Lowrider Love

Amor de Lowrider

Her '64 Impala was the most beautiful thing at the car show—candy apple red with gold flake, chrome that could blind you, hydraulics that made it dance.

"Nice ride," I said, approaching carefully. Lowrider etiquette was serious business.

"Thanks." She didn't look up from polishing the hood. "Yours?"

"'62 Bel Air. Three rows back."

Now she looked up, and I forgot how to breathe. Brown eyes lined with precision, lips painted red to match her car, hair pinned up in a bandana that matched too.

"The blue one with the murals?" She straightened. "I saw that. Your grandfather's work?"

"How'd you know?"

"I recognize Guadalupe Espinoza's style. He did my father's hearse before he passed."

"Espinoza. Your father was...?"

"Ramón Espinoza. Creator of the 'Sleeping Beauty.'"

I nearly dropped my rag. The Sleeping Beauty was legendary—a '57 Chevy that won Best of Show at every major exhibition in the '90s. And this woman was his daughter.

"I'm Sofia." She extended her hand. "And you're looking at me like I'm a ghost."

"Sorry. It's just—your father was a legend. My grandfather idolized him."

"They were friends." Her smile was small, secret. "Good friends. That's how I know your name is probably Marcos, and that Bel Air was your birthday present on your sixteenth."

"My grandfather talked about me?"

"Constantly. 'My grandson is going to keep the tradition alive.' 'My grandson has the gift.'" She mimicked an old man's voice affectionately. "He was proud of you."

"He never mentioned you."

"Probably protecting you." She laughed. "I was a menace as a teenager. Stole my first car at fifteen."

"Your own car doesn't count as stealing."

"It wasn't my car. It was my mother's boyfriend's. He deserved it."

I decided I liked Sofia Espinoza very much.

We walked the show together, critiquing cars with the brutal honesty only true gente could get away with.

"Chrome is patchy on that one," she'd murmur.

"Engine sounds rough. Needs work."

"But that—" She stopped before a pristine '63 Riviera. "That's beautiful."

"That's my tío's."

"Your family has good taste."

"We have the best taste." I glanced at her. "Obviously."

The sun set over the lot, and someone started a carne asada while oldies played from someone's sound system. Sofia leaned against her Impala, and I leaned beside her.

"Your grandfather ever tell you about the first time they met?" she asked.

"No."

"It was at a show like this. My dad was talking shit about someone's paint job. Your grandfather walked up and said it was his car." She laughed. "They almost fought. Then they got drunk together and started a shop the next month."

"How do you know all this?"

"My dad told me everything. Said I'd need the stories to carry on."

"And do you? Carry on?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" She gestured at her Impala. "This was his last project. I finished it after he died. Took me four years."

"Four years?"

"I wanted it perfect." Her voice softened. "It was the last thing I could do for him."

I understood that kind of devotion. My Bel Air had been the same—a labor of love and grief intertwined.

"Can I see the interior?"

"You want to see the inside of my car?" She raised an eyebrow. "That's a very personal request, Marcos."

"Is that a no?"

"It's a 'buy me a beer first.'"

Two beers and a plate of carne asada later, she let me into the Impala. The interior was immaculate—custom leather, period-correct accessories, and a small photograph of her father tucked into the visor.

"He's watching over you," I said.

"Always." She ran her hand over the steering wheel. "I feel him every time I drive. Like he's in the passenger seat."

"My grandfather's in my engine. Every time it purrs just right, I hear him saying 'that's my boy.'"

She turned to look at me, something new in her eyes.

"We understand each other," she said.

"Yeah."

"That's rare."

"Yeah."

"Marcos..."

I didn't let her finish. I kissed her in her father's masterpiece, with the stars coming out over East LA and the sounds of our people celebrating around us.

"We're fogging up my windows," she murmured.

"Is that a complaint?"

"It's an observation." She pulled me closer. "Keep going."

We made love in the back seat of the Sleeping Beauty's successor—a blasphemy and a blessing all at once. When I worried about disrespecting her father's memory, she laughed.

"He'd be happy I found someone who loves lowriders as much as I do. Someone who understands."

"Do I?"

"You're still here. You didn't flinch when I said I spent four years on this car. You looked at her before you looked at me." She kissed me softly. "That's how I knew you were real."

We won Best of Show that night—her Impala and my Bel Air, side by side in the winner's circle. The old-timers cried, talking about our grandfathers and fathers, the legacy passed down.

"To the next generation," someone toasted.

"To us," Sofia whispered, just for me.

"To us."

We drove out of the lot in convoy, her red leading my blue, the beginning of something that would last longer than any paint job.

Lowrider love—built slow, built right, built to last.