Page 5 of Big Britches

Miguel was there already, loading his truck and refilling his gas containers.

“Hola! Buenos días,” he said.

“Good morning, Miguel. It’s gonna be another hot one.”

“Siempre, no? Caliente como una perra en celo!”

“You’re in the States, remember? And that’s an English idiom you’re using. Yet you choose to speak Spanish. Why is that?”

Miguel grinned. He lifted his hand to Pedro’s shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. “Because, my friend. Even though we’re living the American dream–” He tilted his head, eyes lifting. “–I miss home. Speaking Spanish with you comforts me. Reminds me that one day I will return.”

Pedro scoffed. “Really? You want to go back to Mexico?”

“Fuck yeah. I miss it, don’t you? Besides, shit’s expensive here.”

“No. I like it here. I don’t care if I ever go back.”

“What about your family?”

“I miss mi madre.” Pedro’s eyes drifted briefly, before returning to Miguel’s. “Badly. But I’m going to bring her here when I can.”

“What if she doesn’t want to come?”

“Oh, she does. She will. The minute I get citizenship, she’ll come. We’ve already planned it. She wants to start a new life here, too, like me.”

“I do like the women here.” Miguel leered with bouncing eyebrows. “Especially the blondes with big titties and sweet voices.”

Pedro shook his head, chortling softly.

“Oh, yeah.” Miguel continued with his playful prodding, inching closer to Pedro and lowering his voice. “I keep forgetting. Tu verga don’t point that way. You prefer los hombres de Georgia… You like those big, swinging schlongs, don’tcha?”

Pedro half-snorted, half-gasped, pushing Miguel away. “I don’t have time for any of that now. One day, maybe, when I’m here permanently.”

“That’s your mistake, Pedro. Booty calls happen. You gotta get it while you can. Me? I always make time to eat at the Y. I’m a panty-hamster man, myself. But I’m cool with you riding the baloney pony. More women for me.”

“You certainly know enough crude slang for someone just visiting.”

“I do my best, teacher.” Miquel capped his last gas can and placed it on the bed of his truck.

“And those sweet voices you’re alluding to are called accents–southern accents.”

“I know that. But what the fuck is an id—idio?”

“Idiom. It’s an expression only used in a particular language. Doesn’t translate to others.”

Miguel’s brow furrowed. He opened the door, got into his truck, and cranked the engine. Before he put the vehicle into gear, he leaned out the window with a befuddled smile. “I still don’t get it.”

“Like right now,” Pedro said. “You’re trying to wrap your head around what I said. Trying to understand what I’m telling you about idiomatic expressions. If you translate the phrase—wrap your head around—to Spanish, people wouldn’t understand. They would take it literally and question how the hell you would wrap your head around something.”

Miguel grinned, his eyes lighting up. “Ah. I see now. You mean I better stop beating around the bush and get my ass in gear before it's time to call it a day?”

“You’re a lot smarter than you let on, my friend.”

“It’s a means of survival here, no? And you, mi maestro, should–if you’ll pardon my crude slang–get laid. You’re too uptight. Life is short.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Miguel put the truck in reverse, checked his mirror, and began rolling out. “Bossman’s coming. Stay cool out there.”