad for ya anyway.”
“Then why’d you, eh, beg one off me when I was down to only four?”
“One less you’ll smoke.”
Juan called me an asshole again.
“¡Cabrón!”
Or a bastard. Only he knew for sure.
“They’re expensive as hell, too,” I added. “Though I could get ya a deal where my parents ... Forget I said that. Who made you come here today?”
“Free will.”
I challenged that with my best skeptical expression.
“My boss at Casa de la Cazuela said he’d pay me for the workday if I did it.”
“And you considered blowing it off and lying, but then you showed up.”
Juan shrugged again. “I need to learn English for passing the GED and become manager there. And I need to, eh, read it to order from suppliers and other ...”
“Crap?”
“Crap. Some shit needing to know English to, eh, work in a Mexican restaurant.”
“Life is filled with irony, Juan. So, do you live here?” I tried that again, still to no avail. “Anyone who hasn’t been where you are has no idea how hard you’re working. They’re, there, and their, you master homophones, and you’re well on your way to a promotion and more money to put toward cigarettes but hopefully something else, like a car.”
“Or I could just keep stealing cigarettes, then a car, like you, and drive all the way to Mexico.”
“I brought the car back. That’s the important part. Speaking of back, maybe we should ... Who’s up there?” I’d noticed Juan looking upward.
“You wanna help me steal something and not take it back?”
“Huh?”
“Come on!” Juan took off running toward the building, ignoring the Don’t Walk sign.
“Where are you going?”
He sprinted between two moving cars going in opposite directions. “¡No seas un cabarde!”
“Fuck my life.” Without even knowing what we were taking, why we were taking it, or what Juan called me, I gave in to peer pressure, “Hold up,” and ran across the street.
BEEP!
“Oh, shut up,” I yelled at the truck driver who nearly flattened me. “I’m trying to stop a felony.” That was only to myself. “Or be an accessory to one.”
Why wasn’t I sure which?
