The Vintage Segment

Short Story
Age Group: Adult

Genre: Mystery

Summary: When Rico Sandoval’s classic RV disappears the night before a local news interview, he enlists the help of neighbor teen Hareesh to find the RV before the news crew arrives.

The Vintage Segment was entered in round two of the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest, 2022.

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Another half second, and Rico would have lost three toes to the mower.

“Stay off the driveway,” he hollered over the whir of the John Deere.

Hareesh, the teenager riding the mower, didn’t even take out his earbuds.

“Kids,” Rico muttered. He patted his 1937 Hunt Housecar, careful not to get fingerprints on it. “Don’t worry, mi vieja. No grass in that chrome grill of yours. You will look magnifico for your interview tomorrow.”

The mower stopped. “Am I done yet?” said Hareesh. “It’s almost 5. Nani’s making saffron chicken.”

“Clean off the mower and put it away.”

“But I’ll be late.”

“You should have thought of that before barreling through my front yard in your grandmother’s Cadillac. It’s going to take three days to replant flowerbeds, spread fresh mulch, and put the mailbox back up. Not to mention installing a new fountain. You live three houses down. How were you going 45?”

Hareesh gave him an exasperated groan. “You and Nani—neither of you will let this go. It was an accident, okay? The accelerator got stuck.”

“And it wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened and stayed home. It’s a good thing your grandmother owns a towing company, or you’d be paying wrecker fees too. Just got your license last week, and already totaled a car.”

Rico adjusted his bifocals and buffed a hairline scratch on the vintage RV’s rounded front. The neighbor’s flowering Bougainvillea bushes overflowed the wooden privacy fence and invaded his driveway. Two thorny branches brushed his RV. “Remember, I need you back at 7 AM.”

Hareesh muttered something about preferring to pick trash off the highway, but he returned to the mower.

The RV’s silver exterior glinted in the evening sun. Not one smudge marred windows or mirrors. Even the headlight covers were pristine. Every chrome accent glittered.

If only his hair were such a distinguished silver instead of dull white. But at 88, having hair at all was an accomplishment.

Rico circled the RV and discovered scraps of trash wedged under the back wheel. “Hareesh,” he called toward the shed.

The 17-year-old jogged over. “Mower’s up.”

“Great. I’m going to pull the RV forward. You grab the wheel stops and get that trash.” Rico took the spare RV key from the fake rock sitting under a patio chair. When Hareesh had kicked the chocks free of all four wheels, Rico eased the RV forward three feet, keeping the boy visible in the side mirror.

“Got it.” Hareesh waved a Reader’s Digest cover.

Usually, Rico kept the RV covered under its awning, but he’d brought it out today for an extra once-over before tomorrow’s news piece.

A branch bashed the side mirror. In Spanish, Rico threw assorted insults at the neighbor’s bush. Tomorrow, he’d cut it back himself. For now, he backed the RV three yards further into the driveway to avoid scratches. He’d hounded the neighbors about that bush for two weeks. Of course, they’d countered by whining about him not putting up a fence between his property and the pond. Apparently, the row of crepe myrtles back there wasn’t satisfactory. Something about local wildlife wandering in from the preserve.

Rico climbed out of the RV as Hareesh deposited the ripped magazine cover in the garbage. “Don’t forget. 7 AM.” He replaced the spare key. “And don’t be late. The news waits for no one. I want everything presentable by the time the camera crew arrives. It’s not every day WZHN runs a story on classic RVs and motor homes. I’ll not have mi vieja disgraced because of one irresponsible party.”

“I’ll be here. Nani wakes me up at 6 every morning.” Hareesh brushed grass from his t-shirt and cargo shorts. “You know that’s an obvious hiding place for a key, right? If somebody wanted to grab your RV, finding the key would be way easy. That fake rock isn’t fooling anyone.” Hareesh backpedaled up the drive and scanned the front of the house. “That would be a good spot.” He pointed to the flock of metal flamingos outside Rico’s living room window. The pink birds spun in the stiff summer breeze. “Nobody’s gonna bother those.”

“The key’s fine where it is. Not one incident since I retired from the real estate game 20 years ago.”

“Whatever. See you tomorrow.” Hareesh put his earbuds in and trotted home.

Rico shook his head as the boy bounced down the sidewalk to the beat of inaudible music. A gust of wind banged his screen door shut as he went inside.

Dinner was fresh salami on rye, which Rico enjoyed during a news story about tourist boats getting chased down the Hillsborough River by angry alligators.

At 7, he clicked off the TV and went to bed, rehearsing what he might say during tomorrow’s interview.

When Rico stepped outside at 6:57 AM, he nearly tripped down the front steps.

The driveway was empty except for the red wheel chocks laying on either side of the pavement.

“There you are.” Hareesh came up behind Rico. “Got here a few minutes ago and thought you were already outside. Where’s the RV?”

“Mi—mi vieja… She’s gone.” Rico’s stomach turned.

“Wait. You didn’t move it?” said Hareesh.

Rico ignored the boy and headed straight for the spare key. The rock was missing. “Someone took her!” Faster than was wise, he vaulted down the steps toward the sidewalk only to run out of breath at the end of the driveway. “We—we’ve got to—find her. News crew’s—going to be here—in three hours.”

“You should call the police.” Hareesh took out his phone and started dialing.

“No.” Rico waved at Hareesh to put the phone away before catching his breath. “If we do that, the news crew will skip us. No one will know how special she is.”

“It’s just some 30 second blip on local TV. What’s the big deal?” Hareesh stuffed his phone into one baggy pocket.

“Papi bought that RV in 1938. We’d just gotten permission to move here from Mexico, and we didn’t have enough money for a house, so Papi took odd jobs to pay for hotel rooms and food. One man he worked for had just gotten a new job in New York, and he couldn’t take this RV with him, so he sold it to Papi for a quarter of what it was worth. We lived out of that RV for five years until we found an affordable house. By then, the two of us could barely cram inside. Just before he died, Papi gave me the keys.

“‘Ricito,’ he said, ‘take care of mi vieja. She has been good to us.’ So, I took her home, cleaned her up, and she’s been with me ever since. I didn’t know until years later she’s one of less than 50 ever made.” He hung his head. “You don’t have to say it. I’m an idiot for not at least putting a cover over her last night.”

“If you’re looking for criticism, I can’t really talk.” Hareesh indicated the demolished flowerbeds. “I just hope whoever took it didn’t load it into a truck or trailer. If they did… well…”

Rico cringed at the thought of his RV being treated like scrap. The thieves had probably scraped the chrome and dented the wheel covers. And who knew how much dirt they’d tracked inside? He rushed to the front of the driveway to check for ruts. Thanks to Hareesh bagging yesterday’s clippings, Rico didn’t have to kick clumps of browning grass out of the way as he inspected the dirt.

When he found nothing, Rico worked from the driveway along the front of the house in case the thieves had chosen a different point of entry. But the only evidence he found was from Hareesh’s misadventure with the car two nights ago.

He headed toward the street. “Better ask the neighbors. Doris is always up half the night. She has to have seen something.”

“Did you hear a truck after you went to bed? See headlights?” said Hareesh as he tailed Rico.

“No.”

“You sure? Old people snore. You might have drowned out a motor.”

“I do not snore.”
“Uh huh. Nani says the same thing.”
Rico crossed the street to Doris’ duplex.

She answered the door on the tenth knock and propped the screen open with her walker. “Rico. Nice to see you. I was just finishing the 7 o’clock news. So exciting your RV’s going to be on TV this evening.”

“Yes. Thank you. Did you see anything out of the ordinary last night? Trucks you didn’t recognize, or a large trailer?”

“Don’t think so.” Doris tottered forward and craned to see around Rico and Hareesh. “Where’s that pretty silver Housecar? You didn’t put it away again, did you? It’s too nice to keep hidden all the time. Enjoy life, my grandpa always said.”

“Thanks, Doris. Give me a call if you think of anything.”

“All right.” She retreated inside, and the screen door glided shut with a quiet rattle.

“Can I call the police now?” Hareesh said.

“No. Mi vieja’s story deserves to be told. Calling la policia will prevent that.”

Hareesh blew a mosquito out of his face on the trip back to the sidewalk. “You’re stubborn. But it’s your RV, so I guess you’re the boss.”

Two hours later, Rico trudged home beside Hareesh without any more information. “The reporter’s coming in less than an hour.”

Hareesh held up his phone.

Rico sighed. “All right. Call. Wish I’d moved that key yesterday when you said something. Thieves probably saw it right away.”

“Your key’s by the flamingos. I moved it for you this morning.” Hareesh retrieved the fake rock and shook it. The key inside jingled.

“But if the key’s not missing…” Rico went to where he’d parked the RV yesterday. The driveway extended ten feet further into the yard. Beside it, empty, sat the RV’s awning—positioned behind the house and invisible to passersby.

Hareesh kicked a rock toward the street. It bounced twice before tumbling into the grass. “You want me to pick up those wheel stops? They’re right where I left them yesterday.”

“You didn’t put them back?”

“You never told me to. I thought you were gonna do it.”

“No. We were talking about the RV key, and… I forgot.” Rico ventured into the back yard. Parallel trails of flattened grass ran all the way to the blooming crepe myrtles—one of which lay in a mangled heap.           

With each step, Rico’s heart sank a little lower as the grass sloped downhill toward the pond.

Hareesh ran ahead. “Found it.” He snapped a picture.

The RV stood in a foot of murky water and likely several inches of mud.

Rico plopped into the grass, face in his hands.

The news crew would never feature her now.

This was his fault. If only he’d double-checked before going inside last night. This RV had served him and his family faithfully, and he couldn’t even make sure she stayed out of a muddy retention pond.

Hareesh nudged Rico’s shoulder. “Nani says the guys’ll have it out in 20.”

“Huh?” Rico emerged from his stupor.

“Tow truck’s on its way,” Hareesh repeated more loudly.

“I’m old, not deaf. Get to the street so they don’t miss us.” 

The crew had the RV in place—and chocked—10 minutes before the news crew arrived.

Mud and algae caked the wheels, and splash marks marred the silver body; the back bumper was askew from squashing the crepe myrtle, but otherwise, the RV was all right.

Hareesh sprayed off the mud just as the WZHN van parked and a cameraman and reporter got out.

“They’ll never know,” Hareesh whispered behind one hand.

Rico pretended to wipe away sweat as he dabbed his eyes dry. “Consider your debt paid.”

“No more yardwork?”

“No.” Rico patted the boy’s shoulder. “Because of you, I can tell mi vieja’s story, and that’s worth far more than new flowerbeds.”