Me and Big Joe in South L.A.

Lupe is single mother, 4 children, looks a lot younger than she is, and sports a serious work ethic and an opinion on just about everything. Born in Mexico City dirt poor she worked her way up - first high school, then a bachelor’s degree in the military, citizenship, took a couple of years off to get her masters and is now managing an operation for a significant transportation company we happen to both be working for at the moment. She’s tough. Even Big Joe defers and it is best not to look at her in the eyes unless you want to hear one of Life’s Lessons According to Lupe. Last night I was packing up when she walked in, slammed her hands flat on my desk, leaned forward, and said nothing. I glanced up and our eyes met if only for a second. That was her key.

“Do you know the problem with most people?” she asked, point blank.

“Yes, I do,” I replied, which apparently was not the answer she was looking for.

“Well, let me tell you,” she said in way that sounded like, “I don’t give a fuck what you think -- I’m going to tell you anyway.” “Most people are lazy and dishonest,” she blurted, pounding her closed fist on the desk.

“I agree,” I said, “and I am glad that we have achieved this agreement on the frailties of the human race so quickly,” I smiled, looking at my watch. She blew off my hint and kept rolling. “I was born into a family of eleven children,” she began. “On the day each of us turned 18 our mama would bake us a cake. Each of us would have a small piece and then Daddy would take us, one by one, to the highway in the back of his old pickup truck. He’d let us out on that day, give us each fifty pesos and say, ‘Call us when you get somewhere,’ and then he’d drive away.”

It sounded like the end of her story but she wasn’t finished, not even close. “Do you know what you call that?” she demanded. “Do you??” “Child abuse?” I queried. “What?,” she snarled. “What did you say?” “Nothing, just clearing my throat. I don’t know, Lupe. What do you call it when someone abandons a young girl on the side of a highway in the middle of the Mexican desert with five bucks?” “You call it learning to make it on your own. That’s what you call it!” and Lupe nodded in a way that gave me the distinct impression I should also nod in order to avoid getting my ass kicked.

I nodded and I noticed Big Joe standing in the doorway to my office, as always on the ready and he began to speak… “Mr. Karger, are you ready… “ Lupe cut him off with not so much as a glance in his direction.

“Ready? Ready for what, fat ass? Get out. Get out now!”

Big Joe slouched away and I heard another thirty three minutes of Lupe’s Life Lessons, mostly good ones, and then she was gone. No “goodbye,” just gone.

I changed vehicles this week -- the Suburban was too high profile so I found something different, special, what you might call a “hard to find” ride.

Big Joe and I walked out into the night together and he stopped wide-eyed as I opened the door.

“What the fuck is this?” he muttered.

I laughed and slapped him hard across the face, threw my Zero Halliburton attache into the front seat, opened it, pulled out the Glock, popped in a clip, pulled up my pant leg, taped another clip to my ankle, smiled at Big Joe, drove toward the 101, and then I said “good night” -- to no one.

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