don't wanna rush | oscar diaz

pega la vuelta

Oscar's not dumb enough to think the two of them were going to be perfect forever, but he was kind of hoping.

He gets arrested on a Tuesday. It's fucking embarrassing—trips over his own feet trying to dodge some dudes from 19th Street, practically falls into an officer's lap. He hits the hood of the squad car with zero grace, ends up patted down and he's got coke on him, of course.

"Don't worry, kid," the guy says. Oscar fumes in the backseat, his arms behind him and his face stinging from where he hit the ground after rolling off the car, "you're not even in our database. First time arrested?"

Oscar says nothing. Did the whole I'm using my right to remain silent spiel all the kids on the block know to cough up. The guy laughs.

"He's got a tear on his face," his partner says, and doesn't seem too pleased when the guy shrugs.

"That's Freeridge," he says, and then they're booking him and he has to decide who to call. His mom's at work, first of all, and probably won't front the cash he needs. He's not about to make his tía cry, and his boys...well. He's got one real option, is the thing.

Cuchillos shakes his head at him like a disappointed father when he shows up. Oscar wonders if just staying locked up was a better idea. He asks him if he's alright, and then when he's going to get his money back.

"Soon," he says, "Before court."

Cuchillos laughs. His hand is heavy on Oscar's shoulder. "No sabes como es, mijo. Show up whenever they ask you and I won't have to deal with you or your ma. Como está?"

"Fine," Oscar says, pretending he didn't hear the threat. "She's good."

"Good," he says, and then takes Oscar's sorry ass home, where he sits next to Cesar on the couch and holds him close for as long as he'll let him.

He knows he's being shifty when Claudia asks where he's been all week. He picks her up after she's gotten home from work on Friday, shrugs when she asks what's up.

"I got arrested."

"What?" She's staring at him. He can feel it, but he keeps his eyes on the road as they pull away from the curb. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, "I got court but. Yeah."

"Christ," she says, "pues. What now?"

"Whatchu mean?"

"Well...you got court," she says, "whatchu gonna do?"

He glances at her. "Go to court...? What else?"

"No," she says, slowly, "with...sabés, with the Santos."

His head swivels towards her, back to the road. "I don't get you."

"Shouldn't you be on the downlow?" she says, and there's something about her tone he doesn't like. "You in the database, now."

"So what?" he says, notices how she twitches when he says so. "It was gonna happen anyway."

"What, so it don't matter?"

"It doesn't."

"What?"

It doesn't get any better from there. Oscar doesn't like being told he doesn't think, though, doesn't like the suggestion that he's out of his depth or doesn't know what this life is all about. Snaps, his fingers clenched on the steering wheel,  "Don't talk to me like that. You don't know nothing 'bout what I do," because it's true. She's not living it like he is.

"You think I don't?" The light turns red. Oscar feels like everything is about to disintegrate, barely tethered to Earth as is. "You think I'm stupid? Like my dad wasn't doing the same shit before they deported him?"