Don't Mess with Us
by Lindsay Quintanilla
Erica Svec, Pokeyeyo, oil and acrylic on canvas, 68 x 54 inches, 2014. Courtesy of the artist.
DON’T MESS WITH US
Lindsay Quintanilla | OCT 2022 | Issue 19
At two a.m. sleep was not coming to me, so I finished Gulliver’s Travels and sat by the window overlooking the street. The warm tint from the Bob’s Car Wash sign made my room glow amber. Palm trees swayed in the breeze in front of the liquor store. My father parked the van that we called “La Toyota” in the driveway that night instead of our dirt lawn. I was thinking about what book I was going to read next when I heard a commotion coming from our driveway. Someone with a makeshift ski mask was picking the lock of La Toyota.
The van had been stolen several times, but I never saw it happen in real time. The door to my parent’s room was open. The spinning ballerina on top of my mother’s jewelry box played soft, whistling music. My father slept with four pillows underneath his head, so he looked like a hospital patient. His shoes were at the foot of the bed and he always kept a flashlight on the dresser in case some shit popped off. My mother was left with no pillows and her shoes were scattered throughout the room.
“Someone is stealing La Toyota!” I yelled, and hit their door with my fist. I knew better than to call the cops. The last time we called the cops was when someone broke into our house, they showed up the next day to file a report and they asked us if we were affiliated with any of the gang bangers in our neighborhood. After they filed the report, we never heard from them again. We didn’t even get an update about our case.
“Que?” My father’s eyes were bloodshot. The flowered blanket fell onto the ground as he threw on his shoes. He almost tripped on the way out—he was in such a hurry, he didn’t notice he put his shoes on the wrong feet.
My mother’s rollers hung loosely on her head as she fiddled with the lights. “This again? We need to beat the shit out of them so they learn their lesson.”
The closest shoes to her were her heels, so she threw those on. My father pounded on my Tio Victor’s door. They had a big ass fight last week about whose name the land in El Salvador should be under and my father swore he was never going to speak to Tio Victor again. Apparently, all that went out the window in a time of crisis.
Victor fell on a pile of dirty clothes from the sudden ruckus. “Get up, cabrón.”
My father was already out the door with a flashlight and a red shovel in hand. My mother grabbed a wet rag from the bathroom. Victor picked up a tree branch he found on the lawn, and I didn’t have anything but my bare hands. The porch light turned on and La Toyota was halfway on the road. I saw the guy inside the van, struggling. Genius hot-wired the van but didn’t know he needed a screwdriver to keep the engine running. My father threw himself onto the hood all dramatically. Lucky for us, hardly any cars were on the road. The lights from the Secretos Beauty salon glowed a bright red.
“Get out of my car! Get out of my car!” my father kept yelling. His body was plastered onto the hood like a bug. He pounded the flashlight against the hood. The man in the car tried to accelerate, but La Toyota didn’t speed up. It moved the speed of a baby’s toy car. My father almost slipped off. His feet were scraping the street. He was holding on so tight, he farted. His curly hair sprung everywhere. One of his shoes fell off.
The man’s face was covered in a ski mask. The window was cracked open and Victor inserted the tree branch to poke the man through the opening. My mother was hitting the door with the wet rag. I ran up to the car, the pebbles pinching my heels, and I realized I was shoeless. The van hit the curb and went halfway on top of the sidewalk by a telephone pole. The man in the car kept yelling, “Pinche putos! Give it up already!” He realized he was outnumbered. He looked behind him to check if the coast was clear and then opened the door. Victor, my mother, and I pulled it wide open when we got the opportunity. My father fell off the hood and crawled to the door. He pulled the man out. I jumped on top of the guy and clawed at his eyes. They were soft and reminded me of a boiled egg. Victor hit him with the tree branch, and my mother repeatedly hit him with her wet rag. She took one of her heels off and with the pointy end, smacked him all over his body. Chucho, our neighbor’s pitbull, barked and threatened to jump the chain link fence. An ambulance at the stoplight distracted us because we thought it was the cops, so the guy managed to get away. His pants were halfway down his ass, showing batman boxers. His ski mask was stretched so his face looked like a ghetto ghost.
“A la gran púchica!” Victor threw the branch towards the guy, who was halfway to the liquor store.
“Pinche cabrón!” My father picked up his shoe. He checked La Toyota for scratches or dents and drove it onto our lawn. We walked back to the driveway, bruised. We stood on the dirt in silence. The crickets were playing their music for us. The wind dried our sweat. My father shook Victor’s hand and I wondered if they ever hugged. The moon made their eyes glossy.
Victor lifted his hands to the sky. “We fucking did it.”
“Thank God, because Orlán almost shitted himself.” My mother doubled over laughing. We followed her lead, falling on the patchy dirt lawn.
Lindsay Quintanilla is a writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. Lindsay is currently working on her first novel. She’s been invited to participate in ZYZZYVA Workshops and The Breadloaf Writers’ Conference. Lindsay’s work has appeared in PALABRITAS. She holds an MFA from The University of San Francisco. She is currently living in Houston, Texas where she spends her days trying to perfect gluten free pastries and find the perfect walking trail.
Erica Svec lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.