The bass hit Alex first, a physical vibration that traveled up through the soles of her sneakers and settled deep in her chest. The air in the sprawling, cracked-asphalt parking lot was thick with the smells of grilled meat, cigar smoke, and high-octane gasoline. It was a world of gleaming candy-apple reds, metallic flake blues, and chrome so bright it hurt to look at. This was a lowrider show, and Alex Dunphy, in her sensible jeans and a plain grey sweater, felt like she'd accidentally wandered onto a different planet.
Marco, on the other hand, had just come home.
"Oye, Rivera!" a large man with intricate tattoos covering his bald head called out, pulling Marco into a back-slapping hug.
"¿Qué onda, Gordo?" Marco laughed, returning the hug with equal force. "The Impala is looking clean, man."
"Gracias, carnal. Who's this?" Gordo asked, his eyes, friendly but sharp, landing on Alex.
"This is Alex, my girl," Marco said, his arm sliding possessively around her waist. "Alex, this is Gordo. He's a legend."
Alex managed a tight, polite smile. "Nice to meet you."
Gordo gave her an approving nod before turning his attention back to Marco, launching into a rapid-fire Spanish conversation about hydraulics. This pattern repeated itself every ten feet. A nod from a guy leaning against a truck on spinners. A handshake from an older man in a pristine fedora. A chorus of "¿Qué pasa, Marco?" from a group of young guys gathered around a convertible that was rhythmically hopping its back end off the ground.
Marco navigated it all with an easy, confident grace Alex had never quite seen before. This wasn't the chaotic energy he had at the skate park or the focused intensity when he was fixing a car. This was pure, unadulterated social fluency. He belonged here, amidst the thumping oldies and the shady, yet strangely welcoming, characters.
He finally led her to the main spectacle: a long line of lowriders, their engines purring, preparing for the hopping competition. He found them a spot near the front, leaning against a barrier.
"You know a lot of people," Alex stated, her voice barely audible over the music.
He grinned. "My tío used to be deep in the scene. I grew up around this. It's in the blood, mami."
Just then, a guy holding a bottle of Hennessy wrapped in a brown paper bag ambled over. "Oye, Marco! Thirsty?"
"Always, primo," Marco said, accepting the bottle. He took a long, practiced swig, wincing slightly as it went down. He then offered the bottle to Alex.
She stared at it. The thought of drinking from a communal bottle passed around a parking lot full of strangers went against every hygiene and safety protocol she possessed. "I'm… good."
Marco just chuckled, not offended in the slightest. "Suit yourself." He took another, smaller sip before handing the bottle back to his friend with a nod of thanks.
The show began. Cars took turns, their hydraulic pumps hissing, making them bounce and dance on their axles. The crowd roared with each car, some hopping so high they seemed to defy physics. Marco cheered, calling out drivers by name, critiquing their setups with a knowledgeable eye.
"See that '64? He's got a three-pump setup, but his battery is weak. He's gonna fade," he'd whisper to her, and sure enough, the car would eventually sputter out.
Alex watched, mesmerized despite herself. It was a bizarre blend of mechanical artistry and street-level theater. She was an observer, a scientist studying a foreign culture, and Marco was her native guide. He'd point out the intricate murals painted on trunk lids, explain the difference between a hopping setup and a dancing one, and translate the rapid Spanish commentary from the crowd.
At one point, he looked down at her, his eyes sparkling. "So? What do you think?"
Alex looked around—at the gleaming cars, the laughing, tough-looking people, the haze of smoke and barbecue hanging in the air, and the boy beside her who was so completely in his element. It was loud, it was probably illegal in several ways, and it was the absolute antithesis of everything in her comfort zone.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "It's… a lot."
He kissed the top of her head. "But it's cool, right?"
And as a midnight-blue Chevy Impala leaped into the air, its front wheels pointing skyward, suspended for a breathtaking moment against the night sky, Alex had to admit it.
"Yeah, Marco," she said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. "It's cool."
———
The familiar sound of Marco's Civic screeching to a halt in the Dunphy driveway was followed by his usual booming, "AY, MAMI! LET'S GO!" Alex, having long since given up on him using the doorbell, grabbed her bag and headed out.
"What's the emergency?" she asked, sliding into the passenger seat. "You sounded way too excited on the phone."
"Emergency?" Marco grinned, peeling away from the curb. "Nah. This is a breakthrough. A scientific discovery. You're gonna witness history."
Alex raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Did you finally get the grease stain out of your favorite hoodie?"
"Better." His eyes were gleaming with uncontainable pride. "Way better."
When they got to his house, he led her not to his room, but to the backyard. It was its usual state of organized chaos—tools on a bench, a deflated basketball, and Rosa's herb garden fighting for space. Marco put a finger to his lips.
"Shhh. You gotta be cool. He gets stage fright."
"Who gets stage fright?" Alex asked, but her question was answered a second later. From under the porch deck, a familiar, furry, bandit-masked face emerged. Carlos the raccoon waddled into the center of the yard, sat down on his haunches, and stared expectantly at Marco.
"Hola, mi amigo," Marco cooed, pulling a Ziploc bag of hot dog pieces from his pocket. Alex watched, a sense of dread and fascination warring within her.
"Okay, watch this," Marco said, his voice dropping to an instructor's tone. He held up a piece of hot dog. "Carlos… siéntate."
Carlos's beady eyes locked onto the treat. He let out a soft, chittering sound but remained seated. He was already sitting.
"Well, he was already sitting," Alex pointed out.
"Details," Marco waved her off. "He's in the position. That's step one." He tossed Carlos the piece of hot dog, which was snatched out of the air with startling speed.
"Alright, phase two." Marco held up another piece. "Carlos… échate. Lie down."
To Alex's utter astonishment, Carlos hesitated for only a second before slowly lowering his front half, then his rear, until he was lying flat on the concrete patio, his little paws tucked in. He looked like a furry, disgruntled rug.
"Oh my god," Alex whispered.
"I KNOW, RIGHT?" Marco whisper-yelled, his face ecstatic. He tossed the second treat. Carlos scarfed it down and immediately popped back up into a sitting position, his gaze more intense than ever.
"Now for the grand finale," Marco announced, his voice trembling with theatrical gravity. He held up the last, and largest, piece of hot dog. "Carlos… da una vuelta. Roll over."
Carlos stared at the treat. He stared at Marco. He chittered impatiently.
"Da una vuelta," Marco repeated, making a circular motion with his finger.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire animal kingdom, Carlos flopped onto his side and performed a single, sluggish, and utterly disdainful roll onto his back and then back onto his feet. It was the most unenthusiastic trick performance Alex had ever seen.
But it counted.
"YES! HE DID IT!" Marco roared, pumping his fist in the air. He triumphantly tossed the final hot dog piece, which Carlos devoured in one bite.
The moment the food was gone, the magic vanished. Carlos, his contractual obligations fulfilled, gave Marco a look of profound indifference, turned, and waddled back under the porch without a backward glance.
Marco turned to Alex, his chest puffed out. "Well? What do you think? Am I a genius or am I a genius?"
Alex was speechless for a moment, processing the sheer absurdity of what she'd just witnessed. "You… you taught a wild raccoon to roll over for hot dogs."
"See? You said it was impossible. You said, 'Marco, that's a vector for disease,' and 'Marco, he's a wild animal, not a poodle.' But who was right?" He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "This guy."
"He only did it for the treats," Alex countered, trying to cling to logic. "If you didn't have hot dogs, he wouldn't have done anything."
Marco's grin didn't falter. "So? That's how all relationships work, mami. You do tricks, you get treats. It's basic sociology." He slung an arm around her shoulders. "C'mon, admit it. You're impressed."
Alex looked at the empty spot where the raccoon had been, then back at Marco's ridiculously proud face. She shook her head, but a laugh finally escaped. "I'm… something. I'm definitely something."
He kissed her temple. "That's my girl. Now you know. If you ever need a raccoon trained, you know who to call."