Gaspar says we should return to the base.

At those words we all scramble. I turn off the speakers and the baseline in Selena's Techno Cumbia ceases its incessant throbbing. I head outside to help Sabritas bring in our signage. Once everything in the food truck is secured I grab my keys--those damn blasted keys that caused so much trouble earlier today--and head to my pickup. I hear footsteps behind me, and feel dismay at seeing Gaspar follow me.

Dammit. He's going to chew me out. 

I gird my figurative loins and prepare for battle.

"Can I get a ride from you, please?" He asks.

"Uh. Sure." I say, without turning, hoping to hide my nervousness. I wonder why my gut instinct still tells me to stay far from this one, when in the past two weeks I've been working with him he's proved to be harmless. It's a mystery. 

Sure, he gets exasperated at me. I have repeatedly been on the wrong side of one of those glates of his, and I can tell that he is holding back from always telling me that I am too slow. But so far, aside from the outburst over the phone earlier, he's kept his temper in check.

He climbs on the passenger seat and pulls on the seatbelt. The stupid thing is not cooperating. I lean across him and gently pull on the strap at the exact angle that only I seem to be able to get right. The seatbelt flows free. He nods thanks and fastens it.

I lean back in my seat, and catch a whiff of a smell I'm all too familiar with.

Ugh. I reek! Badly. This is not your typical B.O. This is the stench of twenty locker rooms emanating from my armpits.

This rank smell is testament to todays stress. When stressed out my B.O. is twenty times worse than usual. Sweat is sweat, so I'm not sure why I smell so bad. All I know is that you can go a long way before smelling its like--it is that foul. And by leaning across to help him with the stubborn seatbelt he surely caught a whiff of it.

However, he betrays nary a grimace or flinch, for which I'm grateful.

I turn on my car and follow the Veggie Boss. Ruffles is driving. I know it because I have to step on the gas to keep up with him, and also because the cloud of vapor coming out of Sabritas is being blown out from the passenger side.

Meanwhile, Gaspar and I follow them in silence. In silence we drive to the freeway. In silence we take the onramp to the 405. In silence we travel six miles before I realize that the chewing out that I had expected was not forthcoming after all. Or maybe he is going to wait until we finish out our shift at the base. 

Yes, that must be it.

So I have still an hour or two's reprieve.

"Could we make a detour before heading back to the base?" He asks suddenly, "I need to check on something."

"Ok. Where are we going?"

"My place," He says. "Please take the Euclid Exit. North." He says.

"Alright."

He gives me directions to his place—an unremarkable apartment complex not too far from Little Saigon. He asks me to wait. I wait and sit in the car for 20 minutes in my dark truck before I see not one but two figures walking toward me. I quickly recognize the lither, smaller-framed figure as Gaspar's. The other, brawnier, figure is taller by half a head.

Before I even wonder what or who this second person is, he is scooting in, pressing close to me on the middle seat, and Gaspar follows him in.

I panic and protest loudly at this.

Gaspar curses under his breath scrambles out as fast as he can.

"What's going on?" I ask, "Who is this?"

"Sorry. I forgot about..." Gaspar doesn't finish the sentence. Obviously he doesn't want to reference my condition in front of this stranger. "Candy, this is Zander. Zander, Candy."

I look at Zander, appraising him, ignoring the hand the stranger extends. He doesn't mind my slight. He simply smiles apologetically while shrugging and lets his hand fall back on his lap.

"He lives with me." Gaspar says, "He may look tall and big, but he's only fourteen." Gaspar explains, "He still relies on our landlady to feed him. Only thing is that I forgot that my landlady was not going to be in today and tomorrow and he's not eaten since lunch. Would you please give us both a ride to base?"

I hesitate.

Most people wouldn't mind at all. But I do. As far as I'm concerned only two people can ride in my pickup truck. Me and a passenger with a foot's distance in between us. That is the minimum distance I can handle without going nuts inside a car.

"He can't ride with us." I say decisively.

"Oh, I can ride in the back if you want," the youth says eagerly, moving to exit the car.

"Wait!" I yell in unison with Gaspar, extending my hand to stop him. 

Argh!! I can' t believe I am considering this!

Ok. A closer analysis of the youth:

Pasty white skin. Straight, slightly curling brown hair that almost reaches his shoulders. The front of which is overlong and falls over his eyes. Gray eyes. Oval face, but that may be because he still has baby fat on him. Nice enough nose--or at least it will be when he is older. His smile is disarming. It is genuine, though I can see a spark of mischief in his eyes. 

This kid is actually eager to go ride out in the back. 

But no. I cannot let him. Though he is tall, he's just a kid--barely in high school and still in that awkward phase from the looks of it. He is wearing a goofy button down shirt covered in cartoon fishes. He's not very appealing, but I've been around I can see that in a few years he'll be a heartbreaker (If he doesn't grow to become an obese mess first). 

He is unlike Gaspar in every way, yet I can see on the straight dark eyebrows and a little of the eyes that they are related in some way.

That's still not enough. I can't have a third inside the truck. I was barely in control in that tense and silent ride with just Gaspar. A strange kid in the mix would make things worse.

"Alright." Gaspar says nodding, "I'll go in the back. I'll just lay low. The drive is not too far anyway."

"What? I still have to get on the freeway!" I protest.

"Dude. I'll ride in the back." Zander says, but he is stopped from moving from his spot by a single glance from Gaspar, and he sits back in his seat.

"No. Wait!" I say, panicking when I see Gaspar settle in the truck bed, "It's dangerous."

"Then drive safely." He says, smiling and lies down in the back. 

Wait. Was that supposed to be ironic? I didn't know he had any sense of humor. "Come on," he says from where he's at, "those two will be wondering where we are and we still need to clean out the truck."

I debate inwardly for all of fifteen seconds, before turning the ignition. I am about to pull into the street when I remember that I have a blanket. I seek for it behind my seat, rummage for about thirty seconds before finding it, and then toss it out the little window behind me.

"Here." I say. "Put it under your head."

"Thanks," Gaspar says.

"Hey, this thing is stuck," Zander complains as he struggles with the seatbelt. I am loth to reach over again, but I do so. In case of a crash I'd rather not take two people's lives.

I look from the corner of my eye and see the kid stiffen slightly when he smells me.

Oh well.

I drive.

The base is not too far, but in my attempt to drive carefully, we take longer than expected. The drive, however, is not unpleasant, which is a nice surprise. Zander, it turns out, is quite a unique character, and I immediately find that I like him.

I am loth to ride in silence, but I don't want to talk either, so I let him choose the music. He settles for classic rock. I don't really like classic rock, but I don't hate it either. Besides, it's worth the sight of seeing Zander sing along the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody. Once he is done he smiles at me sheepishly. 

I don't usually need to know a person for a long time before I decide that I like them or that I don't. I simply do, and I find that I really like this kid. He's naturally uninhibited. Or maybe he's still stuck in his childhood and he simply finds joy in making other people laugh, even if it is at him.

"What do you want to listen to now?" He asks eagerly, "KOST? They're playing Christmas stuff."

"Pfft" I laugh, taking the freeway ramp to the 405. "Do I look like I listen to Christmasy love songs?"

"Girls like love songs," He said shrugging.

"Most girls," I say "But I don't feel like listening to Christmas songs."

"Then what?"

"102.7"

"Ah, KIIS FM." he says and gives me a little look that I'm not sure how to interpret. I suppose we are sizing each other up, and while I think he's a doofus he thinks I'm a major airhead for liking the trendy pop music that Reuben called ear vomit. I don't care, I like what I like... But something about listening to Hotline Bling while cruising on my truck with a 14-year-old felt wrong, so I change it to classical.

He listens with head cocked to the notes that drift in the air.

"Rachmaninoff?" He asks wonderingly.

I glance at him in surprise. "No. This is the Warsaw Concerto. The composer purposely sought to copy the feel of Rachmaninoff.  If you listen closely, you can kind of get a feel of Rachmaninoff's Concerto Number 2."

"Oh. I don't know that one."

"It's a nice one," I assure him, "I'm sure you'll recognize it if you ever hear it. But I love this one on its own right."

Ok, now he think I'm a major snob. Improvement from airhead girl, though. 

"Yeah." He says dismissively, "It's ok." 

But he isn't fooling me. I hear him humming the tune to himself softly. His face is turned away from me, but I can tell that he is enjoying it. He seems to be lost in the music when I interrupt him.

"So what are you to Gaspar?" I say, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, "Nephew? Uncle? Grandfather?"

Haha. I'm so lame. 

"No." Zander shakes his head, and gives me an odd look. "Didn't he tell you? I'm his kid."