Cinco De Zombie

by Albert Aykler

  Mexican pepper Hawaiian shirt guy said, “Yeah, just a sec.”

  I followed Ziggy to a table along the half-wall that divided the bar from the dining area. We sat on the dining area side. I am not sure what difference it made, except we were two steps up, which gave us a better vantage on the place. I think Ziggy was looking for Kevin. I was tallying up the living. I sat with my back to the front door, the bar on my right, the rest of the dining room on my left. In the back, over Ziggy’s shoulder, I could see the pool table.

  “Zat’s right, get a good look Singleton. If I am right about Kevin, zey may all be infected before morning.”

  “I’m fine, Karen.” The dad’s surfer drawl rose sharp and fast, cutting off every other conversation in the place on the way up.

  The waitress stopped before setting down the food for the family, “Everything okay over here?”

  “Yes, we’re fine.” He announced to the entire restaurant. Should we care?

  “No, do you know if there's a hospital or clinic nearby?”

  “Karen.” Somehow, he said her name with three syllables.

  “What's the matter?” The waitress tried to get into position to set down the first plate, and she knew that most families do not want to argue in public, that she could help Karen-Mother-of-Two out here and quiet the dad down at the same time.

  “Well, I’m probably going to need another one of these.” The dad lifted and shook his now mostly empty drink, a one-quart mason jar half filled with blue-tinted ice.

  “His hand,” said Karen-Mother-of-Two.

  The dad held up his hand, which looked like it had once started out neatly bandaged. Now it looked too tight and tufts of bandage splayed out all along the edges where he had scratched at the wound.

  “Oh. Oh my.” The waitress froze, the first plate just an inch from landing on the table, and the other three balanced across her arm behind her. She took a breath, the injured hand close enough that fibers from the fraying bandage nearly tickled her nose. She turned her face to the mom. “Taco salad, right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Karen-Mother-of-Two forgot her husband’s troubles for a moment, proud of herself for once again ordering a salad for dinner. In my opinion, she could have used a burrito or two. But she seemed happy in her hiking shoes and yoga pants, with a heavy soccer team supporter hoodie to keep from getting a chill in the weak air conditioning.

  “It's nothing.” The bandaged hand came down. He picked up his drink with the other to drain the last of his self-administered pain medication.

  “He was scratched—”

  “It bit him, too.” The sincere dark pony-tailed daughter. Maybe eleven. Or maybe twelve. Anyway, not yet old enough to know she wasn’t supposed to like her parents anymore.

  “Tara.” Karen-Mother-of-Two tried to keep her daughter out of it.

  “He was attacked by a chipmunk.” Tara’s dark blue sweats had soccer balls in assorted sizes all over them and her T-shirt celebrated the US Women’s team’s fourth World Cup victory. She pointed with whatever she had in her hand, phone, fork, or tortilla chip, and when she did the silver charms on the bracelet of left hand tinkled as an almost-but-not-quite ignorable physical punctuation.

  “A what? Taco-quesadilla combo platter?”

  “That’s me. Thank you.” The son. Polite kid. He looked the most appropriately decked out for camping of the bunch. Hiking shoes, cargo shorts, and a dirty T-shirt with two bears playing soccer.

  “A chipmunk at the campground. It came at me when I unwrapped the hamburger I was going to grill for dinner.”

  “Wow. That's weird. Cheese enchiladas?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Two polite kids. The daughter’s plate looked like a lot of goop.

  “Weird is right.”

  “We’re practically the only ones there—September camping is awesome—so, I think they are getting desperate for food. Probably forgot how to forage for themselves.”

  “Huh. Chimichanga platter?”

  “Yeah, that’s mine. Wow am I hungry. You know, you can go ahead and bring me another along with another drink?”

  “Sure. You going to be able to eat all that?”

  “Oh, he can eat a ton.” Tara informed everyone in the restaurant. “He has a high-metabolism.”

  “It’s true. I do.”

  “And he doesn’t get fat.” The son seemed defensive about that for an eight-year-old. Mouthful of quesadilla notwithstanding, he didn’t seem like he needed to worry. Chubby-cheeked. Messy. And did I mention, only about eight years old?

  “Chad, not with your mouthful, remember?”

  “Fifteen years of Jiu Jitsu and the last eight chasing these two around the soccer field.”

  Every family has a thing. Some go to church. Some ski. Some play soccer. And some go camping. And most do some of all these things, but only one activity sticks enough to call it their thing.

  This family was a soccer/camping family. The dad had the white-striped black sneakers and a T-shirt for their nearest professional soccer team. A tattoo of an Asian martial arts style tiger peeked out on one of his biceps.

  He may have taken the family camping this week, but he was Soccer Dad. That was his thing. Before the kids, he probably sparred down at the gym and worked out and all that, but it was something he had to put aside. He had made his family a priority but could only get through the dull overflowing laundry baskets, bulk frozen chicken nuggets, and PTA meetings of it with some serious attention to soccer. Chad loves it. Tara loves it. Karen-Mother of-Two is happy he is showing up for his kids. There are worse things and worse dads.

  “Aren't they vegetarians?”

  “That’s what I said. All rodents are vegetarians.” Tara clearly paid attention in science class.

  “No, you didn't.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You said they only ate nuts.” Chad, I thought, had attorney tendencies, even at this early age.

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it's not.”

  “I’d say it's close enough.” The waitress cheerfully adjudicated the kids’ argument. She liked them. She liked Karen-Mother-of-Two. She’s not nuts about the dad, but he knew how to run up a bill, so…

  “See.”

  “Was it rabid or something?”

  “No. We Googled that. Apparently, they almost never get rabies and it didn't show any of the signs. It just wanted the hamburger.”

  Chad held up his hand. He had something to add. Once he was mostly finished chewing his latest mouthful of quesadilla, he added, “And that smart guy said it wasn't rabies, too.”

  “Smart guy?”

  “Our neighbor at the campground.”

  “Oh yeah, Kevin. He seemed like he knew something about it. Said he worked with the CDC or in pharmaceuticals or something.” Dad dug into that Chimichanga already and might have taught Chad a thing or two about how to talk with a mouthful of food.

  “He said a lot of things. Including that he wasn't a doctor,” Karen-Mother-of-Two clarified.

  “Hmm…well how's it feel?”

  “Better with this.” He raised the empty quart jar. “Just itchy.” Sneezed. Blew his nose.

  “Yeah, most things do. Until morning.”

  “Well, I don't suppose there's any place close that might be open that could look at him?”

  “I don't think so…but…I have an idea. Give me a minute. I need to take this order, and then I’ll see what I can do.”

  The dad wanted to tough it out. “You really don’t—”

  “Quiet, honey.” Karen-Mother-of-Two knew they needed help. “Thank you so much. This whole thing has just been one…well…one boondoggle after another.”

  Upon our arrival at El Coyote Gordo, there were thirteen people in the building. Of those, only three did not take any video or pictures on their phones of the incident: the Soccer Dad, the Biker Nurse, and me.

  None of it was fine cinematography, but perhaps the most noteworthy was the short video collected by the waitress
in the moments before she turned and after the mayhem had begun. I liked her more than a little even though I had only just met her.

  After Pete the bartender missed his shot at the pool table, he brought us water and chips. He said we could help ourselves to the salsa bar. Then he and Ziggy had a whole back and forth about his drink order between all of us being distracted by the chipmunk attack story over at the family table.

  “Tell me, what is your specialty?”

  “Specialty?”

  “Your best drink.”

  “Ever had a blue margarita?”

  “Yes.”

  “I make a Blue Monsterita.”

  “Big or somezing?”

  “Big and…complex.”

  “Well, he’s ze driver, anyway.” Ziggy pointed at me.

  “Okay. One of those and…”

  “Singleton.”

  I snapped back from watching the family long enough to answer, “Ice tea, extra lemon.”

  “Be right back with those.”

  “Very reasonable Singleton. As usual.”

  The Mom told the story of the man who had bandaged Soccer Dad’s hand and we knew they met Kevin.

  Ziggy whispered at me with more delight than he could reasonably contain as we watched the waitress walk over our way. “We’re so lucky. So very lucky. Mazematically, ze odds were always slightly in our favor. Time on our side. All of zat. But here, now? You are a Singleton, aren't you? What luck. One in a billion.”

  She wasn't beautiful exactly, but she was attractive and kind of sexy in that ‘let's-try-it-this-way’ fun-spirited attitude some people exude about life, love, driving cars, and eating out.

  “Hi. Sorry for the wait. How can I help you gentlemen? I see Pete got you set up.”

  “Is everyzing OK over zere?”

  “Yes, I think so. Just a camper attacked by a squirrel.”

  “Does that happen often around here?”

  “Ha. Never. It's really weird.”

  “Yeah, weird.”

  “Neither of you is a doctor by any chance? Or a nurse or anything like that?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Only ze basic first aid. Qualified for simple zings like paper cuts and lab burns. No, squirrels.”

  “Same.”

  “Well, you might be my last resort. But, between you and me, that lady over there might be a nurse.”

  “Ze biker?”

  “Yeah, but I don't want to bug her on her day off if I don't have to.”

  “Right.”

  “Sometimes you’re just lucky enough to be in ze right place at ze right time, eh?” Ziggy glanced over at me.

  “Sometimes….” She took out her pad. “So, what’ll it be?”

  “Was zat ze chimichanga platter I saw you take past me on our way in?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “One of zose for me, please.”

  She turned to me. Such pain. I couldn’t speak. How many years had it been since I had enjoyed a real taco? Eighteen months of Silvercrest food with a couple of intervals in faraway places, though none with decent tacos, and then three years of tube food. Almost five years.

  The menu had that standard selection of midwestern mall Mexican food that makes people wonder what all the fuss is about with the foodies and their taco fetish. I mean, I’ll eat it. I do eat it. It’s where I had my first tacos, but…

  “I…”

  “He wants tah-cohs.”

  “The platter? Flour or corn?”

  “Um…”

  “What? Not tah-cos? Zat’s all you talk about. It’s his favorite food.”

  “People love the chicken barbecue tacos. With pickle relish.”

  “Is that a thing? People eat barbecue on tacos now?” I said it before I could stop myself.

  “Some, yeah.” She looked at me and it was one of the best moments of dining out in my life. She looked me up and down and looked into my eyes and knew I could not order the standard mall tacos. She knew I had higher hopes for this place, and she knew what I hoped for. She knew barbecue tacos made as much sense as foie gras hamburgers or smoked salmon pizza.

  Sure, anything was worth a try. Fusion can make for a fun night out. But when you need the world to make sense, you need your food the way it grabbed you, with all its perfect imperfections and simple satisfactions. If you are burger person, you probably know that perfect drive-in burger you got that time your family was in a miserable situation.

  Maybe the power went out during the hottest week of summer. The freezers defrosted. You came home from a distant cousin’s wedding only to spend the evening cleaning out stinking meat and old ice cream that had become soured milk. Mopping and gagging. Mom and Dad called the power company to figure out what the hell happened. Everyone annoyed and wondering when the outage would end and the air conditioning would finally come back on.

  At last, Dad or Mom said, “Enough,” and you piled back into the car and went to that greasy drive-in your parents made a point of avoiding and ordered up a feast. You ate cheeseburgers, chili fries, and chocolate shakes out on the picnic tables, sweating, and laughing about the strange number of unfinished boxes of fish sticks and chicken nuggets found in the depths of that deep freeze. And the Greasy Drive-In cheeseburger dripped with ketchup and mustard, and you bit through sliced pink tomatoes that crunched almost as much as the shredded ice burg lettuce, but not as much as the carbon crust on that patty. All was forgiven. The soul of your family saved. Balance restored to the universe.

  Ok, I love tacos, but burgers run a close second.

  Anyway, I could not go the bad way after a five-year taco drought and facing an impending zombie gore storm.

  “Those aren’t your kind of taco, are they?” And I knew I could love her for at least half of forever.

  “Not tonight.”

  “What kind of tah-cos do you want zen?”

  “I think I know. Let me see what I can do. How many are you up for?”

  “How big are the tortillas?”

  “Those little ones are the ones you want, right?”

  “Yeah.” And I nearly drooled on the table as I said it.

  “How many?”

  I cleared my throat and tried to sound reasonable, “Let’s start with ten.”

  “Ten? Now, zis is a pahty. Where’s zat Monsterita?” The waitress laughed with him. Ziggy always had a certain lunatic charm. “One more zing. Do you have WeeFee? I can’t get signal on my phone.”

  “He means WiFi.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, we're down in a nook here along where the river cuts between two mountains. Look for the El Coyote network.”

  “Is zer a password?”

  “Yep. Taco1234567.”

  “Zank you. Now we don’t have to talk to each other zrough dinner and can be ze phone zombies we are supposed to be.”

  The waitress laughed and took our order to the kitchen.

  Ziggy lowered his voice and spoke seriously. “For Silvercrest, and maybe humanity, we will want to cut zat line. We don't want videos of the infected getting out or anyzing like zat.”

  “Well, no one is infected, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Look, it’s going to be hours.”

  “You’re probably right. Zat chipmonkey stoh-ry has me on edge. Eizer way, I zink you are going to owe me ten dollars, Singleton.”

  “We’ll see. Night’s still young.”

  “‘Night’s still young.’ Listen to him. You don’t even know a zing and you zink you know zings. Your money is going in my bag.”

  “What’s in that thing, anyway?” I lifted my chin at his European Man Purse. He hadn’t taken it off when we sat down.

  “What zis? Zis is my bag of tricks. My kind of tacos.”

  What is bigger than a pint? A quart? A Big Gulp?

  I don’t think it is legal in some states, maybe most states, to serve alcoholic beverages in that volume as a single serving. But this was the Rocky Mountain West. And besides
owning guns, how you serve alcohol is one of the last measures of personal freedom anyone actually knew how to do anything about in this part of America.

  The Monsterita. Later, I learned that it had a certain legendary status across the region. Imitated but rarely with any success. Some bars dumbed it down to dumping low grade tequila and food coloring in a quart jar with Seven-Up or Sprite and garnished with a quartered lime around the rim of a quart jar. I suppose an approximation of that sort is good enough for a dorm room, but it misses all the splendor, subtlety, and grandeur of the original.

  The original, insanely large, involved, and glowing Blue Monsterita contains an LED ice cube. It comes with three straws, green dipped in white sugar, red dipped in salt, and white dipped in that rusty red chili lime seasoning known as Tajin. A shot of golden tequila in a one ounce ice bowl floats at the top, already melting its way into the drink. Lime slices, a paper sombrero, a small plastic Day of the Dead skeleton, and Mexican and US flags decorate it.

  The rim of the jar came coated in sugar and pop rocks. Inside the jar, the blue concoction surprises with its smooth drinkable combination of blue curacao, mezcal, lime-coconut flavored rum, a dash of triple sec, and a splash of club soda. Well regarded establishments deliver it with a mini-bottle of Mexican beer as a chaser. Though reportedly, the bold sometimes favor adding the beer to the jar once they make room for it.

  Had I ever seen Ziggy happier than when that thing landed in front of him? No. This was a science experiment, a parody and pastiche of cultural appropriation, a Mexican-American history lesson, a party, and a crisis management (or avoidance) tool all poured into one frosty mason jar.

  Pete The Bartender set down my boring iced tea with extra lemon as Ziggy giggled and sipped with embarrassing excitement.

  I said, “Thanks,” and watched Pete head over to the family table with Soccer Dad’s second Blue Monsterita of the evening. In the short time that we had ordered, the condition of the bandage on the chipmunk hand had significantly deteriorated as the swelling increased, Soccer Dad rubbed it against the bottom of his chair while stuffing chimichanga, rice, beans, and chips into his mouth.