He is young. He is wearing a red shirt. A cap. He drives a Ford pickup that has seen better days. The roof is rusted, the wheel bearings are in bad shape.
The kid is on lunch break, parked in a grocery-store parking lot. He is eating bananas because fruit is cheap and he has a light wallet.
His windows are rolled down. He’s only got ten minutes before he’s expected back at a jobsite, to hang gutter on a three-story house.
It’s god-awful work. He’s not afraid of heights, but he certainly doesn’t love nine-hundred-foot ladders.
The kid finishes eating. He tosses a banana peel into his flatbed. He tries to start his truck. It makes a coughing noise. He tries again. The truck sputters. The kid cusses.
The old Ford has crossed the river.
These are the days before cellphones ruled the world, there’s no way to call the kid’s boss. His boss is already at work, probably glancing at his wristwatch.
The kid sits, wondering what happens after he gets fired.
He could always join the circus and clean up after the elephants.
Across the parking lot: a man. He’s short. Gray hair. He asks if the kid is having engine trouble. The kid hardly understands him beneath his thick Mexican accent.
The man pops the hood. He leans inward. He tells the kid, “Try it now!”
The kid turns the key.
The gray-haired man winks. “I know what is thee problem,” he says. “We can buy part in town. Come. We take my car.”
“I can’t,” the kid says. “I’m supposed to be at work.”
“Work?
The man understands this word.
They pile into the man’s Honda, which looks like it’s rusting apart. The…