The Repo Man

Lift with your knees, Cenicienta (Cinderella).

"I am lifting, Sofía."

I grunted, heaving a box of A4 paper onto the top shelf.

We were "working." Since I couldn't pay rent, and Tony was currently dismantling a toaster in the corner ("I can fix this, Yulissa, I swear, it's just a fuse"), I insisted on earning my keep.

Sofía was at the computer, designing a funeral program.

"Make the doves bigger," the client, an elderly woman in black, was saying. "He liked birds."

"If I make them bigger, they will cover his face, Doña," Sofía said patiently.

"He had a big nose anyway," the woman shrugged. "Cover it."

I hid a smile and went to grab another box.

My phone—the burner Tony had given me—buzzed on the counter.

I wiped the dust off my hands and picked it up.

It was an email notification forwarded from my main account (which Tony had managed to mirror before Cata changed the passwords).

I froze.

I opened the email. It was from the leasing company in New Jersey.

Dear Mr. DeLuca,

Due to a default in payment authorization and a direct request from the primary account holder (Catalina Sterling), we are initiating the repossession of the 1978 Porsche 911 Turbo.

Vehicle location: Private Garage, Newark.

Status: Tow Dispatch En Route.

I stared at the screen.

The noise of the shop faded. The elderly woman arguing about doves, the clack-clack of the printer, Tony cursing at the toaster—it all went silent.

The Porsche.

My dad's dream car. He had bought it a month before the accident. He never got to drive it. I had kept it under a tarp for ten years. It was the only thing I had left of them. The only thing that wasn't Sterling-DeLuca.

And she was taking it.

"Max?"

Sofía’s voice cut through the fog.

She was standing next to me. The client had left.

"You are pale," she said. "Did you eat something bad? Don Ramón’s cheese is questionable."

I handed her the phone without a word.

She read the email. Her eyes narrowed.

"That bruja," she hissed. "She is doing this to hurt you. She knows you can't stop it from here."

"It's just a car," I said. My voice sounded hollow. "It’s just metal. Rubber. Leather."

"Max," Sofía said warningly.

"I didn't even drive it," I laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. "I was too scared. I kept it in a garage like a... like a mausoleum. I paid five hundred dollars a month just to keep the air in the tires."

I leaned back against the shelves, sliding down until I hit the floor. I put my head in my hands.

"I failed them, Sofía. My parents. I sold the firm to Cata to save the legacy, and now the firm is a fraud. I kept the car to save the memory, and now it's being towed by some guy named Sal."

I felt her sit down next to me.

She didn't hug me. She didn't say "it will be okay."

"My father," she said softly, looking at the ink-stained floor. "He left me this shop. And he left me the Heidelberg Press in the back. The big German one."

"The one that’s always broken?"

"Yes. That one. For three years, I spent every peso I made fixing it. I didn't buy clothes. I didn't go out. I fixed the Heidelberg. Because I thought if the machine worked, then he wasn't really gone."

She turned to me. Her eyes were dark and fierce.

"But the machine is just a machine, Max. And the car is just a car. They are not the people we lost. They are just the things they left behind to weigh us down."

"It feels like I'm erasing them," I whispered.

"No," she said. "You are letting them go. There is a difference."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled object.

It was a key.

"This is the key to the shop truck," she said. "It is a 2005 Toyota. The air conditioning screams like a dying cat. The suspension is non-existent. And it smells like old paper."

She pressed the key into my hand.

"If you need to drive something, drive this. It runs. It works. It is real."

I looked at the Toyota key. It was ugly. It was taped together.

I looked at Sofía.

"You're offering me your truck?"

"I'm offering you a ride to the beach," she said. "Tony fixed the toaster. We are going to Boca Chica. You need salt water, Max. You need to wash the Jersey off."

"I can't pay for gas," I reminded her.

"I know," she smiled, standing up and pulling me with her. "That's why you are driving. I am the Jefa. I relax."

I stood up. The grief for the Porsche was still there, a dull ache in my chest. But it felt lighter.

"Okay," I said, squeezing the Toyota key. "Let's go to the beach."

"Tony! Yulissa!" Sofía yelled. "Close the shop! We are going on a corporate retreat!"

"Does that mean beer?" Tony yelled from the back.

"Cheap beer!" Sofía shouted back.

I laughed.

It was the first time I had laughed since the Gala.

I followed her out to the rusty white pickup truck parked on the curb.

It wasn't a Porsche. But as I climbed into the driver's seat and cranked the engine—which roared to life with a rattle that shook my teeth—I realized something.

For ten years, I had been parked.

Now, finally, I was driving.