Palo Santo

NOTE: This story deals with an ugly social bigotry, and thus some terms and phrases may be offensive to some readers.

Probably the black pine tree that set her off.

It wasn’t so much that she hadn’t asked for it, had basically told the Mexican at the auto “laundry” as nicely as possible to fuck himself with the add-ons.

It wasn’t that the thing was so unpleasant or cloying. The mingled pine and lemon and mint virtually vaporized amid the Tropical Mango Eruption Body Bath and aerosolized Warm Vanilla Sugar that formed Nancy’s orbital essence.

It was that first glance at the pasteboard air freshener as soon as she fired up the Jeep Cherokee, swaying and twirling slowly on its low-grade lightweight string with the RPMs and Jason Aldean blasting out the dash. As Nancy braked at the drive that would continue south toward WallyWorld and the ever-durable Chuck E. Cheese and north into a morass of orange vests and cones, she waited for the tree to reach stasis, casually but snappily flipping off the BMW that tapped out a tune behind her before creating a second (unfortunately northbound) turn lane.  

“Gracias por venir a Millington Auto Laundry! Que tengas un buen dia!” Her mental pronunciation was deplorable – a characterization Nancy’d come to embrace years ago – and “Gracias” and “Millington Auto Laundry” were about all she could manage, as the carwash offered no Taco Bell. The previous Pina Colada tree was still in its cellophane in the glove compartment, to be opened only in the event Cody achieved his new alcohol tolerance level one of these Saturday (or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday) nights. It was wedged between the registration and the owner’s manual (to the Ram Cody’d given a Viking funeral off I-39 last July 40), and she chipped a nail with a scorched-earth oath working it free.

“Thanks for coming to Millington Auto Laundry! Have a great day!” Beyond the funereal hue, the fresh one looked slightly off, cheaper, shoddier. The message was stamped in the same typeface, in the same little white block under the tree’s trunk. It had to be intentional – one of the brown or black kids in the rinse-and-wipe bay had to have spotted the bumper stickers, the NRA decal – and they just lived to bait real hardworking Americans, flaunt their freeloading, drug-dealing, loud, lowlife ways. Nancy scowled into the rear-view at the parasites hosing and buffing and spritzing and scrubbing and cackling and swearing and conspiring in Mexican, and shot another stiff-armed bird and a choice descriptive at the old man palming his Caddy horn and moving jerkily around her.

The torn nail had been one of a matched set of 20 – pink/plum/black camo with gold glitz – the Chinese or Vietnamese or what the fuck girl at the salon next to the Burger King had spent nearly an hour on while continually mumbling in secret code and occasionally giggling at the owner and the girl doing gnarly old lady feet. Nancy fought the temptation to turn around and march back in and shove the fucking Guadalajara Christmas tree up Carmello or Chalupa or whatever her (probably assumed) name was, except she wanted to be at the Target counter right at opening, before folks packed in. Locked on the horns, she recalled the 800 number Cody had Googled up after his recent dust-up at La Posada Feliz. And at the Wally and with the mouthy punk at the tire store and the fat little bitch at the Hardee’s who’d basically drowned his Bacon Cheese Thickburger in mayo. Usually, he’d drown his despair over America’s continuing cultural decline with Coors (Bud Lite wasn’t getting off that easy) and cheese puffs and NCIS or Survivor or March Madness or FOX in the absence, and by bedtime, he’d lose whatever hard-on he’d nurtured over last call or expired warranties or excessive, unsolicited Hellman’s.

But the number remained pinned to the fridge with a Big Texan magnet he’d scored after a major (and as it turned out fleeting) victory at the Amarillo steak ranch. Maybe she’d teach the Millington Auto Laundry a little English lesson, Nancy grinned as she yanked out almost into the grill of an Comcast van and unwittingly mimed a tirade that might have raised the Aryan Brotherhood’s unibrows. The Indian or Arab or Mexican behind the wheel waved cheerfully, and Nancy nearly took it offroad.

**

“Está bien, abuela,” the bearded young Mexican murmured into the small old woman’s ear. “Dice que puedes devolverlo, siempre y cuando tengamos el recibo. Luego podemos volver y comprar otro microondas.”

Nancy’s fingers – including the maimed index – curled so tightly around the cart handle she felt knuckles pop, and she felt the increasingly familiar pressure behind her eyes. The red-vested girl with the beads in her corn-rolled hair tossed her a what-are-you-gonna-do? smile, but she wasn’t having that shit at this juncture, and the black girl turned back to the Mexicans with an eyeroll.

“Sorry,” the man sighed. “Abuela, tu bolso. Crees que podria en tu bolso?”

With palsied hands, Abuela Whatever-The-Fuck dug desperately into her cheap bag, as the man glanced nervously about. Nancy looked down at the still-tagged dress, considered just keeping the fucking thing even though it had served its purpose at Uncle Pete’s weekend celebration of life potluck. However, she didn’t think the Velveeta stain would come out of the hem, and, besides, Nancy scarcely ever attended major affairs unless the decedent was at least a second cousin and neither she nor Cody had been in the car.

“You got us in the computer, maybe,” the man inquired anxiously as Abuelo started piling tissues and cosmetics on the formica. “I mean, we got her VISA here.”

Nancy snorted, and Abuelo’s concerned expression turned black as he spun back toward her. Nancy unconsciously stepped back, then redoubled her grip on the cart. She fumbled her Galaxy out of her own spangled bag, and punched up the camera, aiming it squarely at the man’s dark features.

“Sigue buscando, abuela,” he instructed the old woman calmly. “Es solo la tacana Karen. Problablemente llamara a ICE.” He turned with what Nancy perceived to be a dangerous grin. “That right, Karen?”

“Ricardo, cuida tus palabras!” Abuela scolded harshly.

The returns associate swallowed and tapped the repacked microwave. “Look, if you got the card she made the purchase on, I don’t think we gotta worry about the receipt, OK?” She was practically begging, and Nancy grew even more outraged this ghetto little Rope-Head was about to just give in to these wetvacs. The dress bunched in her fingers as she leaned in and opened her mouth.

“CAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!” Nancy hissed. Her eyes popped as the young man backed nearly into Abuela, and the old woman gasped. Nancy wound up once again. “FAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWW!!”

“Ma’am, you having a stroke or something?” the clerk croaked. Anchor Baby stepped forward and put a hand on the cart.

“Lady, you need to chill, sit down. Uh, Gaby? You gotta chair back there?”

“FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKKKYAAAAAA,” Nancy roared, grabbing the queso-infused dress and stalking toward the nearby exit. “BWAAAARRRRRR!” she shrieked at a young blonde with a double stroller who’d simultaneously reached the sliders, and the millennimom did a J-turn into Register 6.

“LAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRHHH,” Nancy proclaimed as she nearly collided with the colossal red concrete ball that signaled budget-conscious shoppers in and presumably kept seniors from using the snack bar as a drive-up. She parted the late-morning crowd like a plump and redneck-chic Godzilla rampaging through the Tokyo commercial district, or maybe simply a Gen-X Moses…

** 

The Cherokee was damned near at the end of the lot, and Nancy played a freeform riff on the fob as she tore down the tarmac. The jet-black Jeep flashed seeming in alarm, and released the rear hatch as its mistress approached.

The hydraulics hissed in agony as she forced the hatch up and threw her permanent new outfit into the citrusy-minty-sprucy compartment. Nancy panted and glared at the black pine in the brief interval before the hatch came fully and vengefully down on her skull.

“MotherFUCK!!” Nancy shrieked as her teeth came together and a bicuspid popped and rolled across the asphalt and under one of those fucking little woke tree-hugger electric Prius cars with of fucking course a HARRIS-WALZ 2024 bumper sticker. Nancy whistle-grunted a series of innovative fusion slurs and invectives as she staggered in what appeared a rite of pain and delirium. The passing skateboarder clipped her hip, smashing her into the hatch window and entitling her to an orthodontic two-fer.

“Cunt!” the kid yelled back. “Puta campesina!”

Nancy rallied, and gave pursuit, again scattering heretofore happy shoppers and terrorizing tots and giving the seniors fodder for their early-bird McCafe-klatch. A red steel-and-plastic centipede intervened as she started to gain on Tony Hawk, and Nancy whoofed into the belly of the creature as the Target cart boy issued a belated safety advisory, then resumed his odyssey toward the bull’s-eyed storefront. Nancy ricocheted in slo-mo into the cart corral, conceded defeat to Tony, and dropped into the shadows between an F-150 and a white Econoline that looked like it would be full of candy and restraints.

**

When the lights snapped back on, the Mexican was on top of Nancy, gibbering in some other foreign tongue.

“Ma’amyouokaywhaswrongwiyou?”

“Geht verdammt noch mal weg von mir, ihr verdammten mexikanischen Bastarde!” Nancy screamed, fists pummeling, one heeled and one bare foot pumping, camo-ed nails slashing at the burly young man.

“Oshityougermanorshomethin?” the man said, glancing nervously about no doubt before proceeding with God know’s what. He spotted her purse, and Nancy wrenched her hip grabbing the strap and reeling it in. If the illegal found what was inside, it would be over. “NonoIneedagetyernameandanemergencycontac—”

“Fasst mich nicht an!” Nancy snarled, rolling on top of the sequined bag. “Ich rufe die 9-1-1! Ich rufe die Einwanderungsbehörde und lasse euch nach Guantanamo bringen!”

“Fuladyimuheeempty!” the would-be rapist fell back against the F-150’s monster tire and yanked his iPhone out of his jeans. Nancy tried to gain her footing, but merely clunked an elbow, sending a jolt up her arm into the mess that seemed to be her head. “Titobrogothisladeehermybeconcusst! Calldninewonwonbuttheyaincomyet! Youwussinweesboddenrye? Ineeyoufuckinpronto!!”

A curious face – soccer mom on preschool vacation – peeked at the curious, disheveled pair, then vanished as the Mexican called to her. Nancy cursed silently and dug into her compressed purse as he carried on this foreign exchange with his no-doubt accomplice.

The man tapped his head, thumped his left pec. “Izzityerhead? Yerhart?”

“Ich will keine verdammten Drogen!” Nancy snarled at the man. “Hilfe! Hilfe! Sie versuchen mich zu vergewaltigen! Hilfe, hilfe!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. It came out like burger confirmation at a Dusseldorf Wendy’s drive-up. The man came off his haunches and crept toward her.

And Nancy ripped nails two and three as her hand closed around it. Just as the second Mexican – a real chalupa, this one, squeezed between the pickup and the rape van and dropped to his knees behind his amigo, ogling the fallen woman. They briefly consulted in their native tongue, and the fat guy leaned in.

“Madam, wir sind Sanitäter!” the accomplice smiled, creepily. “Wie heißen Sie? Wo ist Ihr auto? Wo tut es weh? Ist es dein Kopf? Deine Brust? Bleib einfach ruhig! Wir helfen dir! Du musst ruhig liegen bleiben!”

And her right hand pulled free with half the satin lining and a spray of cosmetic shrapnel. Microwave Guy fell back and Chalupa Joe’s eyes widened as she leveled the weapon and let loose.

“NǏ ZHĒN XĪWÀNG WǑ XIÀNZÀI JIÙ DǍ DIÀNHUÀ GĚI ICE, NǏ ZHÈGE HÚNDÀN HÚNDÀN!!” Nancy crowed triumphantly as her assailants writhed on the pavement, tearing at their eyes. She brandished the special spray, double the Scoville Heat Units of your standard Made in the USA deterrent and illegal in Illinois and some 49 other states but now well worth the $39.95. “Tāmen huì bǎ nǐ hé ābù āi lā yǐjí nǐ de huǒbàn guān jìn láofáng, nǐ zuì hǎo zài nàlǐ xuéhuì shuō tā mā dì měishì yīngyǔ!” she bellowed, giving Abuela’s kid another blast of capsaicinoids.

It hadn’t sounded quite right, and Nancy paused wondering if something hadn’t might’ve got scrambled in her head.

“Cazzo!” she groaned as a high-pitched wail played her offstage…

**

“I never seen it,” Dr. Schurman admitted, staring into Ricardo’s raw left eye. “Richard” glanced over at Tito, who now looked like an overfed red panda in a red polo shirt. “But I’ve read about it. Foreign Accent Syndrome normally involves a subject who’s suffered brain trauma or a stroke speaking their native language with a pronounced accent. What you’re describing might be one for the books – or the journals,” the St. Mark’s attending drawled. “Mr. McCauland swears his wife doesn’t know either German or Chinese, which is from what you told me sounds like. And why’d she switch off like that?”

“I think maybe she was just being a racist bitch, I mean rest in peace and all,” Tito moaned, blinking incessantly. “She’d tried to start something with Ricardo and his grandma at the customer desk – Gabrielle says she started screaming like some kinda animal when Ricardo tried to talk her down, and then when he told her he was a paramedic and asked what happened, she started sprechen sie Deutsch. So my cousin here knows I was assigned to Weissbaden during my Army stint. Thank God. Or maybe not, since that didn’t work out so great.”

“Don’t know what you could’ve done,” Schurman said. “My book, you guys are heroes. Mrs. McCauland was probably on her way out when you found her. Give you a medal for bothering with her, frankly. Rest in peace and all. So, Ricky, I’d recommend you sit out a shift or two – I’ll give you something for the captain, you need. Mr. Consuelo, I were you, I’d do the same if the Target folk allow, and maybe check you got a workman’s claim or maybe a lawsuit on your hands. You didn’t hear that from me, comprende?”

“Entiendo,” Ricardo grinned.

“Uh huh,” the doctor nodded, vanishing through the ER curtain.

**

“Oh, fuck, I dunno,” the old guy growled, snatching the clipboard from Vince. “Jesus, just give me the Grand Royale, but I wanna see those radials shine, and you guys wanna tip, you better do better with the cup caddies and the dash this time. Comprende, amigo?”

Vincent accepted the clipboard and checked the correct box. “And what kinda air freshener you want, sir?”

“What do you mean? Like one of those cheap fucking trees? That’s real leather in there. I don’t need it to smell like a whorehouse or a bus station john or a Tijuana tourist bar in there. Just clean the fucking thing.”

“Absolutely, sir.” The old man glared straight into Vincent’s beaming face, then, satisfied the kid wasn’t being a wiseass, turned and disappeared into the windowed tunnel toward Marielita.

Vincent kept smiling as he located the cigar box on the nearby worktable, and rummaged for the small talisman he’d crafted himself. A light wave of evergreen and limon and mint flirted with his nostrils, and he closed his eyes for a moment. His abuela’s home had always been perfumed with cinnamon and fried masa and the Palo Santo – the holy wood – that had played into her Santeria rituals whenever a neighbor had needed help or a cure or a spiritual lift or what his dad had called an attitude adjustment.

You were supposed to burn the holy wood, let the sweet essence fill the space like a sage smudge, cleanse the negative energy, invite balance and positivity to seep in. But you could do only what you could do, and he felt even a trace of Palo Santo might help drain this miserable viejo of his bitterness.

Gently, reverently, a smile again touching his lips, Vincent affixed the small black tree to the rearview mirror and sent the Lexus rolling down the line…