The Greatest Fears Come From Beneath

All on a school day.

   I rolled as far to the right of the road as I could, and a tree hit me in the side. I groaned and watched my dad drive off, the passenger door still open. I stayed where I was. The two cars rushed past, apparently oblivious to me laying on the ground. When the cars were gone, I got up, and went to get my crown. It had flown off when I jumped out of the car. I brushed it off, put it back on, and walked over to the road. No cars. I sighed and sat down at the side. And waited.

   For hours I sat there and worried about my dad, then I worried about what we would do even if he was fine. We still would have to hide from these terrorist guys. I was amazed at how accepting I was about my dad's story, this whole terrorist organization stuff should have sounded impossible, but I believed the whole thing.

   Sitting on the side of the road helped me remember several things over my life. I could vaguely remember that my mom was crying as she walked out the door, I remembered my dad coming home after so long gone, and he sadly hugged me tightly. I also remembered I never got the phone charger.

   I almost hit myself.  My dad was in a life and death situation, and I was sitting on my ass wishing I hadn't forgotten about the phone charger. I stood up, and remembered yet again I couldn't do anything. I was about to sit down again, but then my brain changed my way of thinking into a f*** it mentality, and I started walking the way my dad and those other cars went.
  ......................................................................

   I walked for about an hour and a half dragging my loose portion of the front of my shoes against the pavement, trying to wear the rubber off as I walked. Every so often a car would slow down to help, but I didn't know what to tell them, or even trust them enough to tell them anything anyway. This was before I heard a familiar voice come from a pickup truck.

   "Regé?"

   Jesus! I turned and saw his curious face sticking out from the passenger window and waving at me. I tried my best to remember any Spanish that might help at all, and walked up to the truck.

   "Jesus, necesito ayudar mi please. Es very importante."

   He laughed and asked his mother something. She said something back, and they talked for about five minutes about something funny while I stood there wondering what the hell was going on. Eventually he turned to me. He paused thoughtfully.

   "Mmmm, yeas. We happy help tú. Get... the car...?"

   I wondered if that's how I sounded to him in Spanish, but I put that aside and got in the back seat. His mother turned and smiled, acted like she was about to say something. After a moment she gave up, turned around, and off we went down the road.

   "What do help with Regé?"

   "Mi padre en mucho peligroso. Personas muy malo quieren matar mi padre."

   Jesus was as surprised about my comprehensive Spanish as I was. Then he started rattling off Spanish back to me, thinking I might be fluent all of a sudden. I shook my head.

   "No comprendo español rapido."

   He rolled his eyes, "Where dad go?"

   "No se."

   We went down the road, both of us speaking bad English and Spanish, doing our best to say what was so easy to say in our own language. I tried to tell him what happened before he saw me. I wasn't sure whether or not he understood, but he nodded every time. Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to his house. I was a bit nervous, yet relieved because I didn't see any signs of a car crash on the way. That could mean my dad might have gotten away, or these terrorists guys got him already, hours ago. We got out of the car and I took my first look at Jesus' house. It looked like heaven, but remember I haven't lived in a house in many years.

   We walked inside and Jesus completely ditched any effort to tell me in English where I could stay. He pointed to a couch and made a sleep action with his hands against the side of his face. I thanked him saying, "Por  favor. ", then "Gracias.", after I saw his expression and realized what I had originally said.

   He motioned me to the bathroom and made a showering motion. I put my hands together and bent to show thanks a different way. He was more understanding of that and went down the hall. I closed the bathroom door.

   This looked wonderful, I was astonished that there was no stink in the bathroom, since I was so accustomed to it in public bathrooms. Excitedly I pulled off my clothes and jumped into the shower, and enjoyed the hot water pouring on my face.

........................................................................

   I was drying myself off when Jesus knocked on the door. He said, "Tengo ropas por tu." I didn't know what that meant, so I put my clothes back on and opened the door. He recoiled and thrust some clothes at me. "Otro ropas, otro ropas!" He pointed at the clothes he had practically thrown at me, "Ropas!"

    I pointed to them as well, "Clothes."

   He nodded, "Clothes. You clothes."

   I grinned, "Ropas, mi ropas." I backed into the bathroom and closed the door. The clothes were a little big, but they were really soft and clean, I usually wash my clothes in the sink with soap, then let them dry overnight while I wear other clothes, so having these nice smelling, "ropas", was a wonderful experience. I stepped outside the bathroom and walked towards the kitchen. His mother was in there, getting dinner ready.

   I went up to her, "Gracias, señora." She turned and smiled, feeling confident, she replied, "Yes." I smiled, wanting her to think she nailed it, then picked up a dish towel to help dry off dishes that had been washed. She slapped my hand. I looked at her. She shook her head, then looked at the other end of the house.

   "Jesuuuuus?"

   He came into the kitchen. They went back and forth speaking so fast I couldn't understand some of the vocabulary, or keep up with what words they were using. Jesus said something apologetically then looked at me.

   "Regé," He pointed at me. "Guest, do no shit." He smiled and picked up the dish towel. I almost laughed, but didn't want him to feel bad. The first week of that school year, one kid in class convinced Jesus that the word things, or stuff, in English, was shit. Ever since then, Jesus uses that word quite a lot, since he likes the way it sounds.

   I sat at the counter and watched mother and son wash dishes together talking almost like friends. It made me kind of miss my mom. I got up and looked out the window, as if my mom would be out there. Then I thought of my dad, what he might be doing, where he even might be buried, or burned, or shot, or-

   I pushed those thoughts out of my head. Tomorrow I will need to come up with a plan to find my dad, or my mom. Or even better, both. But that wasn't going to happen at all tonight, so I enjoyed getting to know my only real friend, Jesus.

   Tomorrow, "shit" needs to be done.