Cincho you’re fregado
Walking out of La Buena Bakery where he’d just had coffee with his childhood sweetheart, Meche, and settled the details of their trip to El Chuco, Boy smiled with relief and thought he should celebrate the moment. He had found freedom at last. The big weight over not cinching the onda about spending the weekend in El Chuco with Meche had been lifted. She’d just agreed to all the details: taking off early to spend the whole day there, spending the night, and returning the following afternoon. Now he just needed to wait until Friday. Es todo.
But that was three days away. The occasion called for celebration, at very least breaking the routine. He thought he should take off a couple of days and do something? Donde?
“OJ,” he said to himself.
“Ain’t been there in a long time. I should go back and refresh my kinships,” he thought.
Without hesitating, he went to his pichirilo, started it, checked his gota, and seeing it’d take him at least as far as Monitos, he started it and le puso to OJ.
At Monitos, he saw the gas level indicated he could go farther and kept going.
In Tarilas, he stopped for gota then headed west until he got to the point in the road where he had to turn either to Comanche or Brogado. He chose Brogado. From there, a long empty country road flashed past him until he was approaching Limpia.
Then all of a sudden, a highway patrol car came up from behind him as he rounded a curve.
“Qué onda,” thought Boy.
He stopped immediately and waited for the chota to walk up to him.
“You were speeding,” the patrolman said.
“I thought I was going the speed limit cuz I had my car on cruise control,” Boy protested.
“Pos maybe that’s what you thought, but you were going more than 10 miles over the limit. That’s a big violation,” the patrolman said.
Boy shook his head.
“License, registration and insurance,” the patrolman said.
Boy produced all the documents asked.
“Insurance is lapsed. Where do you live?” the patrolman said.
“Southside,” Boy replied.
“Since when?” the patrolman asked.
“Last year,” Boy said.
“Then that’s another thing that’s wrong. You’re supposed get an in-state license within 30 days after you move into the state,” the patrolman said.
“So what’s the fine?” Boy said.
“Fine and jail. Cincho you’re fregado,” the patrolman said.
“What?” Boy said.
“Fine, jail, bail bond, car towed and impounded in Limpia. A hundred bolas to get it out but not until tomorrow cuz the judge’s out until then,” the patrolman said.
Boy looked at him, incredulous, his eyes falling on the patrolman’s name tag, which read P. Zubiate.
“You of the Zubiates of OJ?” Boy asked.
“Yep,” the patrolman asked.
“Pos I’m related to them. Cincho you’re my cousin,” Boy asked.
The patrolman looked at him expressionless.
“Cincho I am, but cincho you’re still in trouble,” the patrolman said.
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