A So-Called Vacation
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Authors: Genaro González
A SO-CALLED VACATION
Genaro González
Dedication
Para mi padre y para mi padrastro (q.e.p.d.)
To my father and to my stepfather (R.I.P.)
Genaro González
A So-Called Vacation
is funded in part by grants from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance and by the Exemplar Program, a program for Americans for the Arts in collaboration with the LarsonAllen Public Services Group, funded by the Ford Foundation.
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Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004
Cover design by Mora Des!gn
González, Genaro, 1949-
A So-Called Vacation / by Genaro González.
    p. cm.
Summary: When their father insists that they lack “life experiences,” teenaged brothers Gabriel and Gustavo reluctantly agree to a family vacation in a California migrant camp, where the boys pick crops and learn about immigrant labor and prejudice within the Hispanic community. ISBN 978-1-55885-545-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)
[1. Migrant laborâFiction. 2. Agricultural laborersâFiction. 3. Family lifeâCaliforniaâFiction. 4. FathersâFiction. 5. VacationsâFiction. 6. Mexican AmericansâFiction. 7. CaliforniaâFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G5888So 2009
[Fic]âdc22 | 2009003479 |
 | CIP |
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesâPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
© 2009 by Genaro González
Printed in the United States of America
9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
1
H
igh school was not yet over for the year, but Gabriel was already chalking it up as the summer of their father's folly. For weeks his dad had been hinting that they should follow the local migrant families for farmwork in California. The fact that his three teenaged children had never set foot in a produce field did not deter him. If anything, he viewed it as an unfortunate gap in his children's life experiences.
The notion turned more tangible just days before classes ended. Gabriel was with his father at an auto parts store when they bumped into a customer from the garage where his father worked. Gabriel assumed they were not close since they eyed one another for a moment, then their greeting had the exaggerated enthusiasm of acquaintances running into each other in a place they never expected. The man knew almost no English and had been wandering around in search of an emergency road kit.
Gabriel disappeared but returned almost at once and handed him one. The man removed his hat to show he was grateful, then he extended his hand. When the man introduced himself, Gabriel's father listened carefully, then he turned the first name to a plausible nickname and called him that until they left the store.
As the man accompanied them to the parking lot he mentioned that his family was leaving for the West Coast
that very evening and that he preferred driving in the cool of night.
“Not that my truck's air conditioner can't handle the heat.” He pointed to a gleaming behemoth that barely fit in its parking space. Its chrome grill reminded Gabriel of the man's upper gold bridge, and the truck's customized, cast-iron bumper, that Mexicans called a
mata burros
, made Gabriel wonder how the man might look wearing braces.
His father could not help but examine the truck up close. “I don't remember you ever bringing this in for us to work on. In fact, we haven't seen you in quite a while.”
“Nothing on you guys at the shop, but it's still under warranty. I take it straight to the dealer.”
Gabriel's father looked at the truck with a mixture of admiration and envy. “I'll bet it's got more horsepower than a downtown parade.”
When the man draped his ropy arm over the massive hood as though posing for a snapshot, Gabriel concluded that he appeared out of his element. With a wide-brimmed hat that could not completely erase a permanent sun-squint, he would be more at home in a Mexican village, driving a team of oxen.
The man cradled the road kit carton. “It's a long ways to the fields of Fresno, and I've seen brand-new trucks stranded on the highway.” He stuck out his hand. “Anyway, I've already spent too much time in this Texas heat, and time is money.”
Gabriel's father, still admiring the truck, was in no hurry to end the conversation. “You've been going there how long now?”
“Going on six years. Remember my first old pickup? I thought the camper shell would peel off the second I hit sixty.”
Gabriel's father nodded. “The guys at the shop had to patch up your transmission just to get you there.”
The man's laugh had the timbre of someone raised in wide-open spaces. “On the way back I just prayed it would all be downhill! I tell you, I could have used your skills back there.”
“I don't remember us ever recharging your Freon, though.”
“I didn't
have
air! But now I just crank up the unit to âHurricane.'” The man shook his head, either wondering how he could have managed without air conditioning or else incredulous that he was already living the American Dream. “I'm already thinking of trading it in for a new one this fall. God willing, of course.” He silently made the sign of the cross. “We'll be getting back just as the new models are coming out.”
“So we won't see you at the shop from now on. You'll be covered bumper to bumper.”
“Don't worry. My older kids plan to get used cars. They're cheaper in California and better than the junk they sell here.”
Gabriel thought he saw him glance in the direction of their van as he offered a final handshake. His father shook his head as he watched him leave, amazed at the man's good fortune. “It seems like yesterday that the guy swam across the river,” he muttered. “Look at him now. And look at us.”
“At least we're not wearing orange polyester slacks, Dad.”
“We aren't driving an expensive, tricked-out truck either.” He made sure the man had left the parking lot before he got into their van. “We were born here, and we're barely treading water.”
“Maybe he has a large family.”
“So? All the more mouths to feed.”
“And all the more hands for fieldwork. That's why he's doing okay.”
“More than okay.” As he touched the hot dashboard and steering wheel he repeated the man's words: “âGoing on six years.' That's how long we've had this piece of junk. And we bought it already used.”
“Our van's not that bad.” Gabriel tapped the plastic cover on the odometer. “Only two thousand miles.” Rather than ease the creases on his father's forehead, the humor only tightened the lines.
“At least an odometer starts over.”
“So can people, Dad. And we don't have to wait for the numbers to turn.”
No sooner had Gabriel said this than he realized the remark would only harden his father's resolve to see the California trip through.
Fortunately the matter did not resurface until the last day of school. As Gabriel took his place at the table that morning, his father was already making a pitch to Gus, his older son and the most obstinate.
Gabriel tried his best to stay neutral, but for that very reason each sought his support. In truth, he agreed with his father that they were not doing that well. Looking around the kitchen that doubled as a dining room, it was obvious that the house had seen better times. For instance, although the roof leak had been repaired last year, the water stains on the ceiling were reminders that any cosmetic fix-ups had been put on hold.
It was the same story throughout the house. His father had bought it from an elderly Anglo couple the year Paula was born, when the boys were barely three and five. The neighborhood had once been an Anglo enclave, but by the time they moved in it was already
home to Latino families determined to better their lot but ill-equipped to make good on the dream.
In order to close the deal on the house, his father had assured the woman that he would maintain the large and lush garden, but through the years the commitment had eroded into weeds and bare spots, so that now the only flowers that bloomed were the ones that Paula planted and tended. His father had no shortage of excuses for his failure. He blamed the weather, for one, both the increasingly hot summers and the decreasingly benign winters. He also pointed out how the previous owners, retired and without children in the house, had the luxury to keep up a garden. He gave similar rationalizations for the cracked patio door, the dry rot in the fascia boards, and all the other pending repairs.
So when he argued, as he was doing now, that they could use extra income for home improvements, Gabriel saw his point yet questioned whether they were as bad off as his dad said. The school bus route through hard-core
colonias
and dilapidated barrios always put their own shortcomings in sobering perspective. And, contrary to his father's portrayal, the migrant workers living in those homes were not exactly rolling in clover.
“Those migrants have it made,” he was telling his older son. “Just the other day Gabi and I bumped into one of them as he boarded his three-bedroom truck. Besides, if we did go up north I'd hardly work in the fields. Fixing their cars and trucks, that's where the real money is.”
