A question

Johnny walked out of the bathroom, he struggled with the small wooden door. Everyone did. It was on some kind of spring that shot the damn thing right back at you when you pushed on it.

“When did I become such a shit factory?” he said when he plopped back down on the barstool next to mine.

“Are we talking about poop or your writing?” I countered pointing at the just placed bottle of Budweiser on the bar.

“Very funny, compadre,” he said. “Very fucking funny.”

“He’s got his moments,” a voice cooed from the corner.

We both turned our stools to the source of this angelic voice. It was 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, there usually weren’t such things hanging out with us and our ever-depleting sources of alcohol.

She was stunning. In every way possible. Legs that didn’t end. Pale skin like just poured milk. A figure that would have made Jessica Alba jealous. And red hair. God damn it was the reddest I’d ever seen – and I made it a point to see a lot of red hair. Even if I have to pay for it.

“Hello trouble, come on in,” Johnny said when he was done observing.

“A Buck Owens fan, I see,” she purred. I was beginning to like this lady.

Silence filled the bar. Sarge, the afternoon barkeep had gone to the back to get something, I don’t remember what it was. The jukebox had stopped. The televisions were all on mute. And Johnny and I were completely in awe of what we were seeing.

“You boys going to invite me over or what?” she asked, slicing that silence like a chef in a Japanese steakhouse – with lots of moxie.

“Oh course, darlin’,” Johnny said. “Come on over.”

“Your friend’s gotta ask,” she replied, looking straight past Johnny and right at me.

“Well?” Johnny said, poking me in the ribs. I hated it when anyone poked me in the ribs. Not just because it was in and of itself an annoying thing to do, but because I’d broken a rib years back in a “minor golfing accident” and it still bothered me to this day.

“Only if you can answer one question,” I replied. “Get it right, I’ll buy you beers all night.”

“It’s actually the afternoon,” she tried to sass.

“That’s my point,” I shot back.

“Ooooh, a confident man,” she went back to purring.

“Not really, just full of enough shit to make it work,” I said, not knowing what to say. “But to continue, get it right, you get beer. Get it wrong, and my buddy John here will pay for the beers.”

“Hey…” Johnny said. “That sounds like a trick.”

“Shut up,” she said to him.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, slinking down just a bit on his barstool.

“Well, what’s this question?” she asked, now a bit of eagerness in her voice. That, I decided, was a good sign.

I racked my brain for something great. Something worthy of the buildup I had given this. But my mind was blank. Like it usually got around a beautiful woman. Completely wiped clean of anything useful.

Finally, I dorked out.

“What’s your favorite Lucero song?” I said.

She smiled. An even better sign.

“Sing Me No Hymns,” she said, walking up and sitting in the barstool next to mine.

“Looks like I’m buying,” I said.

“Leave me be and let me drink, I need none of your good intentions,” she said raising her bottle of Abita amber to my face.

“Well, if that’s not an invitation, nothing is,” I said, clinking my bottle of Shiner Bock to her bottle.

Johnny slinked a little lower in his barstool. I noticed and pointed at him ever so subtlety.

The redhead turned around and gave Johnny a peck on the cheek. Years later, he’d always brag that she kissed him before she ever kissed me.

“Why thank you ma’am,” he said, perking up.

“Listen Johnny, please don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “It makes me feel my age.”

“How old are ya?” he asked. Johnny was never too smooth.

“Old enough, babe. Old enough.”

The next couple of hours went by like lunch period in high school when you sneak out to go to Hardee’s. I looked at the Dixie Beer clock when she sat down and it said 2:11. The next time I noticed it, it read 4:57.

“Damn, the after work party’s gonna be here soon,” I said. “All those, those …”

“Employed people,” she finished my sentence.

“Are you implying, that I have no job?” I retorted.

“Why yes I am,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were so white they scared me. I wondered what she thought of my gold teeth, and I wasn’t talking 14K.

“He’s a writer,” Johnny slurred to her. “Best damn one I’ve ever read.”

“Really?” she replied. “And how many have you read?”

I laughed hard at that. I liked this gal. She had spunk. It didn’t hurt that she was way out of  my league and she was paying attention to me.

Yeah, I was a writer, I went on to explain to her. I wrote mostly about heartbreak and sadness. But my published work was about travel. I went on road trips and wrote about them. I’d stop at the ugliest, most beat up roadside diners or wig shops and find a story. I’d hang out for a couple of days, drink with my subject matter – sometimes I’d go to church with them instead – and the write up a couple thousand words. Slip it in the old electronic mail and a couple days later, I’d get a check.

“What do you do with the checks?” she asked.

“Half in the bank, half to Mick.”

“Mick?” she asked.

“He owns this place. He’ll be in here any minute now.”

“Mick doesn’t own this place,” she said puzzled.

“Huh?” I could only muster. I’d been coming here for two years now, and Mick always told me he owned the place.

“No, my father owns it. His name is Sid. He owns the taco stand a couple blocks from here too.”

Midget Prison Escape

“You know what kid?” Sid asked, “you really are a fuck up.”

It dawned on me quickly, that he wasn’t asking a question.

“How so, Sid?” I said back.

“Just look at you, man, you don’t even tuck your shirts in.”

He had me there. I never tucked my shirt in. I hated it. I did not understand guys that tucked in their shirts. Don’t even get me started on t-shirts. Why the hell would you tuck in a t-shirt?

“You got me there, Sid. It just seems so, so. What’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Professional? Well-groomed? Respectful?”

“Nah.”

“Corporate?”

“Definitely is that, but not what I’m searching for.”

I racked my brain, looking for a word that fit. This is one of those times when I wished I had a better vocabulary. It usually hit when I was writing. You can only use pretty or beautiful so many times. And adorable, it’s just too cute.

“Shitty,” I finally settled on.

“And you’re a fucking writer?”

“Yeah, kind of explains the whole ‘unpublished’ part, doesn’t it?”

He laughed is hearty belly laugh. It was one of the best parts of the day when I could get Sid to laugh like that. He hadn’t been nearly as happy lately. I’d noticed. It started before I told him I wanted to work at the taco stand. At least a month before, I’m not completely sure because I was off in my car for three weeks prior to June. Decided to finally drive the entire Highway 61 – from Canada to New Orleans. I submitted an essay on the journey to a couple of travel mags. They all rejected it. One called it “obvious” while the other said. “good idea, bad execution. Write about the God damn road, not what you think about it.”

I didn’t want to listen. Too long I’d listened to what others said to write. And I never got anywhere. The moment I decided to stop was at a pitch meeting. Me and my buddy Mitchell were in Los Angeles. He and I had been doing a web screenplay a day for six months. The last month it got noticed and exploded. All of our screenplays were 16 minutes long. No more, no less. It was easier that way, for sure. It made a great idea easier to execute. You didn’t have do too much plot.

So, one day an agent called us up.

“We want you boys to come out to L.A. and pitch us a script. If we like it, we’ll make a movie.”

So, we sat up for six days in a row. I was writing like a mad man, he was riffing ideas like a lunatic. Lots of coffee was consumed by Mitchell, lots of throwback Mountain Dews on my side.

In the end, we couldn’t come up with anything good.

“Hey, what about the midget idea?” I said as we were taking a limo to the airport in Wilmington, N.C.

“What?” Mitchell said, still a bit hazy from lack of sleep. He also had a wife and kid at home, so his desire to sleep was trumping mine at the moment. Didn’t help that we hit the Front Street Brewery three hours ago to have a few pints. A few turned into seven for me, six for him. Whoops.

“You know, that midgets breaking out of prison idea we had in the office one day a while back. One of the better tear producing days, if I remember.”

“Yeah, but,” Mitchell said.

“But what?”

“How the hell are we going to write a script on it? We’re heading to the airport.”

“They never said anything about a script. Just to pitch an idea. That’s what we’re supposed to be. Idea men. There is no way they expect a full script. Hell, all we’ve shown them is 16-minute scripts. It’s all we know. We’ll give ‘em ideas, and they’ll pay someone else to flesh it out.”

“Ok,” Mitchell said as we pulled into the airport.

We got to the studio about 11 hours later. Dead on arrival. Me, I kept drinking on the flight. Wasn’t going to let all that free first-class booze go to waste. Mitchell, he slept. Sort of.

“Hello, boys,” the studio guy who picked us up said. “You ready to go straight to the meeting?”

“Huh?” I said. “Straight there?”

“Well, you are a day late.”

Oops. We must have skipped a day in our script writing daze. I looked at my phone. Sure enough, it was Wednesday. Not Tuesday.

“Sure,” I said. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

An hour in traffic later, we got to the lot. After a short golf cart ride, we arrived at a non-descript little building.

A sign on the front said “No writers allowed.” It was underlined.

“Ignore that fellas,” our guy said. “It’s an inside joke.”

“Damn funny one, too,” Mitchell said looking at me with the international hand gesture for jerking off going on down below.

We walked in the doors and a secretary was sitting at a small desk. It was glass, and showed off her legs. She had amazing legs. Probably the best legs I’d seen in years.

“Finally here, huh Walt?” she said to our guy.

“Yeah, little bit of traffic out today.”

“In L.A.? Go figure,” she said mockingly.

“All right boys, it’s showtime,” Walt said to us, opening the doors.

Inside were three men. All in suits more expensive than my car.

Everyone shook hands and introduced themselves. I didn’t pay any attention to names. I never do. It’s the second introduction that matters to me. It means I give enough of a shit to ask again.

“Well,” one executive said. I figured he must be the leader as the other two just let him jump in front. “What do you boys have for us?”

I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, looked at Mitchell. He waved me on. It was clearly my show now.

“Well, it all starts with long shot of an aging office. It’s dark. You see the back of someone’s head. The hair is slicked back with some kind of product. The person is talking on the phone.

He speaks… “Well, I think we’ve got it all under control, Mr. Govna.” He says.

We pan to a window in front of him. Fire is raging. It appears to be a prison. Flames are billowing out of the windows. But something about the prison isn’t normal. Isn’t quite right.

We pan away and back to the hair with voice. It’s Matthew McConaughey. He is naked, expect for white, striped boxer shorts.

I look at the executives, they seem a bit interested now. I knew McConaughey was the right choice. Much better than Nic Cage. But that was a no-brainer.

"A small hand is rubbing oil on his chest," I continue.

We pull back, it’s a red-headed dwarf. She’s done up like a cheerleader.

“And sir,” McConaughey says. “They’re little people. What can they do?”

Cue music. Randy Newman’s “Short People.”

Montage of midgets in prison garb. Going about normal every day prison activities. In the mess hall. Playing basketball. Lifting weights. Marching in unison. And raping each other in the shower.

Then, cut to the leader of the midgets as the opening credits end.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he says to his buddy, an Italian midget.

“How boss?” he asks.

The two are looking up at a wall. We pull back. The wall, it’s just eight feet tall.

I look around the room. Stunned silence.

Finally, executive No. 2 says “What do you call it?”

“Midget Prison : The Escape,” I say proudly. I look at Mitchell. He’s crying. He’s doing a great job of not laughing, but the tears tell the tale.

I look at the other two execs, including the “leader.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he finally says.

“Walt, what the fuck is wrong with you.  This? This is what you brought us?”

That was a long day. We were on a flight back in three hours time.

No deal. No meal. No nothing. The flight back was coach as well. So no free booze.

“Hey,” Sid yelled to me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I snapped out of my daydream. The taco shells were burning. I knew Sid would be mad.

“That’ll cost you two hours’ pay!” he yelled.

So much for the belly laughs.

I started thinking of the secretary’s legs. It put me back in a good place. Now, if only the dwarf hadn’t been a redhead. That always scares movie executives away. At least that’s what some hack at the local community college told me in his ‘Screenwriting 101’ class. He never explained why.

I got back to making taco shells. We were opening in an hour. And you had to have shells to have tacos.

What's in the box?

The funeral was nice, if just a tad bit sadder now that I knew Sid was Marie’s father.

He’s pushed me to date her. And now I know why. He was scared to leave her alone. And I guess our little time spent together every day for so damn long now told him that maybe I was a pretty decent guy.

Hell, I’d scrubbed out his fryers one day out of the kindness of my heart – not the $7.25 an hour, plus discount that he was paying me to be there.

But he never told me the damn secret to his taco sauce. And now he was dead.

“What are you ever going to do with the taco stand,” Marie’s sister Fiona asked her mother. Barbara had no answer. She hated tacos. She always believed that was why Sidney opened a taco stand in 1972. Just to get away from her. Even though all he did was love her. But he loved tacos too. Not as much as her, but darn close, he’d always say.

“I don’t know anything,” Barbara weeped. “It’s just too soon. Too soon.”

Marie hugged her mother. It was an awkward hug. She’d told me that her and her mom didn’t get along very well. Ever since she went to work in the taco stand as a teenager. It seemed all this family’s problems revolved around that bright yellow stucco taco hut. Maybe Sid’s passing would put to rest the family’s burden, I started to wonder.

Then I thought about those tasty tacos. And how much I was going to miss them. And miss my hours long conversations with Sid. About girls – little did I know his motive. About traveling – he’d been in the Navy, saw a lot more of the world then I ever would. About movies – his favorite was “The Shining” – “Fucking Jack Nicholson!” he’d always say. About cars – he got my obsession with my old 1991 Celica, saying “The first car you fall in love with is a lot like the first girl. You never forget her, and you always compare every one after to her.”

Damn I missed Sid.

I talked to Barbara about him for a moment. She was still crying and tried to listen to my stories. But they all revolved around the taco stand. And she seemed less than interested. Finally, I told her the story of Sid telling me I should ask Marie out. I’d not told Barbara that story. Nor had I told Marie.

“Oh, he talked about you all the time,” Barbara perked up. “On and on and on and on. In fact, he stopped talking so much about tacos when he talked about you. It’s why I tried to keep him talking about your blonde head so much!”

She hugged me and I hugged back. That was the first time I ever felt comfortable about Barbara. It felt good. There had always been a distance between us in the short time we knew each other. Little did I know she already knew so much about me.

“Well,” I said after a few more hours of standing around, eating mini hot dogs and cold cuts, “We need to get on going.”

Marie looked at me and shook her head. I knew she wasn’t ready to go, but I needed to get back in time to write. It had become an obsession of mine, writing on deadline for no reason except to make that deadline.

“Keeping my chops,” I’d tell her at 11:33 p.m. at night with a deadline of midnight to get it done. “One day, someone might actually hire me to write again.”

Marie knew this about me. She hated it. Maybe writing was my taco stand? I now had something to write about when I got back to the house. It was one she’d not want to read. But, I would show it to her anyway.

“I’m going to stay home with Momma,” Marie said. I’d never heard her call Barbara “momma” before. It was always “Mom” or “Mother”, but never “Momma.” Terms of endearment do indeed come out when they are needed the most.

I kissed her on the cheek and grabbed her hand softly.

“Call me if you need anything, babe,” I whispered into her ear.

“I will,” she said, pecking me on the cheek as well.

I started walking to the door when Rich came up to me. Rich was Fiona’s fiancé. He was a former tackle for the University of Auburn. He was a sure-fire first-round draft pick until he blew his knee out his senior year. The Tigers went on to win the national championship – and Rich had a ring to prove it – but he never got that feeling back on the field. He lasted until the fourth round, taken by the Buffalo Bills. He reported to training camp ready to go, but blew his other knee out on the first day of rookie camp.

Another year of rehab brought him into Game No. 11 of the Bills season. He’d been paid for one year to do nothing but workout, then for 10 games to sit on the bench. Finally he played. On his first snap, the defensive end pushed him to the ground and sacked the quarterback. He laughed all the way back to the huddle.

“Good job, no knees!” the defensive end – Will Bartonsmith – said to him. He went to LSU and never had a sack in the four games they’d gone head-to-head in college. Now, he was 1-for-1 in the pros.

Rich made it through that first season, and was nicknamed the “Revolving Door” by the media for his ability to allow rushers easy access with a push, as Jim Rome said.

One season in the CFL was enough to sour Rich on football. That’s when he came back to New Orleans. Met Fiona. Got married three months later. Now they have six kids and a mortgage. He drives a Saab of all things to the car dealership where he works security and signs an occasional autograph for a former Auburn businessman in town.

“Hey,” Rich says. “You need to see this.”

My attention was purely Rich’s when he took me into the back room. On a shelf was an old Monte Cristo cigar box. It was marked in Sharpie – “For Randy.”

“Sid left this for you,” Rich said. “He showed it to me a couple weeks ago. Told me to make sure Barbara ‘Didn’t steal this from the kid.’”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” Rich answered. “Just don’t let anyone see you take it.”

I put the box under my coat and walked out of the room. Marie, Fiona and Barbara were all waiting in the living room, looking at me.

“What were you two up to?” Fiona asked with a little too much snark.

I looked at my feet, trying to do everything I could to not drop the cigar box.

“We were looking at some old photos on the wall,” Rich said.

“Yeah, especially the one from opening day last month,” I said. “I can’t believe Sid got it on the wall so quick.”

“He was like that,” Barbara said derisively. She walked back into the kitchen. Fiona and Marie followed.

“Take care, man,” Rich said.

“I will.”

“And take care of what’s in that box.”

I looked back, but Rich had already closed the door.

I wondered just what could be so important in this box. But, I wasn’t going to open it until I was safely at home. Will power was one thing I was good at. Unless it came to redheads.

Sid's Taco Stand

One day, you’ll look back at all this and laugh.

No one ever means that when they say it. You can either laugh at it in the moment, or it hurts like a fucking lockblade knife plunged into your stomach. You may be able to look back at it and laugh at yourself, but deep down inside, you know it still hurts.

July is a strange month.

I love the weather. I like it hot and humid and nasty. It’s why I’m sitting in my house at the beach and it’s 90 degrees inside and I’m not stressed out about it. A couple of fans blowing and a pint glass full of water to keep me cool. It works.

That would kill most people I know now. Not most people, because most people still don’t have decent air conditioning. It’s why I laugh at the folks that are so damn fed up with the heat. Go outside and live for a few days. Then, you won’t feel so bad.

July was her birthday. For a good while it was festive. Then it died. Well, she killed it.

Then July became the breakup point. Twice. From the next one.

Now, funnily enough, she popped back into my life today. “… wants to be friends.” Fuck you Facebook.

And of course, between 13 and 15 days from now I was supposed to be a dad. Instead, I’m not. Another process I’ve gotten used to over the years.

My God I’m a whiny little shit.

…

My wrists burn with almost every activity now. CT is no fun-o.

….

I try to remember the last time I saw her face. It had to be in Smithfield. But, I’m not really sure. It didn’t have a finality to it, from my perspective. So, I didn’t watch it.

I don’t want to write about her. She caused me so much pain, and cost me so much more in my own stupidity. Let’s not go back into that box.

…

“Eating tacos would be nice,” she said with a smile.

Finally, I thought to myself, a girl that will actually tell me what she wants to eat. No more “Whatevers” or “What do you wants?” or even “I don’t know, you picks..”

Ugh.

I hugged her on the spot. We’d only been on two dates, and not even touched each other. She tensed up a bit, until I said “Thank you for picking! It means a lot.”

She smiled.

“You’ve had indecisive women in your life, haven’t you?”

“Well, not really. Just about food.”

“Ahh…” She seemed to ponder that one. I like a good pondering look. I pulled out my phone and took a picture.

“Why?” she said in a faux-mad voice. “I should go Mad Max on you!”

“Mad Max the first 30 minutes of the movie, or the last 10?”

She punched me on the arm. I dug this chick. I hoped I wouldn’t fuck it up.

We drove downtown. 6.3 miles exactly. I knew this because I made the trip to Sid’s Taco Stand at least four times a week. I figure when I have a heart attack, I can send the bills to Sid. I told him that one time.

“Fuck you say?” Was his only response. I liked Sid. But I liked his tacos better. It had something to do with the sauce. He said it just came out of a bottle, but I didn’t believe him. I got a job at Sid’s just to see where the sauce came from. It didn’t come from a bottle. It came from a bucket. Sid laughed when he handed me my first – and last – paycheck.

“You got your answer?” he queried.

“Yep,” I said. “I now know it does not come from a bottle, but instead from a plastic bucket. But what is in the bucket, may I ask?”

“Now that you are no longer employed at Sid’s Taco Stand, I cannot share any company secrets with you,” he said. “Now, what do you want?”

“Four tacos and two mandarin Jarritos. Extra sauce.”

“That’ll be,” he started.

“Four dollars and 11 cents,” I finished.

“You got it kid,” Sid said.

When we pulled into Sid’s, the neon signs were all off. I had never seen Sid’s closed. Even on Christmas. He stayed open.

“If you close, you can’t sell Tacos,” Sid told me during my second day of work when I asked why he was never closed. It made perfect sense. Just like everything else Sid said.

He had told me to ask Marie out on a date. That was three weeks before I started working for him. I asked her out on my fourth day of work.

“About fucking time,” he said.

“I’m giving you my one day’s notice,” I told Sid.

“What?” he replied, holding his knife menancingly.

“She said she’d go out with me, but she added that she wouldn’t date someone who worked in a taco stand.”

“Was she serious?” Sid asked, crestfallen.

“I don’t think so, but, I don’t want to temp the fates.”

“Good idea,” he said. “It will certainly be the same without you here.”

“Yeah,yeah, yeah. Except now I won’t get the employee discount. I had gotten used to three dollars and 67 cents.”

“I had not,” Sid said laughing.

We walked up to the door. The closed sign, which I had never seen turned from open was there. Scribbled on it was “Until further notice.”

I looked at Marie. She looked back. She shrugged.

“He’s got to be in some kind of trouble,” I said as I plopped back into my car. The stereo cranked out Taco Wagon by the Young Fresh Fellows. I got sad. I turned off the song.

“Let’s go find out,” Marie said.

“Huh?” I replied.

“Let’s go to Sid’s house.”

“I don’t know where he lives.”

“I do,” Marie said. “I’m his daughter.”

Right then I noticed just how pale she was. She knew what I was thinking.

“OK, hun,” I said, cranking the ignition.

“Turn left on Pedro. Then go a few blocks to St. Martin Avenue. It’s the red brick house. You can’t miss it.”

I felt bad when the only thought that popped into my head when we got to Sid’s house was “Damn, I’m never going to have one of those tasty tacos again.”