#2

Going on a car ride when I was a little kid was always the most exciting thing. Often times, we rode the bus or walked anywhere we went because my mom didn't drive. Because my dad's job was driving a taxi, often times he wasn't home and if he was, he was either sleeping or drunk. When we did family things, it was often just my mom and us kids. 


When my oldest sister was finally able to buy a car, we had new-found freedom. She could drive to places we could never get to by bus and at different times since she wasn't bound by the SCAT schedule. A nighttime car ride was always a cause of excitement. 

I remember one particular evening, we went somewhere. It was already pretty late. The sun had already gone down, so I was in my pajamas. I don't recall where we were going. All I remember is that Silvia and my mom were in the front seat, and Jorge and I were in the back. This was before kids were supposed to be buckled into car seats, so we often rolled around in the back or sat on the floorboard of the car like we were escaping from somewhere and didn't want to be seen. 

Although I was around four and well past the age of being potty-trained, for some reason, I soiled myself. This was a runny number two accident. I remember being so embarrassed because the smell instantly announced to everyone what I had done and because my pajamas were white shorts, probably some hand-me-down from the people my mom cleaned for, that I had coveted because, to me, they were so fancy with their eyelet lace-like fabric. 

All the way home, my mom scolded me. "Chavala cochina! Porque no dijeste algo!" And as a bonus, Jorge got some scolding too, "Para que le dejaste que se hiciera! Tu porque no nos dijiste nada tampoco?!"

The truth was, Jorge didn't say anything because he didn't know. The need to use the restroom came on suddenly. Way too suddenly for me to say anything in time. 

Somehow, it became Jorge's fault and his responsibility to clean me up when we got home. My mom wouldn't let me set foot in the house in my state, so Jorge had to hose me down in the yard. I remember standing on the barren yard with occasional patches of grass, looking down at the ground as my brother hosed off my rear end. My mom must have brought out soap and new pajamas because I remember that after my backyard bath, Jorge stood at the washboard and large tin tub my mom used when our washer broke scrubbing poop out of my pajamas and underwear. 

It was a beautiful clear night that is customary in the El Paso desert. In my mind, I like to think that I apologized for having an accident. But in truth, I was probably too shy. What I do remember clearly was that in all that time, not once did my brother say a harsh or negative word to me. He worked dutifully and quietly as he made up for my accident.