Welcome to Tejas: Short Stories de Memoria

Welcome to Tejas

David F. Mendez

Published by Silent Flight Media, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

WELCOME TO TEJAS

First edition. February 28, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 David F. Mendez.

ISBN: 978-1736094525

Written by David F. Mendez.

Thank you God for my better half, Jennifer Mendez, and my kids, who always put up with the many chingaderas that pop into my head. It wouldn't be possible without all of their support and Love.

Silent Flight Media

2020

Welcome to Tejas

Short Stories de Memoria

David F. Mendez

Copyright © Feburary 5, 2021 by Silent Flight Media.

First Edition

Written and Illustrated by David F. Mendez

Edited by Jennifer Mendez

Published by Silent Flight Media

San Antonio, Texas

[email protected]

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020921782

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7360945-0-1

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7360945-2-5

All rights reserved. Published in the United States. No part of this book may be photocopied, reproduced, distributed electronically (or otherwise), stored in any retreval system, or transmitted in any way without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Thank you God for my better half, Jennifer Mendez, and my kids who always put up with the many chingaderas that pop into my head. It wouldn't be possible with out all of their support and Love.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors's imagination or are used fictituously. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental for the most part.

Contents

1. Welcome to Tejas

23. Mi Primo Martin

43. Saturday on Madero Street

63. Tino and La Otra

83. The Apartments Across Sonic

95. Learning Englis

107. Like Rambo

127. Las Tres Grandiosas

Welcome to Tejas

The day finally came, and the family was excited and nervous, you could feel it in the air. It had been several weeks that mi’apá had been waiting for that one phone call, he had been restless around the house. That morning though it was worse than usual. He didn’t eat his usual breakfast, but instead just got some coffee in his tan metal thermos with the red top. He didn’t care too much for the cup that came with it, instead just used one of the blue tin ones from the kitchen. It was October and even in Méjico, it gets cold.

He was wearing his usual work clothes and an old blue flannel shirt overtop that had the edges of the sleeves frayed, he went thru work clothes rather quickly as a welder. He and my Abuelo had a welding shop in the back of the yard, towards the end of the lot, past the little patch of corn and tomatoes Abuelo was growing. It was past the coop with the five chickens. We had a rooster once, but our dog Tuno, a black mut with a raggedy coat of fur, got a hold of it a while back. Abuelo said if it had been any other pinche perro, he would have shot it with his slingshot or the unloaded .22 he always carried by his side. The limp that Tuno walked around for about a week said otherwise. Thank God that his eyesight isn’t what it used to be, even if he doesn’t like to admit it.

They both had been busy that week delivering the last few orders of elaborate metal doors with all of the swirls on them, and the iron rod rockers like the one mi Abuelo sat on in the front porch of the house at night shooting rocks from his slingshot at stray cats and dogs.

Mi’apá was loading the last door while Abuelo was picking a few tomatoes to make fresh salsa for the day when the phone rang inside the house. Mi’amá was washing dishes and putting things up from breakfast. She answered the phone and immediately called out for mi’apá to come back in and get it, it was the call he was waiting for. o sounded a bit excited as he wrote down some information on a piece of paper, by then Abuelo had made it back in with his hands full of little ripe red tomatoes. When he hung up, mi’apá had an audience of three waiting to see what the news was. He explained he had to go get some stuff from Chepo before we could go to los Estados. Abuelo placed the tomatoes down on the table and went back out to the welding shop with out saying anything.

That day was also the last time the burners came on in the shop, and the last time you would hear the loud ping of hammers hitting raw metal coming from it. A year or two later, my grandfather would sell most of the raw material and leave the rest to rust as he didn’t have much strength in his hands for that kind of work. The truth is after we left, he didn’t have much ganas for anything really.

Mi’amá left shortly after mi’apá to go to the tiendita and buy enough groceries for the house so mi Abuelo wouldn’t have to worry. She also talked to tía Patty, she wasn’t really my tía but had lived next to us for as long as I knew, besides mi’amá always told me to call her Tía so I guess it was okay. Mi’amá asked her to make sure that my Abuelo ate, si no he wouldn’t and well that would worry mi’amá. She also left some money and told her if she needed anything to call my tío Ramon, who was her older brother. He lived a few blocks from us, but for the most part was always busy since he was always taking care of his business, which happened to be a chop shop of sorts. He and mis primos would bring in cars, some working and others wrecked from el otro lado, fix them up like new and resell them.

He was the oldest son on her side of the family, so it was tío Ramon’s duty to take care of any emergencies until we got settled in the States. Tío Ramon was my actual tío, unlike tía Patty, but either way I didn’t really care.

I spent the rest of the day with my cousin Socorio, everyone called her YoYo which was her name just shortened. Her little brother Hermin called her that, since he still couldn’t pronounce her name correctly and well it just stuck. She was tía Patty’s only daughter, a year or two older than me, had light brown curly hair always messy and hazel eyes. We would pick on each other that we were both adopted since she had different colored eyes, and I was the whitest Mexican she knew. It turns out neither was, we just got lucky or unlucky depending on who you ask.

Most of the time, we played house, and when you are five, everything seems innocent and joyful. As adults, we have talked a few times about the many times we played together, and an awkward silence always follows those conversations.

For dinner, mi’amá made the white rice atole with Leche Pet, and two cinnamon sticks that Abuelo liked so much. For us, she made some refried beans and carne asada con chile y cebolla. It seemed she cooked twice as much, but she took the extras to make tacos, wrapped them in foil, and put them in a paper bag. I asked her why, she stopped, smiled at me and said it was for the trip. She also had some sodas and chips she’d bought earlier and put it all together.

I hadn’t noticed mi’apá was outside in front of the house loading stuff into the yellow station wagon with the wood looking panel on the side of it when mi’amá asked me to go help him out. Al fin, pinche huerco perdido que no se te hizo para ayudar, INÚTIL! He yelled some more, and I helped finish loading what he had out there. After that, he told me to go get the rest of the luggage from inside and ask mi’amá if that was it so he could close the station wagon and we could get going since it was late.

Mi’amá was in the room, closing the last maleta when I came back in. She looked at me, gave me a big hug while whispering to me not to let his anger get me down; we would be starting a new life soon. I smiled