La Vaca

Recently, I found a small thread, and pulled on it. What came loose were memories of labor. The kind that didn't seem important at the time.

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Five jobs that didn't make my resume. No. 1

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Hey, it's Sunday Morning.

I was 9 years old when my childhood ended and began again. That's when I realized cows could fly.

All I wanted was a Chopper. You know, the bike with the high handlebars, ribbons streaming from the grips, and paint so wild it looked fast just standing still.

What I got was something else entirely: La Vaca. Tall, heavy, and black—a cow on two wheels.

The rental was five cents for two laps around the block. Which meant I needed to work.

Every day after school, I’d head to the dry-cleaning shop next to our house. My job was simple. Feed the wood-burning furnace until the gauge rose, then twist wire hangers on a table lined with nails. My tool was a blade with no handles, wrapped in cloth and tape.

The work paid in nickels. By week’s end, I had five of them—a whole quarter. Fifteen cents went to my mother. Five to my brother Robert. That last nickel? That was my ride.

And for eight minutes, the cow took flight. I leaned through corners like Evel Knievel, squinted until chipped black paint looked like flames, pedaled harder than my legs wanted to go. The heavy frame that had felt like punishment disappeared beneath me.

At the time, I thought I was just buying freedom for a nickel. Borrowed, fleeting, and gone when I rolled it back to the shop.

But that last nickel bought something else: two laps on a flying cow.

My next letter would take me off the bike and straight into the dust.