Taco Tuesday
There were no trees at the corner of Third and Rose. Only a flat field of concrete where the old door factory had burned down. Its weathered cement floors and foundation were all that remained. Weeds adorn in unappreciated flowers grew through the cracks where they could. The large urban plot blighted by its general lack of activity was a forgotten place. At its edge between the property and the sidewalk stood a chain link fence and a small hand painted sign. The diminutive little sign was about the size of a cereal box. Adorned in periwinkle with hand scripted white letters. The little advertisement was a small curiosity lost in the bright wide open space. Yet, the brilliant contrasting colors that adorn it gave it some prominence. And that was about all it had going for it. Hidden in the helter-skelter. Among plastic shopping bags and weeds. The sign differed from the snagged bags in its harsh and cluttered hinterland. An unlikely sign in an unlikely place. It caught the attention of a vagabond Named Alain as he stumbled about on his journey. Who would put this here, Alain grouched? The sign’s message stated “Taco’s Today”. Alain read it again feeling as though he were its only witness. The little sign baking in the oppressive midday sun. To Alain, the message felt like a note found in a bottle. And he, its lone recipient, a castaway on a beach of some desolate island. Obvious to us Alain’s imagination was more pleasant than a concrete path. His fantasy interloping to somewhere where there were tacos today. But it was not here. After taking a third moment to read its message. Alain questioned his relationship with tacos.
A few feet away a small group of cars waited for the light. The occupants hidden in the familiar air conditioned kingdoms that entitled them. Not one of them noticed anyone but themselves. Alain feeling limp under the midday sun was wondering if they too were strangers in a strange land. Yet, Alain found there was gratitude to be had in this moment. It was that his person was not grokked by this audience. Yet it also hurt his ego to be on display in this way. A commoner in the nude. Alain was there without a car to announce any awesome sauce amongst peers. But then, Alain supposed, why would anyone be so bothered. Why would anyone look below their own perceived destination? No one noticed this plump creature who found a dainty sign so enamoring. It was an unimportant place and Alain was as unimportant. A pass through location in a treeless un-desirable neighborhood. Kind of like Gary, Indiana.
Grateful he was not harassed like a panhandler. Alain wobbled around one eighty to press the button on the stop light pole. Beneath a tattered cap, its brim saluted the sanctuary behind the blue portholes. There lived a muse of another name that perfumed the control room. This persistent preoccupation often kept Alain from living in the moment. And this was the case when he stepped day dream-ily into the intersection.
This intersection, an average intersection, consumed a quarter acre of land. And much the same as many others, it was uninhabitable. An unremarkable field of concrete and machine slaughter. The people who built it had tried to dress it up and make it look like a fun game. They put some little yellow paint on the cement. Added a few colored lights. Then busied themselves zooming their expensive shiny machines in and out of it. All the while appearing as if they were in some choreography routine of a communist dance troupe. However, every plant and animal knew to stay away. Only the sun above was superior to this noisy river of contraptions.
Before the light had changed Alain began to stumble forward into the intersection. His life was now in peril as he crossed the dim boundary between curb and road surface. Flesh and bones were in need of a miracle. But to that end there was a scent born on a puff of breeze from a distant hotdog stand. An aroma that reminded Alain of his appetite. It was an awakening at the very moment when Alain’s inner monologue was attempting to kill him. Oh crap, Alain muttered, and he stepped back on to the curb. His hunger now feeling offended by a general refusal to eat hotdogs. Alain stumbling back towards the fence found a seat on a weathered old bus bench. His head still swimming in the beers it had drowned in eight hours previous. Alain feeling a bit shaken on the bench tried to squelch the rising tide of indigestion in his chest.
The old bench had on its backrest an ancient faded advertisement for cigarettes. A faded image of a woman dressed in a silky red dress in the weathered ad. This skinny young lady lay smiling. She had one arm propping her torso and in her other hand a long thin white cigarette. The fabled ad lady had that flawless smile, red lips and the dated big hair that one would expect of the 1980’s. The decrepit billboard ran the full width of the bench backrest. It was comfortable when Alain landed on it. So comfortable indeed that before long he was laying the entire length of it. Alain, looking like a plump, grizzled, walrus next to the smorking lady.
Facing the sky, Alain could see little puffy white clouds as they danced in the heavens above. A ballet that reminded Alain of a childhood moment. A long ago occasion, lounging atop a raft on a small lake in the woodlands of Northern Wisconsin. His little boy mind contemplating the apotheosis of this blue globe as the clouds danced above. Before long Alain’s eye’s had closed and sleep began to take over. Dream falling away from the little blue sign at the corner of Third and Mill. Alain now fell below the clouds. He was going where tree lined streets provide a mirage of stability to the inhabitants.
Chapter 2
In the small leather notebook found in Alain’s back pocket, an old inscription dated 3/14/18 reads,
They call it St. Urho’s Day
Certainly not all the fun awaits us tomorrow
Inside the soapbox I expect business as usual
Hiding under a blanket of clouds
Sorting yard waste, and snowflakes into semi separate piles
My work in here is only as I know it
But the noise level in the control room can be overwhelming
High repetition music, and constant chatter with your mannequin echo throughout this vessel
If this is true for you can you say it through your eyes too
I pull the lever and furl the brow to better strain into my ignorance across the void
And I wonder if you like when I make eye contact
Will you provide a sympathetic understanding of what it's like over there
In here the floor is still moist with the remnants of a drunken folly
And in my kitchen a place of ugly desire
An empty box of chocolates reveals what compels me
To be sure I use the gob to direct an inquiry
Maybe your reply can affect the mess on my desk
I suspect you already know of spin and prejudice
Las Pueblo De Ancho Chiles, the work house to which Alain interned himself. Was located in an alley south off Main Street. The small yellow brick building with north facing windows flanking a main entrance. Its location humble among an unremarkable parade of dumpsters and fire escapes. An incomplete thought buried among sad secondary design elements. Alain’s roll as head chef, lauded by the local press as a diamond in the rough to those in the know.
As Alain made his way towards the service entrance on the west side of the building, he checked the front door. More out of habit than anything. To his surprise when he grabbed and pulled, it opened. The large glass door had a soft well worn aluminum handle. It was a common institutional grade commercial door. A durable architectural detail designed for years of heavy use. As Alain swung the door open the small bell tied its crash bar rang into the empty dining area.
The noise disturbed his inner peace as it always did. A bittersweet melodic reminder of the past and pending. In the dinning room, the lights were all on and faint music echoed throughout the empty building. he wondered, Had it been open and unlocked all night? Alain was incredulous. What the Duce, he whispered. There was a neat stack of cash on the counter next to the till. It was exactly where it had been when he had exited the West side door the night before.
In fact everything was exactly as it had been the moment he exited that door. It was as if time had stopped. Where was Loren? He reached into his pocket and retrieved his Ferrari red phone, and typed a text message. Then returned the phone to its favorite pocket. He began to clean up the cash and stow it into the safe where it belonged. As he did, Alain took time to make meticulous note its value in the ledger. This activity always reminding him of his past mistakes.
In his head he did not to make a fuss with Loren over the way he found things. It would be obvious to anyone where things could have gone. An open door, cash laying on the counter. The thought gave him goosebumps. He wanted to be fair with Loren. There was always a flip side of each story. Besides, it was no trouble for him to close out the till. He had done the procedure countless times before. Business had been robust the previous evening. The rowdy crowd of regulars filling the dinning room. Loren had been commiserating with a large table of pals. Probably over indulging in some of the free flowing tequila. Walking back to the kitchen, Alain took care to leave the bag of requested items, on the prep counter.
An hour later, Loren walked in. Good morning Loren, saluted Alain. How are you feeling this today? Loren was quiet, for a moment. Then said, We had a decent crowd last night. Did you close up? Yes of course. Everything is stowed where is should be, replied Alain. What were our numbers, demanded Loren. Alain replied, I logged them into the journal. I can’t remember them exactly. You know I am not good with remembering numbers. Frowning, Loren then spun around to focus on the grocery bags Alain had left on the prep table. We are opening today, right? Inquired Allen. Again Loren didn’t reply. Loren made much noise rifling through the paper bag. Too much noise to hear Alain. Did you get the green chilies? How about the can of fire roasted tomatoes? Asked Loren. Alain sulked a yes. However, Loren continued to reiterate the list as if cross checking a child’s work. This always made Alain feel small and useless. In these moments Alain felt like Loren viewed him as some sort of child. A student whose work always needed the help of a red marking pen.
He watched his partner through the corner of his eye as they poured through the items in the bags. He suspected Loren was not feeling well. Was Loren's abusive communication tied to an over indulgence of tequila. As Loren sorted the contents of the bags, Alain tried his best to make cheerful small talk. His one sided conversation grinding like a sloth to nowhere. But then, Loren found offense with one of the items. A jar of pickles was the wrong brand. This needs to be returned, and exchanged Loren demanded. You should know I don’t like Green Hill pickles, why would you buy it, demanded Loren. Allen protested and did his best to explain how the ambiguity in Loren’s text message had confused him. But the damage to Alain's person remained. He now retreated into himself, and made no further effort to speak. It was clear to him now as it had before, that his boss was again disappointed with him. Alain demurred and promised he would get it done asap. Loren replied by chided back that going out again was also undesirable. After a few moments of silence and plenty of confusion in Alain's head. Loren then added a layer of guilt. Now Loren lectured Alain how his ineptitude was the reason the quality of the tacos had declined.
Sliding a sideways glance at the Bib Gourmand on the wall. Alain, peeked at the award hung next to their business license. Alain then turned his eyes down to the onion covered knife in his hand. Setting the knife down he wiped his hands on his white apron then untied its waist straps. I’m going back to the store he stated without tone. Pulling his apron over his head. He then hung it on one of hooks located next to the service door. Loren said nothing to Alain as he quietly exited the building. Arguing with Loren had never amounted to anything in the past. Loren was by mouth far faster to the draw, and always more willing to condescend than Allen.
Alain’s awareness of his own difficult nature did little to sooth him. He did not like to think himself a pushover. He knew why he did’t leave the toxic partnership he entrapped himself. Las Pueblo De Ancho Chiles was Alain’s everything. His life and all his savings sunk deep into his partnership with Loren. Every time things got difficult, Alain would again feel that nagging pit of pain in his abdomen. The one that worried about his future, and him living on the downhill side of life’s hump without any savings.
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