Saying I was skeptical and creeped out, was an understatement. Jose promised me, I wouldn’t regret it. So, against my better judgment, I agreed. At least San Antonio offered a brief relief from Houston’s high humidity and gray skies courtesy of the remnants of Tropical Storm Imelda. I had planned for the three-hour trek west on Interstate ten, packing water, snacks, and a good book to combat the flat, brown, monotonous scenery.
Jose had other ideas. I heard him coming blocks before he arrived. The chest vibrating throb of the subwoofer announced his arrival. His low-riding, metallic lime green 65 Chevrolet side-step pickup truck bounced and shimmied to a stop in front of my house. Jose’s face beamed as he manipulated the hydraulics making the vehicle dance to the beat of the music. As the song ended, the chassis sank, the wheels disappeared into the fenders that rested millimeters off the g...