Ernest Hemingway At The Taco Bell Cantina
The sign on the front says “live más” and I live as the sign tells me. In all seasons it opens at 11. It is called the “Taco Bell Cantina” but the villagers call it “The Cantina” or just “Taco Bell.” I call it “the Cantina” but I have sometimes called it “la Campana” which means only “the bell” but most understand me when I say “the Taco Bell where you can get the liquor in it.” During the war the Taco Bells only served food and soda and were lit like hospitals. Now they serve alcohol and are lit like discotheques.
I order and sit in my usual chair which is the color of burnt roses. I display my placard and return to the front of the restaurant. I push past the girl who takes the orders towards the frozen margarita machine. Before the cooks would tell me not to climb over the counter but now they let me because I have broad shoulders and handsome legs. They understand that justice in the cantina is a function of strength and courage and is not a function of laws and courts. I also have a gun.
There is no feeling comparable to the thrill of drinking directly from the frozen margarita machine. It is the blood of the cantina. Once consumed it feels like a cold snake that is also warm. The customers waiting in line look confused and worried as they are too timid to climb over the counter and suckle the machine but I have never been timid. The sweetness of the drink stings my lips and colors them burgundy. After five pulls from the dispenser the haze of sobriety disappears and I see only truth. I see the skin of the black bean crunchwraps like tan elephants.
The warmth of the liquor spreads to my legs and through my tired organs. I am home again but I know that I can never truly be home because home is a place where children live and play and I am too old and too tired to be in the children’s place so I return to my chair (“The Children’s Place” is also a store I am no longer allowed inside). The tall man is sitting in my burnt rose chair and asks if orders are placed at the counter. I grab his cotton shirt and beat him mercilessly with my right fist. The blood pours out his nostrils like a fresh packet of “Fire” sauce. Sometimes the sauce packets have phrases written on them that make me smile but not laugh. There is no irony in the way I have beaten the tall man. He now understands that there are no waiters in the cantina and I am sure he will not forget. I light up my pipe and think about bulls. The server girl steps over the tall man and brings me my order. Her eyes tell me a story about fear and she should be afraid because death is a certainty that exists even inside the cantina even alongside the beefy potatorito. In the Mcdonalds I am transactional. In the Burger King I come for the french toast sticks and nothing else. The Wendys is for Easters and baptisms. The Taco Bell Cantina mirrors my essence. Though the floors are clean and the decor is fashionable mold still grows in gears of the margarita machine and I know because I have tasted it.
My food is placed in front of me. One soft taco containing beef and cheese and lettuce, one cheesy Gordita crunch, one chalupa also containing beef. The animal who was used to make the chalupa was a proud animal and I say a prayer for her and I wonder if she also lived más.
A little boy in a shabby red shirt comes to my burnt rose chair and I let him place his hand over my distended liver. His glass-doll eyes tell me he is thinking of nothing as he feels my tired belly cleaning my stained blood. I throw him a packet of “Fire” sauce. The packet says “it is taco Tuesday.” I know it is Wednesday. I will be back tomorrow and the day after.