There’s No Place Called Home

Kiro 4 News surrounded my cul-de-sac to interview my neighbors to figure out what went down last night around 11 p.m.

I sat on the trunk of my brown Toyota Camry watching the journalists and police talk to my neighbors one by one. My best friend, Alfredo, headed toward me with excitement because he got interviewed by Kiro 4 News. Not sure why he was that excited. A man died, single gunshot, next to our mailboxes. It could have been easily one of us dead just a few paces from our front door.

Dad and mom heard it last night, came to check on me and Amanda. All dad could do was lock the door. I asked him what we should do next. He looked out the window and just shrugged.

Reports said that it was gang related. Police said to be on high alert for people with their hoods over their heads. Kiro 4 News said it was a tragedy. Alfredo said it might happen again. Dad said not to peep my head out the window when it was dark outside. Mom said ten cuidado cuando salgas a la calle. I said to Amanda not to leave the house without me. How dare you say there’s no place like home.

Like Father Like Son

Dad’s routine:

·       Be home by 5.

·       Buy a six pack (or more) on the way home.

·       Yell at my mom because she started yelling first.

·       Watch Wrestling even though it was fake. Not sure if he knew it was fake.

·       Be drunk by 6. 7 at the latest.

·       Talk to himself. At first, I thought he was talking to ghosts or a friend he invited over, but it was only him.

·       Yell at me for spilling his beer. There was always the yelling. I’m that clumsy.

·       Burn the tortillas when making eggs and leave the dirty dishes for mom to clean. I cleaned up the mess because I felt bad for mom.

·       Blast mariachi music past midnight. He loved to belch out his emotions when he was drunk.

·       Repeat for the next day

I made my sister, Amanda, promise me something when I was in middle school.

“If I ever turn out to be like dad, then kill me, please.”

Kill Two Birds with One Stone

The van’s rear tire blew out on our way back home from the party dad took Amanda and me to. At first, it was fine that we went because we got to play with some other kids at the party. But then we were bored out of our minds since those kids went home because they have responsible parents who know when it was too late to be out. I glanced at the clock every hour, and tap on dad’s shoulder every hour to ask him if we could go home.

            “One more hour,” he said.

            Several more hours later, we finally got to go home, but it was just our luck that the tire blew. Dad was drunk and couldn’t change the tire at the moment, so he tried to call his buddy from the party to pick us up. Tap tap tap.

            “Are you folks doing alright?” The officer’s flashlight burned right through my dad’s façade of being sober.

Dad said we were doing fine, just a flat. Dad said we were waiting for a ride. Dad said we were just trying to go home because it was getting late.

The officer didn’t leave though. He stayed and continued to question dad. Then he beamed the flashlight at the backseat to see the children’s faces. Amanda never made eye contact with the officer, but I stared right at him. He knew it. Amanda knew it. I knew it. When he made eye contact with me, I just shook my head slowly.

Don’t do this. Not with us in the car. Don’t take our dad away right in front of us. Not my dad.

The officer saw my tear that snuck out, and went to his car. Dad rolled up the window and laid his head on the wheel. Tap tap tap.

“Hey, I wanted to know if your kids wanted police stickers to cheer them up.”

            The officer handed us stickers through the window, and when I reached for the stickers, I mouthed “thank you.”

            He nodded and said “Making sure you guys were safe and getting rid of these stickers. That’s two birds with one stone, which is a win in my book.” He told dad he better not see us still here and to have a nice day. When the officer was out of sight, dad quickly drove back to the party because he couldn’t wait out on the street any longer. He hauled ass and sparks sailed behind us as we went back to the party for help. I gazed out the rear window holding my sticker. The sticker is placed on my photo book, so I wouldn’t forget the officer who let me have my dad just a little bit longer.

            This is the only idiom I will allow people to use.

Man’s Best Friend

Max loved dad, and vice versa. When mom had her surgery, dad was thankful for Max because the silly dog distracted him from worrying about what could go wrong in the surgery. Those two were inseparable. Max laid next to him when dad was watching T.V. Max got excited even when dad left the room for a minute. Max always sat next to the head of the table because that was dad’s spot. Max wagged his tail and yelped at the door whenever dad came home from work.

But Max stopped coming to the door ever since dad was taken away. For the first month, he wagged and raced to the door, but when he saw that it wasn’t dad, he went back to his doggy bed.

For the second month, he looked out from his bed to check if it was dad. His tail would wag for a few seconds, but it dissipated after he saw no dad.

Now, he doesn’t even look up. He lays all curled up in his bed without hesitation of who comes through the door. He waits at the head of the table for imaginary scraps. He claws at my parents’ bedroom even though no one is in there. Max howls at night, around the time dad would be watching T.V.

I miss him too, Max.

Better Late Than Never

Mom said dad’s court case was at 12 p.m. and we were running late as always. Mom had the paperwork and items that could maybe let dad stay in the country. I told my mom to hurry, which was pointless because mom never hurried. She was late to everything, but not today, I wouldn’t let that happen today. We had to be there to convince the judge.

            I rushed my mom when she was showering, and told Amanda to scarf down her food. We left the house 20 minutes before his case. Mom went over the speed limit, Amanda was in charge of holding onto the paperwork, and I gave my mom directions to the detention center that he transferred to when immigration found out he was taken in custody.

            We still arrived 10 minutes late and immigration didn’t allow you entrance when you were late, but the lady at the desk was kind enough to let us through the gate anyways. We ran to the court and I saw my dad sitting on the bench with other inmates.

“¡Mira ma, es mi papá!”

            We didn’t know when we could enter the room, so we looked at the schedule sheet by the door to double check that we were allowed to enter the court room. Mom asked what the sheet said. Amanda and I both looked at the schedule. She clutched the paperwork closer to her chest, I leaned against the wall, and mom brushed her hair back with her hand in disbelief. Dad’s court case was at 10:45 a.m. We all peered through the door at dad for as long as we could until the bailiff eventually closed the door on us.

Jump to Conclusions

The cleared parking lot housed homeless people, teenagers drinking, small businesses that people didn’t normally go to (like I never saw someone actually eat at the Magic Wok or say they had Magic Wok. It was just there), and not-so-secret drug deals ever since the Albertsons on 21st closed down in 2008. Alfredo went to the ATM next to the condemned building and I waited in his 1990 Nissan Maxima, which barely ran.

            “This place is going to be a crime scene eventually,” I said as Alfredo entered the car.

            “Man, don’t jump to conclusions just cause you think you’re smart. You’re smart, but not like psychic smart,” Alfredo said while he buckled in.

            We both laughed.

            In 2016, Alfredo called me while I was in my sophomore year of college. Said his little brother, Axar, was all spooked. Axar’s friend Wesley was shot dead by the ATM last week in a drug deal gone wrong. There was going to be a memorial at Decatur High School for the poor kid.

            Some weeks earlier, Alfredo mentioned hearing gun shots after he got money from the ATM. He looked behind him, then at the rear view mirrors, and drove off. I told him to change banks. He said he’ll risk it. I told him I better not be at his memorial.

I hated being right the first time, I better not be right again.