While holding a large can of sugar in her right arm and carrying two full grocery bags in her other hand, Roma kicks open the door to the 7-Eleven shop. She was already in a bad mood this morning and it got worse when she got into a fight with a Puerto Rican who tried to cut into the line. Roma put him in his place, as she always does, but in the end, she did not get any apology out of that asshole. She hates assholes. And they are everywhere.
The door opens harder than she expects, followed by a muffled noise that sounds a bit like someone screaming no. Roma is stepping out onto the threshold when a bucket falls on the other side of the glass door, splashing red paint all over the bricks. If the door hadn’t blocked the splash, it would have reached Roma and—God forbid—her fancy, high-heel party shoes that she bought at a garage sale last summer. She already damaged a good brown shoe when she threw it at runaway Crystal last week and cannot afford to lose another pair.
“Hey,” Roma yells, not sure at whom yet. She looks and finds the culprit: a lazy, brown-ass sand-nigger. Typical.
Wearing a painter’s bib overall, the asshole just sits his lazy ass by the ladder on the ground, doing nothing. Typical.
“Hey, watch it, Bin Laden,” she yells at him but gets no apology. What a thick-headed asshole! Roma would teach him the lesson of his lifetime, making him wish he had never left Afghanistan, if she had not already called for Uber. “Fucking Al-Qaeda,” she spits and walks away, careful not to step on the red paint.
Leaving that lazy asshole behind, Roma walks toward the middle of the parking lot to meet the next one, i.e., the Uber driver. These Uber assholes are always late!
“Oh, my God! What happened?” a female voice says from behind.
Roma looks over her shoulder.
It is the grocery cashier who reeked of makeup—her name, either Allie or Sally—flirting with the painter that is sprawled across the threshold. Did he actually fall off the ladder? Whatever. Kneeling on the threshold, which is now artlessly half-painted red, the cashier girl holds the lazy painter’s arms and helps him sit up.
Good luck washing that red paint off your dress, Roma sneers at the cashier’s stupidity. “Where the hell is this damn Uber driver?” she mutters, shifting the heavy sugar can on her right arm. Large sugar cans are 7-Eleven’s irresistible deal of the month. They are three to four times cheaper than the regular-size cans, but the downside is you have to buy them in bulk and in that weird packaging. The large can is going to replace what Crystal, her always-sloppy daughter, ruined last week.
A beaten-up Chevrolet with an Uber sticker on its windshield stops before Roma.
“Where the hell have you been?” Roma says, although she knows that the driver will probably not hear her through the closed windows of his clunker.
Lifting her hand that carries two heavy grocery bags, she opens the car’s front door. The front seat is adjustable and is thus always the preferred choice of Roma—who is gifted with a big body. She is leaning forward to sit when she notices a ridiculous cowboy hat on the front passenger seat. Growling through her clenched teeth, she glares at the driver.
When the Uber app said someone named Julio would pick her up, she expected a short, skinny Mexican, similar to the lazy workers who hang in front of The Home Depot. The driver, however, looks more like the leader of a drug cartel, with scars all over his ugly face. That would scare most people but not a Mama Bear like Roma. “Hey, the hat,” she shouts at the driver, establishing who the boss is around here.
Julio doesn’t turn to her and only points to the back seat with his thumb. “In the back,” he says with a deep voice and shifts the match between his teeth,
The curt response upsets Roma. “Huh?” she says and scowls at Julio for a few moments. She gets no reaction, let alone an apology. What an asshole! She eventually leans back out of the car but shows her frustration by slamming the front door shut.
Now, Julio is the one who is upset. He takes a deep breath like a raging bull that is ready to charge. He looks at her name on the Uber app. What kind of fucked-up name is Roma anyway? Some shitty, ignorant parents she must have had who named her after Italy’s capital. No wonder she does not have any manners. Julio would gladly teach her some, but he is working now. And Julio does not mix business with pleasure—most of the time.
Roma opens the back door and throws the sugar can to the side. The entire three-ton vehicle bounces up and down when she sits her big ass in the car. Too bad Uber does not charge based on the weight. She doesn’t bother to fasten her seat belt.
Julio doesn’t care to remind her either; he just waits for her to close the door. She is trouble. The sooner he finishes this ride and gets rid of her, the better.
Roma shuts the door hard again, probably on purpose.
Grinding his teeth, Julio breathes more rapidly. There is a limit on how much Julio would take, and that limit is about to be surpassed. Through the rear-view mirror, he shoots her a dirty look.
Roma looks away. Good. She must have learned her place, realizing that nobody messes with Julio. She will apologize along the way.
Julio changes the gear to leave, trying very hard to keep his restive rage on the leash.
“Go,” Roma commands Julio, tapping on his shoulder as if she rides a horse.
“That’s it,” Julio says and pulls the emergency brake. It screeches loudly on behalf of Julio.
Having learned his lesson the hard way, Julio is not going to make the same mistake again. With the car’s rusty engine still roaring, he quickly surveys the surroundings for passerby pigs or potential witnesses.
A painter sitting up on the 7-Eleven’s threshold looks his way. The shop clerk that kneels next to him follows his gaze when he points to Julio’s car.
Be smart, Julio, he thinks. Not here, with all these witnesses. The match between his teeth breaks in half when he finds no other way to release his suppressed rage.
From the rear-view mirror, he glares at nonchalant Roma, who is looking away as if it were not she who disrespected Julio just a second ago. He then thinks of a plan, picturing what he will do to Roma at a more appropriate place where there will be no nosy witnesses nor any annoying pedestrian to commit obstruction of justice. Julio releases the brake and drives away as the satisfactory imagery brings a dominant smile to his scarred face.