Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living restoring vintage neon signs out of a cinder-block converted garage in central Tucson. His knuckles are crisscrossed with thin scars from burst glass tubes, the cuffs of every flannel he owns are splattered with pink and electric blue paint, and he hasn’t voluntarily stayed at a neighborhood social function longer than 45 minutes since his ex-wife left him for a competitive cyclist eight years prior. His biggest flaw, if you asked the few people who know him well, is that he’s convinced any deviation from his carefully ordered routine of work, frozen burritos, and 70s western reruns will end in unnecessary headache. He only showed up to the October block party because Mrs. Henderson three doors down dropped off a tray of homemade beef empanadas the week before, and he owed her.
He’s leaning against a folding table strung with orange fairy lights, nursing a lukewarm Modelo, when she approaches. She’s the new neighbor, Clara, who bought the run-down ranch next door after the old owner passed in spring, here from Portland to flip the place. She’s holding a paper plate stacked with smoked brisket sliders, and the second she gets close, he catches the scent of cedar body wash and the faint, sweet tang of menthol cigarette smoke on her shirt. She nods at his boots, splattered with the same neon paint as his flannel, and says she’s been looking for him. Her shoulder brushes his when she leans in to talk over the mariachi band playing two tables over, and he tenses up on instinct, unused to anyone being that close without a reason related to broken glass or wiring.
She explains she found a rusted 1960s Route 66 Diner sign propped against the back fence of the property, wants it restored to hang over the back porch when she rents the place out long term. He opens his mouth to say he’s not taking side jobs right now, that his schedule’s full of commercial work for the new taco joints downtown, but then she laughs, low and rough, when a kid in a skeleton costume runs between them and nearly knocks his beer out of his hand. Their elbows knock when she steadies the can for him, and her skin is warm, even through the thin metal. He’s torn, his brain screaming to turn her down, to go home to his quiet couch and his soldering iron before he gets roped into something he can’t back out of, but his chest feels light, weirdly bright, like the first time he flipped the switch on a restored neon sign he’d spent three months fixing.
She teases him, says she knows he’s not busy on weekends, she’s seen him out in his driveway sanding sign frames every Saturday at 9 a.m. sharp for the three weeks she’s lived there. Offers to trade, not cash, but a year of cold brew from the backyard tap she built herself, plus all the brisket he can eat, since she competes in regional BBQ contests on the side. He tries to think of an excuse, but then she leans a little closer, holds his gaze for two beats longer than casual politeness requires, and brushes a fleck of dried pink paint off the cuff of his flannel. Her fingers linger on his wrist for half a second, calloused too, he notices, like she works with her hands too, and he doesn’t pull away.
He realizes the quiet he’s spent eight years guarding isn’t peace. It’s just loneliness, wrapped up in a routine he thought kept him safe. He tells her he’ll come over tomorrow at 10 a.m. to look at the sign, but she better have the cold brew ready, extra ice, no sugar. She grins, dimples popping in her sunburnt cheeks, and gives him a little two-finger salute before she turns to walk toward Mrs. Henderson’s table.
Manny stays at the party for another two hours, longer than he’s stayed anywhere that didn’t involve a soldering iron or a vintage sign in half a decade. He listens to the mariachi band play old ranchera songs he remembers his dad singing when he was a kid, eats two of her brisket sliders she drops off on her way back from talking to Mrs. Henderson, and when she catches him staring from across the yard later, she winks. He takes a slow sip of his fresh beer, the cold liquid cutting through the warm desert air, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty house.
