Fiction—That Chevy Impala

I will never forget it. Blue as the Kelley Blue Book, a proud white belt, dual headlights like plates on display and squinting tailights. It made salesmen use the word "aerodynamic" and "chrome" and its interior looked like the cockpit of a rich man's bush plane. We (the neighborhood chavos) would touch its windows with our faces when its owner, El Polo, wasn't looking. I told Nana someday I would own that car, that very car, and she tsked me: "No Mexican wants you driving around in an Impala." That's when I noticed that my neighbors' collected dirty cars like empty beer cans.

Something happened, or maybe he sensed bad thoughts. A FOR SALE sign appeared in the windshield. Days later, someone keyed the car. I still remember El Polo touching the scars gently. "You don't see Mexicans in those," Nana said, shaking her head, and now I knew why.