If you don’t own a peekup you MUST be ... cousins with, best friends of, or work with someone who does.
Si no eres dueño de una peekup tienes que ser primos con, major amigo de, o trabajar con alquien quien tiene una.
No señor, I want a peekup. As in, “Órale, you need to move some furniture? Hey, I will swing by en la peekup. What time, ese?”
God bless you and your familia if you have one. Furniture, wrought-iron sillas, and arches for your sobrina’s quinceañera, boxes of ropa para el Goodwill ... La peekup carries it all.
When a guy gets an antojo for one there is no stopping him. Only a Latino man can see the true belleza in a beat-up, dented, rattling peekup that can transport entire households of furniture, montañas of bargains purchased at la pulga, and piles of carefully stowed wedding regalos (or presentes depending on where you live). La peekup bears the rusty pockmarks of hailstorms, the weathered scars of ancient fender-benders, and aches and pains from generations of lurching, gear-grinding driving lessons.
There is only one person who understands your lust for the peekup of your sueños; your best friend, your parna, your compadre. He knows in his corazón that most Latino men are frustrated rancheros and owning a peekup is the closest we will ever get to owning a horse. La peekup appears in the background of the family photos, waiting patiently; pawing at the driveway with tired, worn-down radial hooves. The pictures show it packed with ice chests, lonches de picnic, and a quivering war bonnet of fishing poles. La peekup humbly took its place in our photographic family history and then whisked us off to another summertime adventure.
Híjole, gotta have that peekup. I need to rescue it from my fading, blurring recuerdos.
My Latina friends and familia, don’t sneer at my dream. There is a woman’s equivalent to the lust for a trokita (another word for peekup). The Latina woman’s El Dorado of possessions is the aforementioned, elusive “Purse that Goes with Everything.” All of our Mamis, Tías, y Abuelitas spent lifetimes searching for one. Thick, sturdy but fake leather, and stitched to its flanks was an array of 2” by 2” squares of the same vaqueta, but in every color imaginable.
So don’t tell me I can’t have my peekup, you with your “Ay mira, it goes with everything” refrain.
The peekups that rattle and rumble past me on the highway on the way to the dump, the flea market, or yet another relative’s moving ordeal, mock me with their unavailability; farting a carbon monoxide pedo as I shamefacedly slink by them in a rented U-Haul that’s never bothered to pose for any family picture.
But I will have my Peekup. Diosito will not let me die without owning one. He’s a guy. He understands. ¿No Sabes? When God finished creating el Mundo in seven-days, He rode around inspecting his handiwork … in a Peekup.
Look for Mex in Manhattan every other week in the San Antonio Current.
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