“Ain’t your name Cruz,” the vato’s cousin asked.
“Simón,” the vato said.
“Pos then why does your license here say Chris?” his primo pressed on.
They had just stopped at the Border Patrol checkpoint, where the vato had passed his driver’s license to his cousin, who was driving, to show the guard.
“Cuz I’m Chris, too,” the vato said.
“Cruz Chris or Chris Cruz?” his primo asked.
“Chale, just Cruz or Curtis, not both,” the vato said.
Long pause.
The cousins were driving to the vato's girlfriend's parent's home to ask for their consent for her marriage to the vato. His primo was accompanying him as a witness and representative of the family in accordance with local custom. The vato had asked him to come along in place of his father, who had passed away when the vato was a boy.
“Pos makes no sense,” said the primo.
“My mom named me Cruz, but when I go to get papers or my driver’s license, I go by Chris,” the vato explained.
Another long pause.
“I didn’t know you were wet, ese,” the primo said.
“I’m not. My mom was born on this side. My dad’s dad and two of his grandparents were born here. And as you know, we all come from Kansas. We only know people in OJ cuz we have family that’s married to raza from there,” said the vato.
“Pos,” said the primo, rolling his eyes.
“Nel. I wasn’t born there,” said the vato.
“Pos I know you’re not running from the law cuz looks like you’ve had this license since high school,” said the primo.
“The name too. Watcha, when I was born, the birth certificate office was closed for a long weekend. Then my family moved to another town and time passed until I was supposed to go to school. Then the principal said she could help but she put my name as Chris,” said the vato.
“Pos then what are you gonna tell her parents,” said the primo.
“Chruz,” said the vato laughing.
“Pos I wonder how long that’ll go,” the primo said.
“Pos forever, ese. She calls me babe anyway,” the vato said, grinning at his primo.
