Fun for Every Juan

The heat dampens all of me, as I sit in the car, the can of Fresca warming between my knees. All ten years of me, white skinny legs and arms, ten years of me, pushing the dog off my upper thigh, pushing her hard, as she scratches me, leaving painful red swirls on my leg with her nails, hurrying to get wherever she is not. In the back seat with my aunt, her hair red, always red, her body thin like mine. I put down Gone with the Wind to read the first sign:

PEDRO’S SOUTH OF THE BORDER
Fun for every Juan

The miles in the Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme station wagon pass by excruciatingly slowly. The Georgia peaches in the back window roast in the sun, their scent fills the car, mingling with the Virginia ham on the floor. I’m tired of waiting to eat the ham, but I can eat a peach, eat it now, as the miles pass on Uniroyal tires; my dad’s allegiance to the brand always a mystery, and I wonder when it will happen -- the inevitable jerk of the car, the limp to the edge of the hot pavement in South Carolina, when we get the blow-out. Will it come before Dad’s speeding ticket, will it come before the interstate is built, in this year before I have a period, before my first kiss, before I fall in love with the desert and out of love with Mike. Before my aunt introduces me to sherry, with ice, at the restaurant on the pier in St. Augustine FLA, where I throw bread to the fish, water churning, and I’m glued to the rail, watching them.

Pedro’s weather forecast…

Back to Gone with the Wind. How can Scarlet’s waist be 14 inches! I’m only ten, and my waist is 14 inches. I’m in love with Ashley, not Rhett, and don’t understand why Scarlet brushes him off. Can't she see he's the one?

Chili today. Hot Tamale.

There are around 100 of these signs, marking the miles before and after Pedroland, each one an event, something to look forward to, while the tires hum and we count the hours from New Jersey to Miami. Even though it’s the only thing for miles we never stop to get a closer look at the 200 foot tall sombrero that’s has been there since the 1950’s, guiding people south, guiding us to the Florida beach. The ferris wheel, the ice cream, the Himalaya, simply delay me wearing my favorite straw hat, and putting white zinc on my nose and winning the right forearm tanning contest with dad.

Now I’m only hours away from little baby pecan pies and cold milk from the beach shop, from the smell of the canvas raft in the seawater and the squeak of my body as I climb on top to float, float, float, dreamy in the sea my aunt is afraid of. Only hours from the kitchenette, from the smell of orange blossom somethings for sale at the souvenir stores, from the sizzling sirloin steak and corn at Captain Jacks. Hours from the Ramada Inn, where mom leaves the dog in the hot hot car, windows up, while we have lunch, and come out to find the car was opened, the rescued pet standing confused in the entry fountain, tongue out, panting, almost dead, and I wasn’t sure I cared. It’s time to go to the beach.