A tale of two tacos

March 20, 2009

I pulled up to the restaurant last night tired and weary from a long day, a long week. It was about 8:30 and I’d spent the entire day working at my other job—a job in the Army National Guard. I was so exhausted that I’d already, accidentally, turned onto my street to go home when I realized I was supposed to stop by the chicken joint a few blocks away to pick up some dinner. There’s my house …..… there was the house! Needless to say that by the time I finally made it to the eatery, I was irked to see about eight cars in line at the drive-up. Dammit! I hate having to park and go inside the restaurant! But when all I can think about is getting home, a compromise must be made. There was no choice but to go inside.

What a relief. The place was practically empty—just two dudes sat near the register in their hip-hop-style attire.  They barely noticed me and continued to gobble down their food with hardly a second thought. I should mention that I was still in uniform and that I hate running errands without changing first. I’m proud of my service, but as someone who is not naturally outgoing, I get a little weirded out when random people notice the uniform and begin to approach me. Are they going to throw an object or an insult my way? Are they going to talk at me about their opinion of the wars? Ask if I’ve been to Iraq? (No). Thank me for my service? Hug me or insist on paying my food bill? (I think that just happens in the South). But I digress.

So there I was, waiting in uniform for my two-piece meal and taco salad at Vallejo’s Chicken Express. As I stood there, I was studying the technique one of the women behind the counter used to assemble tacos. She had a pump-action sour cream rifle thing and …..… (a man’s voice from behind me), “are you like a Marine or something?”

There it was, business as usual. I slowly turned around to see who’d mistaken me for a Marine. My eyes zeroed in on the slightly disheveled man, who was holding something in his arms. He mumbled a few things I couldn’t really understand and then asked me if I’d been to the Middle East, etc. Next thing I know he’s shoving a CD in my face. He explains he’s promoting this fantastic new group (hip-hop, rap, something like that) and that’ll he’ll sell me the CD for $2, 2 for $4, or something to that effect. This guy is hawking music CD’s in the chicken joint?

I started to take a closer look at the man as he continued his spiel. His sales pitch sounded strained, like he’s given the speech a hundred times without any takers. His eyes looked tired and there was a familiar hint of that Third World market stall merchant trying desperately to sell the last of his inventory to an indifferent tourist. As he spoke, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the hip-hopsters seated nearby seemed to be chuckling to themselves as they watched this poor guy try to sell one of his hip-hop/rap CD’s to a white female soldier in her late 30’s. As he continued to work on the sale, I kept studying him. His hair was pretty nappy and he appeared to need a bath, though he wasn’t exuding any kind of foul odor. His clothes looked like he may have been sleeping outside in them or just hadn’t washed them lately. What’s his story? Something wasn’t right with him, but he was sure trying to peddle those CD’s. Is somebody going to hurt him if he doesn’t sell those things? Whatever his story, I wasn’t interested in a CD.

The guy looked pretty down and out and I wanted to just give him $2 for his efforts. But I didn’t have $2—I’d paid for my food with an ATM card. I politely cut the guy’s sales pitch off and told him I’d have to pass on his “offer” since I didn’t have any cash. He didn’t seem to comprehend what I said and then re-stated the $2 for the CD bit.  I again explained that I didn’t have any money, “really”, that I’d paid with a card.

Then suddenly … a blank stare. It was like his hopes were dashed, not out loud, but that the realization had just hit him that I wasn’t going to be his customer. Then came a long pause, concluded by a visible light bulb going off in his head. The desperate man then gave me the sales pitch of the century, in a somewhat embarrassed tone, he stated that he’d just give me the CD if I were to buy him two tacos. What?!

The peanut gallery was chuckling even louder now. My mouth hung wide open. I was shocked. It was the last thing I ever expected to hear. I just kind of stared at him and realized that this disheveled fellow was probably really in need. He didn’t go there to beg for food or money. He was just trying to make his way.  This guy’s hungry. I am probably having a much better day than he’s had in awhile. “Sure, man. Sure,” I said.

A few minutes later I left Chicken Express with my dinner, wearing my uniform proudly, and feeling good that I’d upgraded him to a two-piece meal with garlic bread, corn on-the-cob and a strawberry Fanta.

The food upgrade was at his request as I was ordering his tacos, a $5.69 value (what guts, or nerve, I’m not sure). But who cares, for a brief moment, I was saving the world two tacos at a time.

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