Walk the Line

“I need to go get some cigarettes at the gas station. Would you mind us taking your car, mami?”

It seemed like an odd request, until I remembered how overly apologetic he was about the dank weed smell in the Infinity. Even in the apartment he’d smoked only on the patio the first times I came over, always apologizing, never wanting me to be affected by his vices even though I made it clear that I didn’t mind.

He eased back in the seat as I pulled through the gate, running his hands over his jeans anxiously. “So this guy that hit my bumper,” he began, “we found out after the fact that his insurance was phony.”

“Are you serious?” I huffed, “That’s why he was trying to go a roundabout way and get it fixed.”

“Exactly, but he ain’t acting straight. I haven’t heard back about his associate fixing my bumper, so I basically have two options. One, I report him for hitting me with fake insurance and he goes to jail. Or two, I do it the Puerto Rican way, which is the only way I know how.”

He’d never fully indulged me on what the Puerto Rican way was, and I was afraid to ask. He chimed up again, “I wouldn’t even have to do anything. I know where he lives, I saw it on the card. I saw him. I saw his wife. I know what they look like. I’ve already made some calls in case I need to do something about it.”

Made some calls? Were there some cousins running a local Puerto Rican street gang that I didn’t know about? Apparently close enough to help him out if he should have to call in a favor? Why was this favor such a grey area? I was speechless, shaking my head as I pulled into the gas station mustering a meager, “You’re crazy.”

We walked beneath the streetlight, pushing the door open with a tiny ring as we entered the shop, our conversation coming to a halt. He asked for cigarettes at the window, the clerk quite familiar with his routine as she passed them under the glass. I stood close beside him at the register with my thumb hanging onto his belt loop, eyeing the candy and other flavorful oddities next to the counter. “You want something, mami?” I shook my head. “Are you sure?” he beckoned again. To satisfy him, I reiterated, “Thank you baby, I’m good,” leaning into his side and watching him pay. He didn’t have money to blow, especially after this week, but he always asked and I always politely refused. He thanked the clerk and we returned to the car.

I eyed him over, twisting the key in the ignition and pulling out into the street. “It ain’t all that, mami,” he said, “You act like I’m going to go all Scarface or something.” I chuckled, “Well, that’s what you make it seem.” He smirked, “No no. Just a little intimidation, you see? It’s an art. I don’t want to be the bad guy, I don’t want him to go to jail. Just shake him up a bit so he knows I’m serious and he needs to do right.”

I never, in my wildest dreams, would have thought this would be my life. There was a reason I felt so safe around him. I was in love with a man who had looked death in the eye, time after time, and taunted it. He knew things that I could never imagine and in fight or flight I trusted him with everything I had. My only question was, what would happen to me if I crossed that line? Would I eventually be something that needed to be taken care of if I stepped too far?

His dad’s number lit up the screen in his lap. The Godfather. I was starting to think maybe it wasn’t just a cute nickname in his cell phone. He answered and I made a halfway attempt to listen in. I knew more Spanish than I let on, picking out the old man asking what his son was up to, and him replying that he was hanging with, “Mi amorita.” I tried not to look stunned. The Godfather knew about me. Part of me was immensely flattered, and the other part realized that I had suddenly had a straight line to walk. 

Photo Credit: Moses Vega