“I got a bad desire, ohh ohh ohh, I’m on fire.” The muffled sounds of Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” played in the background. It was warm and dark, and he was so, so very tired. It had been a day, as they say. He just wanted to sleep, and her legs were so warm. Her abdomen looked like an inviting pillow—he could sleep ’til next month.
For what he was about to do, another song from that record should have been playing. Now, “I’m on Fire” is a properly sexy song. “I’m Goin’ Down” was just more appropriate at this moment. Shit, now it’s stuck on loop in his head. “I’m goin’ down, down, down, down…” he chuckled. An annoyed voice said, “Do you want to switch places and I’ll giggle at you from down there?” Shit, she heard me, he thought. “I’m sorry, darlin’, you are the perfect peach.”
An American flag background and Bruce’s ass in blue jeans with a red cap in his pocket was the record cover for that album. That was actually the first vinyl record he remembered seeing from his childhood. That was also the first time he tried Jack Daniel’s. He was probably 4, maybe 5, and his dad was listening to that album. The dust cover was laying on the table next to a tumbler of soda.
He had been outside playing cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood kids. He was always the Indian because of his dark hair and olive skin. He liked it—even at kids’ games, he was the underdog. Nothing has changed, he thought. Geronimo was way cooler than that pussy Roy Rogers, anyway, he always thought.
Being tired and thirsty, he reached for the soda and gulped. He immediately coughed at the sweet, burning taste. His dad ran over and said, “That’s your old man’s special drink. You’ll have to wait until you have hair on your chest to enjoy that.” Thinking back now, it would have been a lot more of a special drink if he hadn’t ruined it with soda.
“Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up,” she said. He slowly pulled the covers off his head, trying to remember where he was. “You were singing the wrong Springsteen song, laughed, then fell asleep on me. You looked too cute laying there, so I just let you sleep.” Shit, he had drooled all over her stomach. “Well, I told you I’d make you wet,” he replied. She rolled her eyes and said, “You owe me breakfast and coffee.”
It was morning. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, but he was feeling better. “I will make coffee and breakfast burritos, and I won’t muff it,” he replied. She rolled her eyes again and said it was too early for corny jokes. He started to say a joke about a vertical smile, but she kicked him off the bed onto his boots.
Last night’s dream of the “Born in the U.S.A.” record was bugging him, like something he was supposed to remember. Watching her sipping coffee topless was much more appealing than thinking of Bruce Springsteen’s ass on a dust cover, though. He never liked strip clubs, but watching a naked woman doing something routine as sipping coffee turned him on. Fuck breakfast burritos; I’ll make brunch burritos, he thought. He picked her up and carried her off to bed.
He fired up Lola, his Porsche 911 Targa he had inherited from his old man, and scrolled to his Springsteen playlist. He wasn’t a big fan, but his dad was. He would often go for a Sunday drive, listening to the playlist and talking to the invisible passenger—his old man.
Like most boys, his dad was his hero. He taught him how and when to fight, to be a gentleman, and the pleasure of wine. He had inherited his family winery but was hands-off; it was still too painful to go through the winery doors. What the hell was Bruce trying to tell him? He kept wondering. He knew there was something he had long forgotten.
He was pulling up to the winery to pick up his daughter and her shadow, a shepherd mutt he had recently liberated from an asshole. They were already the best of friends, and he would always remember his daughter’s smile when she first met Sophia. Then at once, everything came flooding back. The combination of him staring at his beautiful child as the Springsteen song “My Childhood” played in the background must have triggered it.
His dad would play the “Born in the U.S.A.” cassette as he drove him around in Lola, talking about his dreams. He had to have only been seven or eight at the time, but it seemed like it was every Sunday morning for a summer. His mom and dad had just purchased the winery, and he was telling his son his grand vision to the soundtrack written by Bruce Springsteen years earlier. Those were the good times when his mom was healthy.
Tears were forcing their way out as he lifted his sunglasses. The lyrics had even more importance than they had just five minutes ago. His beautiful daughter, Maria, came running up, asking, “What’s wrong, Daddy?” She was the tallest, most beautiful eight-year-old that had ever lived. Argue the point with her dad, and you’ll be picking up your teeth from off the ground. “Nothing, sweetheart. Daddy was just remembering something about Papa. I’m okay,” he replied.
He had forgotten because his father hadn’t talked to him about his dreams since he was young. Now, as a grown man with grown-man problems, he realized why he hadn’t. A man that has an ounce of passion and drive will have dreams. Life works hard to take those dreams away from a man one day at a time. His dad had tried, but life had won this boxing match. It was the undisputed pound-for-pound champion.
Sitting on a blanket, he watched Maria and Sophia run around the vineyard chasing a butterfly. Picnics with his daughter had become the highlight of the summer months. Maria would pick a theme for their weekly picnics—this week, Spain. She had recently discovered an old book of his dad’s about the wine regions of Spain. He had made virgin sangria and had his friend Nate put together an assortment of tapas for them as the Gypsy Kings’ greatest hits played in the background.
Bruce Springsteen and the Spanish picnic with his daughter seemed like a sign from his old man of what to do next. His father’s dream started in a small town in a country with a heavily Spanish influence. He hadn’t been back there since his first love, Emilia, broke his heart the summer of his junior year of high school. He hoped Nate could go with him. Nate was good for keeping him out of trouble—you know, the responsible type. He pulled out his phone and typed in Medrano, Mendoza, Argentina.
