Barrio Slums and More
I’m already starting part two so let me know what you guys think please :)
Stupid big corporation economy. Stupid private schools with stupid unreasonable tuitions. Stupid Lance for thinking he could handle it.
All he’d wanted was to make his family proud. To be a good example for his siblings and younger cousins in comparison to the dead beats his older cousins had become. He wanted to show them it was possible to go out and explore the world and get more than their shitty neighborhood in Houston slums. That it was good to dream big and go for what you wanted. That they were more than the stereotype.
They weren’t just meant for a hand-me-down mechanics shop, housecleaning, gardening, and street-vending. They were meant for more. They could be astronauts, doctors, lawyers, writers, anything.
The angry booming voice of his grandfather pierced through his regret as he cleaned the dishes at his tia’s restaurant. It was almost bankrupt, and hardly anyone came in, especially with the location. It was hidden, and it looked shabby on the outside. A ditch by the parking lot, and potholes littered across the parking lot like polka dots. A phone booth that was half knocked over and covered in graffiti stood nearby. It was a miracle his tia had managed this long.
“Don’t worry, mijito,” she would say. “As soon as this goes down, I’m opening my salon.” Lance never tried to mention the lack of money that would diminish that dream.
“Yes, Papo?” he answered, scrubbing the plates more fiercely.
“Don’t forget to stop by the shop later so we can fix your mother’s car.” He nodded and delved into the dishes again.
“Lancito,” he heard his tia Carla croon. “Go wait that table please, honey, I have some bills to look over. I’ll finish those or Dianita will.”
“Okay,” he mumbled. He didn’t mind working. It was more the fact that everyone thought he was working the restaurant and the mechanic shop for summer money. They had no idea he was here for good. That he was stuck. That he’d failed.
He walked out to the tables, wiping his hands on his apron and grabbed the tray of drinks he assumed were theirs since they were the only table occupied. “Sweet tea?” he asked. A guy with a weird white streak in his hair waved. “Soda?” A heavyset guy with tribal tattoos along his arm and a child with wide glasses raised their hands dismissively. “And this is yours then,” he said, setting down the lemonade in front of a boy with long hair pulled into a low ponytail. Several strands fell forward regardless. “Ready to order?”