The Soup and Sorrow Digest

Posolé

Ricardo shambled into empty smallness of tarquería—three tables and nine chairs—and was at once pleased with the mélange scent of rancid oil, deep-fried onions and bell peppers and the slight reek of rotten meat. But delight yielded to a pasty groan, as there seemed to be no one within the steel-white confines of the kitchen.  But the double doors to the inner corroded flapped wide open, heralding Alexandro, in the blandness of dirty white apron and a cap, carrying a heavy cardboard box.  After placing the box on the floor next to the crate of avocados, Alexandro showered menacing indistinct growls at Ricardo. The air popped with tension as he cracked his knuckles over the grimy buttons of the cash register. 

“Hermano,” Ricardo began with a cautious gay tone, “I’ve come for your tacos.”

Alexandro’s eyes dimmed, his lips went slack.  “Eh, qué pasa? Your face…”

Ricardo thumbed his nose and smiled to pump up the moment. “Rough sex, that’s what.  I and an unwilling horse.”

Alexandro snorted, stopping short of a smile. “Estúpido, that’s what. Why go bother a horse?”

Ricardo blushed full on his cheeks. “Whatever works yes, Hermano?”

“You will not come close to my Rottweiler.”

“I won’t. Now may I have my order?”

“You ordered tacos yesterday,” Alexandro droned.

“So?”

“You ordered it the day before yesterday.”

“So?”

“You’ve ordered that every day for past two weeks. Order something else. It isn’t healthy.”

“It’s my money.”

“How about you get some beans and red rice?”

“I get that for free?”

“Por supuesto no. Capitalism demands that you pay.”

“Capitalism demands you to give me my order.” Ricardo fell over the counter, exasperated. “Take pity on my beat-up face.”

“No pity for you. You went and disturbed a man horse.”  Alexandro sighed irritatedly. “Andrew gets all my pity.  Some boludo slashed his face. Maybe you explain me why since you’re stupido like all of them.”

Ricardo’s hunger turned on itself and positively knifed him in the gut. Should he come clean?

Alexandro continued, “He’s perfecto in school. And that useless idiot, lazy lizard knows nothing.  He teaches pepitos math and tunes to Gloria Estefan. You know, he can checkmate you in three moves?” Alexandro wetted his lips and gathered fresh moss to burn. “What can you do?”

Ricardo’s hunger was fighting and clambering up his gullet. He took to searching for the packet of tamarind sweets in his jeans pocket, then the other pocket, then back again.  Oh there.  Yet, Alexandro was unfinished on the darling son of perfection: Andrew knew all the words in the dictionary.  Andrew knew all the songs of Gloria Estefan by heart. Andrew knew how to make lasagna (Now that Ricardo did not know). 

The list of all the good things Andrew was rang spasmodically in his ears. It felt hot around his neck seams; the off scents were growing thicker. And it was still Andrew, Andy, Xavier and his precious face. 

Opening the crinkling packet was a pain, deciding whether to pop a sweet when Alexandro scowled so evilly was rather troublesome. Perhaps he should tell him that the precious genius tackled him off the front porch.  Maybe not, after tacos maybe. Ricardo popped a sweet into his mouth, affirming to himself the one good thing about the incident. The mighty reputation of a razor-wielding faggot slashing tadpoles was quite all right.