Like any number of other decidedly ordinary men, Larry spent his weekdays toiling in a six-foot by six-foot cubed space, his blandly carpeted corporate cut-out defined by three identically-sized particle-board walls, each littered with sticky notes whose scribbled messages he never revisited—the whole of his working world punctuated by the perpetual hum of a bank of fluorescent rack lights. On most days, Larry would make phone calls, or take phone calls, or plan to make or take phone calls—all in a managed effort to push company paperwork up the ladder of increased salaries, where he was sure it went unread.
Never the envious man, Larry did not begrudge his company betters their petty tyrannies or flights of whimsy; after all, should he ever accidently blunder into a series of promotions, he was sure his behavior would be no different from that of his half-dozen or so bosses, most of whom were really quite congenial and harmless. No, Larry was perfectly content with his lot; and the reason for this contentment—which he was certain others envied in him—was so simple as to be breathtaking.
It began this way: a year or so ago, Larry decided on his way to work to stop at a roadside burrito stand run by a strange leather-skinned gentlemen of South American origin. And so delicious was that first burrito that Larry began making the burrito stand a daily stop. The burrito man was quite old and most likely an Indian of some sort—his black beaded attire and turquoise jewelry dovetailing nicely with how Larry imagined South American Indians must certainly dress should they ever find themselves in Houston running a roadside burrito stand. The vendor spoke no English, so Larry took to holding up a single finger to place his order, and each day—as if by magic—he received something different stuffed into his flour-wrapped breakfast: chopped fish with lime and cilantro, braised pepper chicken, spicy beef, fresh, chunky guacamole… For three-hundred and sixty-odd days this went on—each morning a new surprise, each night the anticipation of the following morning’s unexpected rolled-flour treat.
Today, however, Larry pulled over to the roadside stand to find his elderly Indian gone, replaced by a fat, middle-aged Hispanic in a dingy Texas Rangers t-shirt and a white straw cowboy hat.
“What happened to the other guy?” Larry asked, forcing a friendly little smile.
“Retired,” the fat man said, spooning some yellow rice into a large tortilla. “Though not by choice.” He let slip a huge grin, revealing a mouthful of oddly-broad teeth, a few of them capped in gold. “He’s a poker player. And not a very good one, it turns out.”
Larry was confused. “What, you mean he bet the burrito stand?”
“The burrito stand, his pickup truck, his hat, his dog—name it,” the fat man said. “Hell, the poor old guy even bet his pants. Left the game last night barefoot and bare-assed, his wrinkled cojones swinging in the wind like a couple of sad old walnuts.”
“I see,” Larry nodded. “Well, that’s a shame, then.”
“Not for me,” the fat man told him, brightening. “I always wanted to be self-employed. And a food stand is perfect for my disposition.” He tapped his belly. “As you no doubt already noticed.”
“Sure,” Larry smiled. Then, by force of habit, he held up a single finger. “Well, let me have one, then.”
“You got it,” the man said, his fat tongue brushing over his fat bottom lip until it glistened like a glazed ham. “What’s your poison? Chicken, beef…?”
Larry felt his spirit sink. “I dunno. Surprise me,” he said, trying to smile—though his heart wasn’t in it.
“Chicken, then,” the burrito man said, spooning some meat onto the tortilla and rolling it clumsily with a fat paw. “I think I overseasoned the beef this morning. Really salty. Chicken tastes okay though. Already had two myself.” He plopped the sloppy burrito onto a piece of parchment paper and held it out for Larry. “There you go, my man. One delicious chicken burrito.”
In the car, Larry placed the burrito beside him and regarded it curiously, as if it were some strange limb that had appeared unexpectedly in his passenger seat. And there it sat, untouched, until he reached his office roughly fifteen minutes later, whereupon he promptly dropped it into the first trashcan he could find. Then, for the remainder of the day, Larry sat in his cubicle and answered his phone, glowering at the particle board walls and cursing the hum of those fluorescent bulbs that coated him in a pale pulse of lifeless yellow light.
I hate love.
I likes it. Sadness tinged with an overall message. A cautionary tale.
Beware of gold-capped Chicanos wearing Rangers T-shirts?
Don’t play the ponies?
It’ll come to me, I’m sure.
Buddha was right.
Never look forward to, love or be devoted to anything. It only makes your lot worse for the wear.
This is spooky.. I work for that company.. I even know the burrito stand youre talking about. It was better when the old guy ran it… but, hey, the new fat guy with the messed up teeth sells 5 rolled tacos with sour cream AND guacamole for $2.. You can’t beat that…
Anomie
Merton sleeps with his fame.
And then, in the next paragraph, it’s gonna have a happy ending, yes?
Alternate ending:
“Then he woke up and it was all a dream!”
But what to make of the Salsa Stains on the “Thursday” tie? Three day weekend?
In the Alternate ending, is he in prison on death row?
{clap clappity clap}
Ah, the angst of a burrito once held, cherished, now lost amidst the cruel whimsy of a fickle fate.
Why? WHY? WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?!
Say, didya hear there’s a new gyro stand around the corner?
“In the Alternate ending, is he in prison on death row?”
Or hanging from the end of a rope off Owl Creek Bridge?
Is it worse to have known a great burrito and lost it, or to never have known a great burrito at all..?
(This post in honor of Roberto’s Carne Asada Burritos & Rolled Tacos in San Diego, CA )
::beep beep Kirk to bridge. Spock. I’ll be in my quarters taking a shower if I’m needed. Unless its an emergency I dont want to be disturbed. Kirk out.::
(turns on shower and slips under the jets of
steaming Rygilian water)
Mi..Mi..Mi..
Kirk: “ ..and I think it’s going to be
a long, long time
Until touchdown brings me around
again to find
I am not the man they think
I am at home.
Oh..No…No..No…..
I am a Rocket Man
burning up my fuse up here alone…”
Nurse Chapel: “ Ewwww Captain.. Your spoken word singing makes me hotter than a Vulcan during pon farr..make me your little tribble bitch, Sir..”
Kirk: “Ensign Chapel, youre on your knees for a reason. Now stay focus on your duties at hand and quit talking..”
Nurse Chapel: “Aye-aye, Captain..”
Kirk: “Mars isnt the kind of place to ….
Oh Yeah.. That’s it… yeah…right there…Oh yeah.. burn my fuse baby..”
Larry should find the man, put him up at his place, and buy back the dog. Then the old man can make Larry a burrito each day and be his friend and everyone will be happy.
“In the car, Larry placed the burrito beside him and regarded it curiously, as if it were some strange limb that had appeared unexpectedly in his passenger seat.”
That’s my favorite sentence. I really like that.
Reminds me: My annoying Deaniac co-worker finally resigned, to take creative writing at an art college. At the vulnerable, questing, unformed age of t-w-e-n-t-y–e-i-g-h-t.
Hey, when ya gotta take creative writing, ya gotta take creative writing. Sometimes the urge to be a creative writing student just overwhelms you.
Yeah. You gotta follow the dream, man.
Just pack a lunch.
Yeah, CUZ THE BURRITO MAN IS GONE!
Bravo, man. *claps*
Dude, yer like, awesome at this. You should like, TOTALLY have your own blog, or something.
Seriously. I know I’d read it.
Oh, wait…
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