The best thing about summer was all the raspa trucks that would come by, blasting dissonant, huango-sounding shrieks through tinny speakers. Every now and then, you could make out a “Mary Had A Little Lamb” or something over the millions of barefoot kids running onto hot asphalt screaming “STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!!!!!”
It was easy to lose count, too. They started coming by just after noon and kept coming in waves ‘til 9pm, with the occasional stray truck lurching by at eleven, its generators humming loudly (noise ordnances meant no music after 10pm).
A pickle from one. A raspa from another. Skip that one, ‘cuz the viejo who sits by the ice chest always puts the wrong flavor. Scrounge up enough pennies to get at LEAST a sour power belt from that one because they have the new ones.
And that’s how summer went—you knew the raspa truck operators by their offerings or their prices, but rarely did you look past their broken English (and broken Spanish), slow counting of change, and/or glass eye into their personal lives. It was a simple exchange, and then you went back to busting yr lip on a homemade Slip N’ Slide.
There is one that stood out. White on top, blue on the bottom, a compact square and its generator made more noise than its speakers. If you saw it two blocks away, you still had an eternity to find fifty cents. It was the quintessential grano-covered comadre pushing 50 at the back gate and her two brothers. They always had pickled cucumbers with chile ready to go and the really fat, moist lemony chinese candies in a big jar.
All summer we called her a liar because she told us if we kept shaking the van, she’d lift us up into the sky and drop us onto the street like Ultimate Warrior. Then, we lost a bet and owed her a dollar when one day she brought proof: lots of pictures of a younger, grano-covered comadre picking up and smashing up other comadres in an amateur wrestling league. It was her, years before, with her brothers in the corner of the ring cheering her on while she put a chokehold on some other rough-looking chick.
Unbelievable. It was a testament to the regular dialogue we had with this particular truck that they would share their personal lives in such a way to impress a bunch of dirty peasant children.
Well, there was a point where that truck stopped coming through the ‘hood every summer, replaced by others. Each was different in some way, and yet all of them blur together into the image of what a raspa truck should be. Still, there was never any kind of relationship with the other trucks, not nearly the same. And no one ever again had such lemony, moist and delicious chinese candies for sale.
Until now, at our shop. Hurry and get some.
So, you stand behind yr grandma’s (or yr tia’s) arm barricade while the piñata breaks and the ferocious pack of salivating kids pounces on the still-spilling candy. Yes, all the other adults are screaming, trying to get that little monster to stop swinging. Yes, yr primo did lose three teeth and an eyebrow because he was a pendejo and went out when Optimus Prime’s leg was barely just a little torn. But you missed out, vato. They already took all the SweeTarts and the cherry Jolly Ranchers. You’re getting two handfuls of smooshed Tootsie Rolls and half a Blow-Pop, tops.
