On the side of the store where our station wagon was located, three men were washing our car. They had one bucket of filthy water between them. Dad gave them a quick “gracias” and we all got in. As we prepared to drive off, the man on the bicycle demanded to be paid. He spoke in limited English, “Senor, you must pay me. I brought you to this wonderful shop.”
“We hardly bought anything!” Dad said from his rolled down car window as he pulled into the street.
“I will take you to another place. A better place!”
“We’ve had enough already,” Dad replied as he began to pick up speed.
“Do you want any Mexican Food?” the man said as he followed us on his bicycle. “I can take you to a good restaurant.”
“We just ate in El Paso.” We picked up speed.
“But we also washed your car,” the man said as he matched our speed. “You must pay us. We are poor people.”
“We are poor, too,” Dad said. And then we left him in the dust. Normally Dad was very accommodating to disadvantaged people. But these people were just lazy, he figured. I could sense Dad’s frustration. He could have replied, “Look buddy, you take us to a useless shop and your dusty streets caused our car to look a bit dusty and then you wash it with dirty water which made it look worse!”
When we made it back to the border, we waited in a long line of cars to have the border officers search our car and our car-top carrier. Then we were back in the United States.
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