Elroy Mendez, 61, has restored 42 vintage campers in the 12 years since his ex-wife moved to Tucson with her 29-year-old spin class instructor, and he hasn’t wanted anyone messing with his routine in all that time. He’s the kind of guy who leaves his shop doors propped open at 6 a.m. even in the dead of winter, drinks black coffee so strong it’ll strip paint, and still writes all his work orders in a tattered spiral notebook instead of using the laptop his niece bought him for Christmas. That August Saturday, he’s manning a booth at the Coconino County Fair, parked next to the 4-H rabbit show, his award-winning 1972 Airstream Sovereign hitched to his beat-up Ford F-150, selling hand-carved mesquite cabinet pulls for 20 bucks a pop. The air smells like hay, fried dough, and cow manure, and sweat is sticking the collar of his faded work shirt to the back of his neck.
He’s wiping grease off his hands on his jeans when he sees her, and his jaw tightens immediately. Clara Bennett, 38, the new county health inspector who’d shown up at his shop three weeks prior, written him up for leaving old propane tanks leaning against the side of the barn, and threatened a $400 fine if he didn’t dispose of them properly by the end of the month. He’d avoided her follow-up calls for three straight days, let them go to voicemail, called her a stuck-up pencil pusher to his buddy over beer that Friday. She’s not in her usual starched button-down and slacks today, though. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts that show off a scar curling around her left calf, a faded Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers tee that’s frayed at the hem, and scuffed white sneakers caked in dust. A faint sunburn blazes across her nose, she’s holding a paper plate stacked with fried Oreos, and there’s no clipboard in sight, at least not at first glance.
He braces for the lecture, already ready to argue that he got rid of the tanks, that he doesn’t need a lecture on safety from someone half his age, but she just grins and leans against the edge of the booth, her elbow brushing his bicep when she nods at the Airstream behind him. “Off the clock,” she says, taking a bite of an Oreo, powdered sugar dusting her lower lip. “I’ve been hunting for a mid-70s Sovereign for six months. Wanted to see what you did with the interior. All the listings I’ve found are either rotted out or marked up 20 grand above value.” He blinks, caught off guard, and gestures for her to step around the booth. The floor of the Airstream is cool under their shoes when they step inside, the air smelling like cedar polish and the citrus air freshener he hangs by the door. She leans in to run a finger along the edge of the custom cabinet he built above the dinette, her shoulder pressing into his chest for half a second when she cranes her neck to see the hidden storage compartment he installed under the sink. He can smell coconut sunscreen and the sweet, greasy scent of the fried Oreos on her breath, and he has to clear his throat to get his voice to work when she asks how he matched the original 1970s laminate for the countertop.
He spends the next 20 minutes walking her through every modification he made, half surprised at how much he’s enjoying talking about the work, how she doesn’t zone out when he explains the difference between butyl and acrylic caulk for sealing the windows. She teases him about the “No Karens Allowed” sticker he’s got taped to his tool chest in the corner, and he teases her back when he spots the clipboard peeking out of her crossbody bag, only to find it’s stuffed full of handwritten campground maps and notes about Airstream parts, not inspection forms. The whole time, they’re standing so close their arms brush every time one of them moves, she holds eye contact for a beat longer than strictly necessary when he answers a question, and he can’t stop staring at the smattering of freckles across her shoulders, the way she bites her lower lip when she’s taking mental notes. A voice in the back of his head is yelling that this is a bad idea, that she’s way too young, that she’s the same person who threatened to fine him less than a month ago, that he’s spent 12 years avoiding any kind of connection so he doesn’t get burned again. But the voice gets quieter and quieter the longer they stand there, until it’s almost drowned out by the sound of the fair rides whirring outside, the distant sound of a country band playing on the main stage.
She’s stepping back out into the sun when she turns to him, her hand resting on his forearm for three full seconds, the heat of her palm seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I found a beat-up 1971 Sovereign for sale an hour outside town,” she says, her voice a little lower than before, no trace of the formal inspector tone he’d heard at his shop. “I have no clue what I’m doing when it comes to patching the aluminum siding. Would you be willing to give me a hands-on lesson next Saturday? I’ll bring my abuela’s green chile enchiladas. They’re so good you’ll forget you ever hated me for that propane tank fine.” He pauses, the voice in his head making one last half-hearted protest about hassle and heartbreak, and then he grins. “Yeah,” he says. “As long as you bring extra salsa. I like it hot.” She laughs, scribbles her cell number on a napkin she pulls out of her bag, shoves it into his hand.
She waves over her shoulder as she walks off to meet a group of her friends who are calling her name from near the corn dog stand, and he stands there staring at the napkin for a full minute, the faint scent of coconut sunscreen still clinging to his forearm where she touched him. He hasn’t felt this giddy, this unplanned, this open to something new, since before his ex-wife told him she was leaving. He tucks the napkin into the breast pocket of his work shirt, adjusts his dust-stained baseball cap, and grins so wide his cheeks ache.
