El Paso Heat | Calor de El Paso
"In a border town where two worlds meet, a teacher finds love with the mechanic who fixes her car"
El Paso Heat
Calor de El Paso
My car broke down on the hottest day of the year, in the worst part of town, with no cell service.
"¿Necesitas ayuda?" The voice came from a garage I hadn't noticed.
"My car died."
"I can see that." She wiped her hands on a rag. "Pop the hood."
Her name was Esperanza, and she'd been running this shop since her father died. Single woman mechanic in El Paso—tough business.
"Water pump," she diagnosed. "Three hours minimum. You can wait inside."
Her "inside" was an office with one fan and years of invoices. Better than the 110-degree sun.
"You work alone?" I asked.
"Mostly. Good help is hard to find."
"I know the feeling." I thought of my overcrowded classroom. "I'm a teacher."
"Then you know about hard work with no reward."
Three hours became four, then five. She brought me water, shared her lunch, told me stories about the neighborhood.
"It's changing," she said. "Gentrification coming. This garage will be a coffee shop in five years."
"That's sad."
"That's progress." She shrugged. "I'll find somewhere else."
"Just like that?"
"Survival. We border people know about survival."
My car was fixed, but I found reasons to come back. Oil changes I didn't need. Questions about strange noises that didn't exist.
"You're a terrible liar," she said after my third unnecessary visit.
"What makes you say that?"
"Your car is fine. You just want to see me."
"Is that bad?"
"Depends on why."
I kissed her in her garage, tasting oil and heat and something like home.
"I'm not fancy," she warned. "I work with my hands. I come home tired and dirty."
"I teach thirty kids a day. I come home tired and defeated."
"Then we're a match."
"A match of exhaustion."
"Better than being exhausted alone."
We dated between her shifts and my grading. Dinner at cheap restaurants. Drives through the desert at sunset. Simple things that felt extraordinary.
"My family wants to meet you," I said.
"Mine wants to meet you too."
"How traditional are they?"
"Traditional enough to ask when we're getting married."
"What do you tell them?"
"That we're working on it."
She proposed with an engine part—a water pump like the one that brought us together.
"Really?" I laughed.
"I'm a mechanic. This is romantic."
"It's ridiculous."
"But you're saying yes?"
"I'm saying yes."
We married in her garage. The guests sat on car seats; the officiant stood next to the lift. It was perfect.
"To unexpected places," we toasted.
"To heat that brings people together," she added.
"To water pumps," I finished. "The most romantic engine part."
El Paso heat—where love grows in the margins, and the best matches are the broken-down ones.