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IGNACIO
* * *
That dress. I can hardly keep my tongue in my mouth.
Olive is wearing the dress she found at the fashion district—the one she wouldn’t let me see. It’s a solid cornflower blue sundress which buttons down the front—a front which scoops up as though it was made just for her curves—and only secured on her shoulders by two delicate straps. I’m clueless about the cut of women’s dresses or how to describe hemlines other than it falls a few inches above her knees and has ruffles along the bottom, showcasing her shapely—and white—legs. But the blue color of the dress only compliments her light skin, like a porcelain teacup. She calls it boho style. I think I love boho now.
When I arrived at Olive’s doorstep earlier—and after I picked my jaw off the floor—I stumbled over my words to tell her how insanely beautiful she looked. She laughed and twirled, then lifted up the skirt to show me the bike shorts she was wearing underneath.
“See?” she’d said. “No chub rub.”
I almost died right there. If my family wasn’t waiting at the park, we would have never left her apartment. Now, walking a half-mile from the only parking spot I could find, I wish I could skip this concert and go back in time to test that chub rub for myself.
But I packed a picnic basket of artisan bread and rosemary crackers and have an insulated bag packed with goodies such as a crisp pinot grigio, a nutty cheese, homemade hummus, grapes, and veggie sticks. Mom and Dad reserved a spot this morning and are bringing food to share as well.
“You sure know how to schlep, Ignacio,” Olive says. I’m carrying most of the stuff, but she has a folding chair and an umbrella. “I packed less when I moved from Jersey.”
I admit I should have dropped her off with the stuff before parking, but we’re here now, and when the concert’s over, I’ll bring the car around for her.
“Think of it as an adventure,” I say.
We get to the grassy area where a sea of blankets and beach chairs cover every inch of the park with little walking space in between. An impressive stage erected of scaffolding and moving lights sits prominently on the edge of the lawn—musical instruments already set up for the show. Currently, the enormous speakers are blasting music from The Beach Boys while parks and recreation volunteers in yellow shirts scurry around to make sure everything is ready to go.
There are some vendor tents—the rotary club selling raffle tickets for a gift basket, veterans selling bottled water and giving away paper American flags, and the boy scouts selling hot dogs and slushies. Dad texted earlier to let me know they pitched an E-Z UP tent along the right side of the stage and brought a folding table. How early did they have to get here to set that up?
As we walk past thousands of people on blankets, I spot my parents’ tent almost immediately. It’s pretty hard to miss with the Dos Panchos logo plastered on the top and the entire perimeter covered in papel picado.
Mom’s jumping up and down, waving her arms to get our attention. Olive waves back and picks up speed like she’s seen the promised land and can finally rest her poor feet. Dad is chillin’ under the tent, drinking wine out of a plastic cup. There’s no glass allowed in the park.
But what really catches my eye—and my nose—is the bright red meat smoker standing upright and proud just outside the tent. The folding table, instead of one of those roll-up camping tables, is a full six feet long and covered with a linen tablecloth, a galvanized utensil organizer filled with flatware, festive party plates, and a flower arrangement. Instead of an ice chest, there’s a rolling cooler cart with an attached bottle opener filled with various drinks. They brought two Adirondack chairs which now flank a small, round side table. And because all that isn’t quite enough, a white picket fence surrounds the entire camp.
Dad gets up when he sees Olive and calls her to look at his smoker.
“I made a brisket just for you,” he says. “It’s been cooking since midnight.”
“Dad, what is all this? Are you moving in here?”
“I like to picnic in style,” he replies.
“This stopped being a picnic a long time ago. You’ve been here since midnight?”
I look at my watch. It’s three o’clock.
“No, silly,” says Mom. We got here around… what, Francisco? Five, five-thirty?”
“Five in the morning?”
“All the good spots are taken by six. We had to fight those guys for this one.” She jerks her head at the middle-aged couple in the next tent over. “We’re closer to the stage.”
I can just picture Mom and Dad rushing through the park at five in the morning, fighting for prime real estate at the free concert scene.
“Dad, what are you thinking? You made a brisket?”
“If your brisket is as good as your ribs,” says Olive, clasping dad’s hands in her own, “I would love to invite you over for Rosh Hashanah,”
“I brought hummus and cheese. I thought you were bringing cold cuts or something.”
A cheshire grin spreads across Dad’s face. “How does it feel to be out-done, Nacho?”
