Pachuca Soul

Pachucha Soul

She was a Ritchie Valens, oldies-loving, old soul. A pachuca born on the same day as the legend himself, decades apart, and with that extra pride in her lungs she wandered around, singing his songs like prayers to those willing to listen. The willingness to see any guardian angel. 

It was a little outdated, that term. She also wasn’t that old compared to the others. She didn’t come from anywhere in the distant sky or the moon, or any star. She had always been there. She was just around to keep an eye on things, and she would fuck anyone up who asked where her wings were. Those were private. 

It was a late night at the small burger shop. She sat in the parking lot, mindlessly strumming her guitar, among the punks and emos who were more into the Ramones, Green Day, and Paramore- and she did like Joey and Billy and Hayley. They too frequented her iPod she stole from a Walmart once. But she had a greater love that echoed through her ears like chambered hymns. And she was good at using it for the job she had. 

She dusted burger crumbs off the white suit she always wore, a worn Clash t-shirt underneath. It kept her from coming off as pretentious. The skaters all said she looked cool, but she wasn’t there to make this night about her. She was there on business to save a soul. 

The dining room behind her was packed with high schoolers from next door. It was so full, the crowds spilled out onto the sidewalk outside where soccer and baseball players inhaled their meals, still wearing sweat-soaked jerseys sprawled across the concrete. Theatre and band kids gossiped on the curb; the punks and emo kids skated in the empty parking lot without a care. Everyone knew to park their cars around the corner if they valued their paint jobs. 

She spotted him through the propped open door. Santos split his time between running the register and doing kickflips outside until the next food order. They all levitated in the air like angels themselves for a few brief moments. The closer she watched, the more he looked just like his dad: thick brown hair, a moustache that came in thin, a small slouch that came with a slight hint of shyness.  

It had been a few decades since the last visit to the restaurant. Santos’s dad and mother were young, newly married and not yet pregnant with Santos. Their little restaurant was about to open, Mexican comfort food, burgers, hotdogs. All the things they through would draw in the people of their small part of town. From a distance, the angel played her guitar while glancing through the window. Santos’s mother lifted her first spoonful of pozole, and the sun hit her face. She looked like she saw God at the swallow. His father cried tears of joy that day. 

When the angel saw Santos’s tears the night before, they were of insecurity. He had just kissed a boy for the first time and liked it; a new full feeling. In the years the angel watched this family, his father only talked to him about which girls he was dating and who would he eventually take to homecomings and prom. 

The boy that was kissed was one of the theatre boys across the lot. He watched Santos glide over ramps and milkcrates with ease. Santos looked back with blush on his cheeks until he shifted his eyes around at his friends, unsure of how to feel, unsure how they felt if they noticed him. His discomfort was apparent. So much uncertainty at this point of life, so much for a body to handle at once. 

The angel strummed her guitar. 

To everyone in the parking lot she was just a student from one of the other high schools. Nothing out of the ordinary. The melody rang as she crooned about eternities. Everyone saw warm in each other’s company. 

The strings hummed a little louder. 

Santos slid across the asphalt like ice. Every time he glanced over at the boy, he got a little lighter. The rest of the skaters formed a line behind him, becoming a circle. Santos kicked the ground hard towards the ramp and lifted off. He didn’t come down, then the next skater, and the next one, and the one after that. They all hovered above the ground as the music played. No one pulled out phones or cameras, there was only a moment in bliss. Confusion melted into youthful joy, of being lighter than air. 

She looked up at Santos. He cried just how his father did.