NEEDLING

SATURDAY NIGHT BLUES

Soft headache type of night sleeping through most of the afternoon, drove around through the hills and the rich neighborhoods with tall fences and houses hidden behind tree-facades and electronically secured walled-in gates. Listening to KUT on the car radio, with that famous voice from Chicago telling me stories as cruised for more than one hour an a half, not knowing what else to do with myself. I didn’t feel like the preppy college bars downtown, nor their opposites the gruffed-up scrounge tattooed places. Didn’t feel like much actually, though I knew I couldn’t keep sleeping if I wanted to get any descent sleep tonight, so I went on an aimless drive trying not to feel sorry for myself, nor get into an accident. I eventually made it by Brian, Tracy, Glenn, and Kari’s places. Nobody home except Kelly & Quero the dogs. I said my hellos and got back into my automobile figuring what I needed was some cheap food without the cheap frills and kitch American gringoness of a plastic nation, so I opted for a small taquerilla next to the shell station where I’ve stopped to buy Gatorade and water before going into work a couple of times. It’s not far from the D.P.S. office. Walked in. See-through plastic table tops, Coors Light neon on the back wall, and Mexican music playing just a tad bit loud. A couple of companeros having a beer in the back, light blue walls, and linoleum floors. I sat down, and the waitress brought me a menu. I ordered a Miller, she brought me a Miller-Light. Then I ordered a Tortas de Lengua. Just one, she said questioningly, with a slight nuance of disappointment. Are they big enough, I asked making a sign with my two hands to show her what I felt big enough was to me. She said, yes, no problem. Okay then, one is enough. All the sudden I felt better in this place, with the Mexican music playing, and the waitress smiling at me. Didn’t seem so bad after all, this America where I’m apparently stuck for the time being. I opened a book of short stories by T.C. Boyle and read “Hope Rises” before, during, and after my diner. I took my time with the tortas, eating one bite at a time, really not wanting to leave this taquerilla. I felt good there. The story was entertaining. Lots of frogs and toads dying. Crazy Berkley professor with dead frogs in his jacket pockets. A couple trying to find hope, a reason to continue living. New York city a little bit. And my tortas de lengua was the best part. Large chunks of avocado, some sour cream, and not too much cheese. I sipped my second beer slowly, and checked out the double door in the back of the restaurant which opened every once in a while and let in a loud breezes of different Mexican music than the one playing in the dining area. Back there, I presumed, was the back part of the business with a night bar, club thing going. Walking in I saw a pool-table sign flashing in red and blue neon. I smiled at the prospect of discovering that backroom pool bar some night, not tonight though, as was I wanted was not the loud Tex-Mex beer songs, but just simply the sandwich and taking my time. I stayed over an hour in there before paying my bill, leaving a tip for the waitress, and heading back to my car via the corner store for a six pack.