A Winter Moon

by S. J. Smith

  “No...no problem at all,” I answer. “It’ll just take a few minutes. Do you mind waiting?”

  “Not at all,” he answers. The smile has returned and a relieved feeling settles into the pit of my stomach. At least I was able to save myself.

  I turn and begin heating the tortillas while gathering together the chorizo sausage that’s been warming on the stove. I usually talk while I do this and it feels weird not to.

  With Gabe not in the truck yet, the only option for conversation is the sports star currently outside my truck. And, to be fair, I am a bit curious to know what David Gutierrez, who is tall and fairly slender, plans to do with twenty-four tacos.

  So, I decide to ask him.

  “Did the team decide on Chorizo tacos for breakfast this morning?” I ask trying to keep my voice light.

  “Not exactly,” he says. “In fact, they’re all for me.”

  Leaving my third tortilla on the comal, I turn to look at him.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Pretty sure,” he answers with a chuckle. Apparently my curiosity amuses him.

  “You must be bigger on the inside,” I say without thinking. Then immediately wince in regret. That was one of the worst things I could possibly have said.

  Luckily, he chuckles again.

  “You’d be surprised how much I can eat,” he tells me. “But, I don’t plan on eating all of these.”

  “Then what do you plan on doing with them?” I ask turning back to the tortillas.

  “Well,” he tells me. “I’ll eat six then give the others away.”

  “To who?” I ask.

  “Anyone who wants them,” he says. “Usually, the event staff take a few. The manager gives a couple to his kids.”

  “So, they’re not all for you,” I say slowly trying to follow his logic.

  “Well, they’re not for me to eat,” he says. “But, it’s a ritual. I’ve got to get exactly two dozen chorizo tacos before every big game.”

  “What happens if you don’t?” I ask curiously.

  “We lose,” he answers.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want that,” I say. Despite my better judgment, I throw a slightly flirty smile when I turn to him over my shoulder. He smiles back at me and I feel several butterflies take flight inside my stomach.

  I wrap the first dozen tacos in foil and begin to bag them.

  “Is there a specific way they need to be wrapped?” I ask. “I wouldn’t want the Ranger to lose their first game just because I used paper instead of plastic.”

  He gives me a quiet chuckle.

  “Anyway is fine,” he answers. I wrap the first dozen in our usual brown paper bag and hand them to him. He looks into my eyes and smiles.

  I feel heat rush to my face when I see those bright green eyes staring at me, and I’m immediately aware that my dull brown gaze can’t be nearly as appealing. Just like my frizzy black hair pulled into a ponytail above my head is nowhere near as nice as his smooth dark locks.

  “Next dozen’ll be up in about five minutes,” I tell him quickly looking away.

  I barely see him nod out of the corner of my eye before turning back to the comal. I know he must think I’m a complete spaz first staring at him and then turning away like that.

  And the silence certainly isn’t helping. It never does. See, I’m the opposite of most people. I need noise and chatter to think. Maybe it comes from having a big family. Maybe it’s just me. Either way, when there’s no noise. I create it.

  “So, tell me,” I say to David, making sure to keep my eyes on the tortillas. “How did this ritual get started? Sounds like you’ve been doing it for a while.”

  “It’s been about ten years, I guess,” David tells me. “It started when I was in high school in Eagle Pass down by the border. Do you know where that is?”

  “I grew up in San Antonio,” I answer. “I’ve been to Eagle Pass more than once.”

  “Then you know there are lots of breakfast taco places there,” he says. “And the day of a championship game, when a college scout was going to be there, I went with my mom to this taqueria. And, I guess I thought I was hungrier than I was because I ordered two dozen tacos.”

  “And I’m guessing you were only able to eat five?” I ask remembering what he told me about his current ritual.

  “Yep,” he says. “The others went to my younger brothers. But, we won that game. And, since then, every time I’ve gone to a taco shop and ordered two dozen breakfast tacos, we’ve won.”

  “So, all this time, you’ve been winning because of tacos?” I ask skeptically.

  “Maybe not,” he answers. “But, I’m not taking any chances.”

  I can’t help but chuckle a little. I’d heard about some sports players and their superstitions. Especially baseball players. But, this had to be one of the strangest I’d ever heard.

  I quickly put together his second dozen and wrapped them in the brown paper bag. He took them gratefully and paid in cash.

  “Did you need anything else?” I ask just before he turns away.

  “Actually, yes,” he says. “What’s your name?”

  “Gloria,” I answer my heart thudding in my chest. “Gloria Sanchez.”

  “Gloria Sanchez,” he repeats with a smile. Somehow my name, the one I’ve heard all my life, sounds very different in his mouth. It sounds nicer.

  “I’m David Gutierrez,” he says. “And, I’ve got a feeling you’re going to become part of my ritual.”

  “I hope so,” I answer with a smile.

  He says goodbye and I watch him leave very aware that I’m still beaming. Tacos or not, I hope he comes back. Seeing that smile early in the morning would make my Saturdays so much more bearable.

  *****

  Two months have passed and, I have to admit, David Gutierrez has made good on his promise. He’s come to the taco truck faithfully before each and every game that the Rangers have played.

  He orders two dozen chorizo tacos to go. Also, as he promised, I’ve become part of his ritual. Even when he’s playing a game on Friday or Sunday and Gabe is working the front, David asks for me to take his order.

  “I can’t mess with any part of the ritual,” he tells me. “Not when it’s working.”

  And, even I have to admit, it has worked. At least here.

  The Rangers have the best home record in the MLB. In fact, since David started pitching for the team, they’ve never lost a home game.

  But, for some reason, it’s different on the road. They’ve won a few away from their stadium in Arlington, Texas. But, not many. Some people are calling it the road curse.

  Only David, Gabe and I suspect the truth. It’s because David has to go without our tacos on the road.

  I suspect that’s why he’s here at the truck today. It’s not a game day but, they do have a road game two days from now. Maybe he’s decided to take our tacos on the plane with him.

  “What’s the special occasion?” I ask as he walks up to the truck. It’s a Sunday afternoon. Our second slowest time. So, once again, I’m manning the truck on my own.

  “I need a special occasion to visit my good luck charm?” he asks giving me a charming smile. I try to keep the blush out of my cheeks as I smile back.

  “Should I bring a chorizo taco out so you can visit with it?” I ask teasingly.

  “The tacos aren’t the only good luck charms and you know it,” he says.

  I smile again. He’s been saying that more and more often lately. Calling me his good luck charm. Not just the tacos, but me.

  “So, luck charm,” he says. “How are things in the taco truck business.”

  “Slow today,” I tell him. “But, that’s to be expected.”

  “Maybe I should start telling people about my taco ritual,” he says. “It’d be great marketing for the truck.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep superstitions a secret?” I ask. I assumed that was why I hadn’t heard anything in the sports news linking David Gutierrez to Chorizo ta
cos. He seems like the type of guy who would think that the charm would wear off if everyone knew about it.

  “Not necessarily,” he says. “Some ball players, even some guys on the team are perfectly happy to share their lucky secrets with the world.”

  “But not you?” I ask.

  “No,” he answers. “There are some things I like to keep all to myself.”

  He smiles and throws me a wink. I feel my face heat up and I look down at the truck floor.

  I want to think that he’s flirting. But, I know that’s probably more than a bit silly. Even if we have been talking more and more when he comes to the truck. Even if he has told me stories about growing up in Eagle Pass playing baseball on the street in front of his house, and I’ve told him stories about my large, crazy family in San Antonio. I know, realistically, it doesn’t mean anything.

  He’s a sports star and I’m a college student who works out of a taco truck. He comes for his lucky tacos and nothing else.

  “I actually did want to talk to you about something, Gloria,” he says. The light, teasing smile has faded from his face and I can tell there’s something serious he needs to say.

  I feel my heart beginning to pound inside my chest. I know what I want him to say. I know what I’ve wanted him to ask me for weeks now. ‘Hey, Gloria, would you like to get a drink with me sometime?’ or even ‘How about dinner? I know this really nice restaurant.’

  But, I know that’s unlikely. It’s more likely that he’s got something he needs to ask me about the tacos or about this ritual that he’s created around them.

  None the less, I have to slow the beating of my heart. I take a deep breath and say.

  “Sure. I can probably close down for about a half hour. Nobody wants tacos at three pm on a Sunday.”

  “Good,” he says with a smile. “I’ll wait for you at that picnic table over there.”

  He points to the spot and I nod when I see it. I watch him walk away for half a second before I place the ‘We’ll be back at’ sign on the outside of the window and close and lock the truck.

  As I walk towards the spot David indicated, I once again have to force down the thumping in my chest. I also have to force down a million daydreams.

  This is about luck and tacos. Nothing more.

  “So,” he begins awkwardly.

  “So,” I repeat smiling at him, hoping to make him feel at least a little bit more at ease. It seems to work. He gives me a genuine smile in return and leans forward.

  “I need to ask you a favor,” he says. “Remember, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

  “What is it?” I ask curiously.

  “Well...have you been following the team?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. Trying to sound casual. “As much as I can.”

  “Then you know we haven’t been doing so well on the road,” he says.

  “I’d heard something like that,” I answer. I know this is what I expected and I know I shouldn’t be disappointed. All the same, I feel a small, disappointed weight settle in my chest.

  “I know it can’t be the tacos,” he says. “Because, I’ve found street tacos at every place we’ve gone. And, I’ve ordered two dozen. Just like I always do.”

  “But?” I ask.

  “But, I’m starting to think that it might not just be the tacos,” he says. “It might be you and these tacos that are helping me win.”

  “You always say I’m your lucky charm,” I answer trying to sound cheeky all though I’m not sure my voice has managed it. I can feel my heart beginning to beat wildly again.

  He’s not just being nice or flirty when he says that I’m good luck. For one reason or another, he really thinks he needs me. That idea makes tiny butterflies begin to dance inside my stomach and join the quick rhythm of my heart.

  “I was wondering,” he says. “Just as a sort of...experiment...would you be able to come to LA with us for the next game?”

  I feel a wide, beaming smile stretch across my face and I open my mouth to say yes, absolutely. But then he says:

  “I mean, if I could, I’d take the whole truck. You and Gabe and the tacos, everything.”

  My heart suddenly sinks again and I can feel the smile slide off my face.

  “Are you sure you don’t have assistants who can just pack up the whole park for you?” I ask sarcastically. I know this bitter tone shouldn’t be in my voice. After all, David hasn’t done anything wrong, really. And, I’m lucky that he doesn’t seem to catch the half insult.

  He just smiles.

  “The assistants I’ve got are good but, they’re not that good,” he says. “But, I think as long as I’ve got you and the tacos, I should be good. What do you say?”

  Despite the sinking in my heart, I still want to say yes, immediately. After all, I’ve never been to LA before. And, it would be fun, traveling with a major league baseball team.

  But, then, there’s my job. And, what happens if this works. Am I going to have to go trotting halfway across the country with my tortillas and chorizo in tow every time the Rangers have an away game?

  “Of course, I’ll take care of your hotel room and anything else you need,” David says, apparently sensing my hesitation.

  “I’ll need to ask Gabe,” I tell him finally.

  “Sure,” he says. “But, tell him if he has problems with it, he can call me. I’ll get it sorted out.”

  He hands me a card with his number on it. I have to remind myself that he’s not really ‘giving me his number’ the way I want him to. He’s giving it to me so my boss can get in touch with him. That’s all. I take the card hesitantly and look down at it.

  “Look,” he says suddenly earnest. I feel him take my hand from across the table. I look up from the card to his eyes and my heart skips a beat. His hand is warm in mine and softer than I expected. All the same, he seems desperate.

  “I really need you there, Gloria,” he says. “If we’ve got a shot at the pennant this year, we’ve got to start winning on the road.”

  I look into his eyes and I see the sincerity there. It doesn’t matter if I believe in this ‘good luck’ stuff. He believes it. And, if I really care about him, which I do, I know I’ve got to do everything I can to help him.

  So, I give him a smile.

  “I’ll tell Gabe that,” I say. “After such a passionate plea, I don’t think he’ll be able to turn us down.”

  “Great,” David says. “You keep my number and call me as soon as you know for sure. We’ll leave in two days.”

  “Ok,” I answer.

  With a smile and another word of thanks, he’s off again.

  Now, I’m stuck here staring at the business card in my hand. That’s what it is, really. A business card for a business deal. He didn’t mention anything at all romantic or even personal about this trip.

  But, when I reach down to touch my hand right where he held it, I’m left with the memory of how warm it was. How warm he was.

  After all, this time, this can’t just be about tacos. He needs me. And, even if it’s not a grand romantic gesture yet, it’s definitely a start.

  *****

  I can hardly believe it when, two days later, I find myself walking into the first five-star hotel I have ever stayed in. I’m in Los Angeles for the first time in my life. I flew here in first class. And, now, I’m staying with a major league baseball team in one of the fanciest hotels I’ve ever seen.

  I feel my jaw drop as we step inside the historic building and I stare up at the ceiling. A beautiful, Italian style fresco, complete with a clear blue sky and little cherub angels dance above me. The edges are all guided in shimmering gold and a bright, crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

  In my jeans, t-shirt and tennis shoes, I can’t help but feel more than a little underdressed. When I look down at my feet, my worn and slightly dirty tennis shoes playing against the clear marble floor does nothing to combat this feeling.

  “I’ll get us checked in,” David says, making m
e jump. I was so caught up in my examination of the hotel, I almost forgot that he was behind me.

  “You can rest your feet on that couch if you like,” he draws my attention to a plush, red couch sitting next to a matching chair in the lobby.

  “I’ve been sitting for five hours,” I tell him referring both to the plane ride and then the bus ride with the rest of the team to the hotel. “I can stand a little longer.”

  He give out a chuckle and smiles at me.

  “If you say so,” he says. He moves to the front desk and stands next to the manager who is checking the rest of the team in.

  I immediately miss him. Mostly because I’m not quite sure what to do with the other guys. I look over at them all standing in a cluster at the entrance talking amongst themselves quietly.

  Occasionally someone will look over at me and whisper to one of the other guys. I know what they must think. David Gutierrez is so famous he’s allowed to take some girl on an away trip just to make tacos, but there’s no money in the budget for our wives and girlfriends.

  I know I’m probably being too harsh. After all, in their position, I would probably be a little bitter too.

  That being said, I’m more than glad when David returns with our room keys.

  “We’re on floor seven,” he says.

  “Both of us?” I ask. A cautious red flag has raised itself in my mind. David promised me that I would have my own room. Actually, he promised me a suite with a kitchen. Even though I still hope that his bringing me here wasn’t just about tacos, I’m not the kind of girl who shares a room with a guy on a first date.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, apparently reading the hesitation in my face. “We’ve got separate suites. But, they are adjoined. Hope that’s ok.”

  This time, an excited thrill runs through me and I smile at him and nod. I don’t know exactly why sharing a room with David is inappropriate but, sharing a door with him is exciting.

  I suppose it’s just a delicate, unspoken balance. A shared room says that he expects something to happen. A shared door just says there’s the possibility. Expectation is stressful. But possibility...that’s exciting.

  We take the elevator up to the rooms and he walks me to my door first.