Sometimes I see strange things in the real world and choose to take a picture of said thing. They say a picture says 1000 words. So I'm choosing to write 1000+ words about the person/place/thing that I chose to take a picture of.
I hope to make this an ongoing literary feature of WFJ. In the debut addition, we will explore themes of love and FEAR as they exist in our 21st century suburban society.
Sí, She's Dead
The hot sun pressed against the Mexican
restaurant, crunching the brick exterior like a corn chip, very slowly. The
smell of tasty food being grilled coalesced with the sun rays, the pavement,
the carbon dioxide, and the phantom breeze to produce a warm, summery
scent-sation. Then a sugary, flowery, funky odor entered the smell periphery. A
cloud of perfume moseyed toward the door and behind it, three females.
Christal, Sara, and Meegan were on
another routine trip to Donde Padre's Mexican Grill. They're all
lower-middle-class indentured workers at the tanning salon in an adjacent strip
mall, where they all make $10/hr. If the monetary system were to collapse
tomorrow--not that they would notice--but the three women could begin accepting
payment in the form of sodium, trans fat, cholesterol, and (most importantly)
alcohol, without much inconvenience or lifestyle disruption.
Ding. The bell rang as the door
opened. This was how the restaurant staff knew the customer occupancy total was
changing. Three more were added to the total. The total was now pretty high:
happy hour!
The host, Fernando, was twelve feet
away from the door, around a slight corner. Upon hearing the "ding",
he glided around the corner as if he were on a mini train track, like an amusement
park ride. "Hello. How many?" he said melodically.
"And I said, ‘You’re not
getting any of this, this is my shit,’" Christal said to her homegirls,
continuing the convo that began in the car.
Shit, that's not a number, Fernando thought
to himself. He knew it was probably going to be tres, but maybe not, maybe they
had some guys joining them. Fernando just wanted to make sure, ultimately he
just wants to keep the seating situation non-catastrophic. If the table
assignments we misconfigured, or the servers got confused, it’d be all
Fernando’s fault.
"Three?” he asked again.
Sara texted somebody instead of
answering the young man in front of her. Meegan assuaged the confusion,
"Ya, three." Fernando took them to a booth. He didn't know for sure
whether he's adverted a disaster or not.
Jorge, the server, noticed the
familiar trio and his heart got hot. His smile stretched out like an accordion
because he loved Meegan. He found it easy to crush on many of the cute girls
that came into Donde Padre's, but none of them had the appeal of the angelic
Meegan. Jorge loved how confident she seemed, and how her voice was sort of
froggy. Her hair was like silk spun on a star, and her lips were like a two
dolphins hugging. Jorge closed his eyes, rhapsodized for a moment.
He emerged out of the kitchen like
a float in a parade. His rotund body seemed to be holding a few extra volumes
at this moment. It was sweet puppy love making him swell up. He approached
Meegan's table with conflicting emotions: trying so hard to exude charm,
which he had plenty of, but his shyness was stuffing it all back into
him.
"Hey ladies," Jorge said
suavely to the three young women. But then no one said anything. Several long
seconds went by, no response or acknowledgement. Christal looked at Jorge briefly
and let out a sigh, that would've been the closest thing to a response.
Sara squealed, "We'll have
three margaritas!"
And so began the party.
-----------------------------
The sun orangified and leaned
backward as the afternoon went by. The drinks kept coming to the party girl
table.
Each time Jorge brought a refill or
an enchilada, he'd try to make conversation. He thought this would maybe be the
path--albeit only the beginning of a very burdensome path--to Meegan's
affection. But the thin phrases like nice dress and how's work were
answered thoughtlessly, like an automated telephone survey.
The drinks loosened up the three
ladies socially; they became more loud and obnoxious, and more willing to move
outside the isolation of their three-way conversation. Jorge was the only
person in the restaurant that wanted to be in that conversation, but a few
random patrons got to meet the ladies, whether they wanted to or not.
Christal rolled her had back over
into the booth behind her, which was occupied by a couple in their 50s. The man
drank a beer, while the woman nursed a margarita, and they were doing a great
job of not acting like insane party animals. Really, they were putting on an
outstanding performance of being old and somber.
Christal, trying to bond with the auntie-esque
woman, shouted, "Whoo! Yea my girl is doing the margarita thing, shake it
baby!"
It was like a cartoon coming into
the real world. Shaking her glass, Christal swung her arm over the seat to try
to "cheers" the woman. Her husband was visibly quite excited
that the young lady was engaging with him; his big ears wiggled and his
eyebrows shifted. His wife had been married to him long enough to know what
those facial expressions meant. Another trick she picked up in the super-long
marriage: physically shutting her husband down with a facial expression of her
own.
Sara left the table for the
bathroom. She opened the door to see a tall man with his young son. Oh that one was the men’s room.
Jorge and Sara returned to the rowdy table simultaneously and very awkwardly.
He acknowledged Sara but was so puffy and gaga over Meegan, it could be read right on his round face. "So are we celebrating tonight?" he asked.
"Yea! It's Meegan's
birthday!" shouted Sara.
"Ohh...? Ohhhh!!" Jorge
uttered. "Hang on!"
He ran back to the kitchen and
hollered for Fernando. Upon the verbal cue, the kitty cat-like Fernando leapt
off his invisible mini train track as if he had springs on his feet.
"It's not my birthday, you
betch!", Meegan squawked at Sara.
Inside the kitchen, the young men
converted to Spanish for a private conversation.
"What is it?" Fernando
asked as he slipped through the kitchen door.
"Meegan! The girl I have a
crush on. It's her birthday."
"Ok. We'll do the birthday
song! I'll go--"
"Fernando, is this a good time
to ask her out?"
"Yes," Fernando spoke
sentimentally, "Just tell her she is very special and you wish you could
get to know her. She will like you, Jorge. You're the best."
"Thanks, amigo! Now hurry,
let's go!"
The birthday procedure of Donde
Padre's was about to commence. This typically entails at least two
sombrero-wearing staffers playing guitar and singing a special birthday song,
as well as a Mexican ice cream sundae. Lately they'd been using a small strobe
light, which some people liked, while others were bothered.
Fernando burst out of the kitchen
with his guitar, a sombrero, and the strobe light. His uncle Raul, the
mustached assistant manager, joined him at the girls' table. They began the
birthday song in two different keys and tempos, but found a harmonious middle
ground after a few seconds. Out came Jorge with the cake. He sat it down and
snapped a picture of the celebration.
Meegan started feeling a bit
uncomfortable with the attention. Sara and Christal were L-O-V-I-N-G I-T. Their
half-hushed squeals of delight were like a siren that added to the blaring
festivities. It was getting intense in Donde Padre's. And there was a goddam
strobe light going off to boot.
Jorge pushed the cake towards
Meegan as gently and sweetly as he could, which was slightly more gentle than a
moose. He showed his beloved Meegan a smile that made her pupils shrink.
"Make a wish, betch!" Christal
said.
Meegan wished this shit wasn't
happening. She didn't mind being the center of attention, but she was used to
having control over the situation: emotional control (in real life) or
editorial control (when it came to her social media persona). She couldn’t
wrangle control this time. This was just her friends teaming up with a few
creepy guys to make fun of her.
"Happy birthday, Meegan,"
Jorge said softly, "I can tell you are a very special girl..."
Whoa, WTF Meegan thought.
"I would be the happiest guy
if you would please go on a date sometime with me." Jorge had forced the
phrase through a gauntlet of nerves and self-consciousness, but consequently
felt happy and proud. Simply asking Meegan on a date was a true accomplishment.
Conversely, he had a full-blown
B.O. problem at the time, but was not terribly phased by it. He figured he
could blame it on the fajitas nearby. If Meegan asked "Jorge, do you have
B.O. right now?", he could say “No,
Meegan. What you are smelling is the fajitas right there.”
As more anxious thoughts occupied
his mind, along with a long drumroll, Jorge awaited a response from Meegan.
Christal, Sara, Fernando, and Raul were all awaiting Meegan's answer.
Meegan's eyes looked deader than a pan
of ground beef. Her brain was fried; whaaaaat? These judgmental eyes
attacked her like a gang of hornets; they sucked her dry and she was empty
inside. Jorge's roly-poly figure hovered over her like the shadow of an
A-bomb.
Suddenly Meegan's neck and
shoulders let go of her head. She folded 90° in a
second. SPLAT! Face first into the ice cream she went.
Meegan's body was completely limp,
the company surrounding her was unanimously shocked and confused.
"Ohhhhhhh," whimpered Jorge.
"What is wrong?" It was the strangest moment of his life.
Christal whispered,
"Meegan?"
Meegan showed no life whatsoever,
still sitting with her face in the ice cream. Her friends figured out where
Meegan was going with this; she’s playing possum. Through girly telepathy, they
began to improvise.
Sara looked at Jorge and said,
"She's dead." She pronounced dead as dud.
"Oh my god," Jorge
replied. "She's dead?" He pronounced dead, deed.
"She's dud!" Sara
shouted, thinking that she was correcting his pronunciation.
"Dead?", Jorge asked.
"Si!" shouted Christal
and Sara in unison. "Si, she's deed!"
Thinking that he had to call 911, Jorge
spun around and bolted toward the front desk, his heart racing. But as he grasped the phone he suddenly realized that Meegan was perfectly alive, only
faking a sudden death to make him go away. This realization made his heart
slide all the way down his colon. Jorge just kept walking, right past the desk
and out the door. Ding. The doorbell rang gloomily. Jorge started his car and
drove home.
Raul shrugged and walked away from
the table. Fernando ran out the door after Jorge, who was supposed to be his
ride home. But Fernando saw only an empty parking space with a large oil
stain.
Meegan slowly raised her head up
from the dessert and said, taking a small breath between each syllable,
"Oh my god, y'all. That was THE most awkward thing ever." A chill
came over her and she shook in her seat like an old washing machine.
"You always know how to handle
your shit, Meegan," said Christal.
Sara added, "You're our
hero."
"Lets get the hell out of
here," Meegan told her friends.
"Hang on," said Christal.
"Let's take a picture." She snapped a shot with the camera Jorge had left on the table. Sara snapped one with her phone as well.
"Hey amigo, can we get the
check?" Sara asked Fernando.
"That man has paid for your
meal and drinks!" Fernando responded. He was referring to the one-half of
the middle-aged couple that'd become acquainted with the young women.
"Hey," the man waddled
over to the girls like a walking tree. "I hope you have a very, very
happy birthday," he said ghoulishly. He was crawling into Meegan's
personal space like a miner, trying to get closer and closer. His wife came out
from the bathroom in time to witness his encounter and he quickly retreated. He
was most definitely about to crawl into the doghouse, and probably wouldn’t
come out until Meegan is his age.
---------------------
Jorge returned to work at Donde
Padre's the next day, but he had seen Christal, Sara, and Meegan for the final
time. The treacherous three would soon find a new hangout: a trendy, faux-fancy
brick oven pizza joint called Romeo's. Martinis became their new poison; prices
at Romeo's were much higher, and none of the waiters would ever fall for
Meegan. Although Sara slept with a bartender.
It was several months later when
the film in the restaurant-owned disposable camera was filled up. Fernando
brought the developed photos back to Donde Padre's, and he and some other
workers sorted through the pictures of all the happy customers and workplace
shenanigans. And then Fernando came to a picture of the cream-faced blonde,
Meegan. He thought of Jorge, afraid that seeing the picture would resurrect his
heartache.
"Let me see that," Jorge
said, emerging from the walk-in freezer, thin clouds of steam billowing
ethereally behind him. Distant and pale, he resembled an angel, perhaps a
ghost. It was as if Meegan's rejection had forever evicted every bit of joy from
him.
Jorge held the picture an inch away
from his face. Meegan looked more beautiful in the photo than he could every
remember.
Right next to the bathrooms, there
was poster frame with a dozen slots for individual photos. Jorge walked to the
frame and jerked it off the wall. He took out all the photos and inserted the
single picture of Meegan. Jorge still showed no emotion. With a fierce stoicism
he hung the frame back up. He then said a Hail Mary and went to retrieve the
chips and salsa for table número cinco.
The Ballad of Dean Wheat
Dean Wheat waits for the man in a
sticky booth near the concession stand of the theatre. Another matinee of the
summer's hottest blockbuster is about to begin.
The dealer arrives, asks Dean if
he's seen the hottest new movie, the one that has swept the whole nation. Dean
had not seen it.
The entire world mind is focused on
this movie, Fixar Planet 3D. Cineplexes everywhere are bustling with Fixar fans
running in and out. It's pure, nonstop, electric mania.
If you could witness the total collective
thought of all first-world humans, it would be nothing more than a trailer for
the film. Any fast food chain worthy of their salt and trans fat has toys,
cups, and cardboard standups dedicated to Fixar's characters--not to mention
the billboards, crossover promotions, commercials, and Internet pop-up ads that
blanket the dominant Western culture. So it seemed odd that Dean wasn't at
least a little familiar with Fixar Planet 3D.
The dealer gives Dean a hit of LSD
with a Mickey Mouse logo on it, tells him to go Fixar (it's life-changing!) The
hit goes down the hatch.
Dean zig zags through the elephantine
herd of large adults and children to find his seat in the theatre.
Lights out. Here comes the first
trailer. What will be the next big thing?
Coca-cola commercial.
The blaring audio from the sound
system slopes down into a silence at the end of the advertisement. There's a
brief pause, the hyper-bright screen descends into darkness.
WWSSHHH! POPP!! Dean's ears snap.
The sound of a hundred high-pitched pops and micro-crashes pierce his skull.
Dean is startled severely; he feels his primal animal instincts kick
in, sensing extreme danger in the dark theatre.
Relaxation has fled his body, a
racing heart jacks his chest. His drug-accelerated alertness pins him to the
edge of his seat as the next trailer begins. This one features dull visuals and
audio. The texture on the screen is soft, but not like an animal you'd want to
pet. It's like a chemical-stained carpet.
When the sound winds down again,
Dean revisits the auditory horrorhouse. POP! SZZZ! CRACK! It
seems--EEEEYYYAAAHH!!!--there are sonic predators all around Dean, who is a
wingless bird; a turtle outside of his shell.
Bewildered, Dean bends his beady
eyes around the corner. He sees a huge man--who seems much closer to Dean than
he really is--lift a heap of popcorn into a hole in the middle of his face. The
load gets thrashed around in the man's lawnmower teeth. Little bitty flakes
escape, the lucky ones. The excess popcorn debris and blasts of spit hit the
floor like a rainstorm. Dean can hear clearly the screams of every kernel, and
even each little grain of salt.
Chomp! Chomp! The violent strikes
echo through the theatre like an avalanche. From the back row fat man to the
family of toads in the front; left to right, it's a symphony of big bites. Not
one creature in the room is without armfuls of enriched, processed snacks. Dean
is the only one that's candyless.
The concert proceeds: Sticky lips
smack under slimy noses, sinuses suck up quick shots of air like
face-zeppelins. Dirty gums rub against gelatinous globs of sugar, smothered in
the moldy mouths of small children. Their young teeth are as good as dead.
It's a 7.1 surround-sound score of disgusting bodily noises. The grotesque parade of dietary squalor is giving
Dean a grisly migraine. How can such unnatural chem-concoctions even be
digested? Dean discovers the sound of intestinal thunder: the rumbling gas
and bubbling acid being brewed in their stomach cauldrons. Eww.
And now here's your feature presentation.
The movie rolls, bit nothing but a faint white noise seems to emanate from the
theatre speakers, and the screen contains only a flickering paper-thin image. This
is what everyone is so worked up about? Fixar is like a big hokey magic
trick that draws a vast, unwitting crowd (the whole world?) But Dean sees the
strings and the little man behind the curtain. And he's not impressed.
Dean wants to know just who is in
the theatre, taking in the panorama around him seems to give him an aneurysm in
his brain, a hundred tiny ruptures in all his veins. He sees these big smiles
on everyone, eyes completely glazed over and spinning like the roller skates of
a psychotic clown. Hahahauhhahaha! They love this garbage. The
moviegoers shovel even more cruddy morsels into their beaks; they appear to be
in nirvana.
The nasty bastards gnash and nosh
like there's no tomorrow. Dean starts to figure that they are totally
insatiable. But is artificial sugar and fake food a sustainable resource? What
do they eat when the candy is gone? Dean feels the real possibility that they
may eat him. They're already eyeballing him; they all know he's an
outsider.
Attempting to pre-empt a
cannibalistic attack, Dean stands up, turns around, and faces the crowd. With
violent, swiping hand gestures, he yells bravely at the Fixar freaks. Something
like: you're all sheep, product-addicted
gluttons. As he jerks around fervently, Dean's arm is sucked into the mouth
of pig-dude next to him. The greasy lips envelop Dean's forearm, which does not
taste like sugar or food dye, so the pig-dude spits it out.
No one in the crowd cares anything
about Dean, the only concern is Fixar Planet 3D and the sugary refreshments
that enhance its sensory euphoria. This fact doesn't comfort Dean. Another
paranoia wave eclipses his consciousness; he's in hell. In a room full of
people, but alone in hell.
A LITTLE PIG-KID JUMPS UP AND BITES
DEAN’S ARM OFF!
Dean Wheat screams, it sounds like
a soft super-low bass note. He blacks out.
Suddenly, Dean awakes in the sticky
booth by the concession stand. He’s got his arm back; he is shrouded in a giant
Hershey's Bar wrapper. Baffled and paniced, he kicks off the foil blanket and
heads toward the glowing glass doors.
Like the last drips of hourglass
sand, Dean sprints to the door through the counter-momentum of the cineplex
receding into nothingness. Dean is the grey moving between light and dark.
He pushes the door open. In the
courtyard he is face to face with the SUN GOD! Dean Wheat melts into a syrupy
sludge.
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