Written By Brad Harness
Arriving at the store manager’s garage at 6pm - as the friendly fellow had instructed - Frankie Valera was greeted with a handshake and a smile.
“You come in and have supper with me an my wife Conchita.”
Frankie didn’t know what to say. “I…I…would be…delighted!”
The manager, whose name was Bob, pulled open the garage side door and showed Frankie the dry, warm space. There was an oval rug on the cement floor, an old couch that was extra long, a television set, and a lamp and table.
“I’ll give you a pillow and a few blankets and you’ll be all set!” he smiled, something he did often.
Then he motioned to another door into the house and said, “We better get inside or Conchita will be annoyed that her marvellous Mexican cooking is getting cold.”
The house was not new, yet not old, and it had all the things one would expect. Like my house had, thought Frankie. My ex-house.
“Honey, this is a new friend of mine…umm, I forgot your name…!”
Frankie grinned and replied, “Hi! I’m Jordan Smith.”
“Buenas Noches,” Conchita said with a Spanish accent. “You are…new in town, I understand from Bob?”
“Yes, yes, I am. I drove here from Calver City after losing my job. I thought I’d find work here, and need to look for a new place to live, also.”
Conchita was used to transients, with so many from south of the Rio Grande entering the United States. Usually they were Latino, but, why not a gringo?, she thought.
“Sit, any help yourself,” she smiled, motioning to the dining table with a large selection of enchilladas, quesadillas, and empanadas.
Bottles of Corona beer were passed around and they gave a toast. “New friends!” they all said before tucking into the delicious meal. They talked into the wee hours before turning in. Bob said ‘Good Night’ as he handed him the blankets and pillow. “Good night, Jordan.”
Frankie’s guilt grew throughout a restless night. What should have been a good sleep after a great meal was instead plenty of tossing and turning as Frankie relived his latest lies. The next day Bob rapped gently on the door, and - hearing no reply - entered the garage.
“What the…?”
Jordan Smith (a.k.a. Frankie Valera) had left before sunrise.
NEXT WEEK: PART 5
