It’s a Duck!

The day has just begun at the Spanish store, and I’m outside hanging the flags. You know, I’ve been thinking about it, and the U.S. flag has got nothing on the Latin American flags. I mean, come on. Stars and stripes? The states of the union, and the 13 colonies? Really? I like a country like Argentina. It’s blue and white and has a big yellow sun on it. Venezuela’s got a horse on it. South America isn’t afraid to be like, listen, it’s sunny and we like horses. Put it on the flag. Symbolism Shmimbolism. I want a flag with an ice cream sandwich on it. And a pony. And the sheet music for "Love Will Tear Us Apart." There you go. Flag. 

A woman on her cell phone walks by. There’s a duck nibbling at some crumbs by the door. 
"So then I said, why don’t we just not invite Shannon, and…oh, HI there!" She bends down to talk to the duck. "How are you? Hang on, Margie, it’s a duck! What’re you doin’? No, Margie, not you, the duck. Havin’ some breakfast? No, no, the duck again, listen, Margie, can I call you back?" What, are they old friends? Who interrupts a conversation when they see a duck? 
"Hey do you work here? Do you work here? Excuse me, Sir?" 
"Oh! Me? Thought you were still talking to the duck. I do, yes. The duck is just loitering." 
"Yes, well…I’m here to pick up some paella pans." 
"Oh, right, that order’s right inside, let me give you a hand." 
It’s Cinco de Mayo. A catering company is buying 16 paella pans for a Microsoft office party. Apparently they want to celebrate the Mexican holiday with Spain’s most famous dish. I’m proud to own a Mac. 
"So are you guys doing anything special for Cinco de Mayo?" the caterer asks as I heave the stacks of pans into her car. 
"Well…it’s not really a Spanish holiday. So not really." 
"It’s not?" She looks horrified at the $800 dollars worth of paella pans in her trunk. 
"Yeah…but…they won’t know the difference. Don’t worry about it. These are the people who made Internet Explorer." She looks stunned as she gets back into her car, and I smile to myself as I walk back into the store. 
"Hey, do me a favor." Brenda is staring into her computer. "Price that case of wines at $39.99 a bottle." 
"Sure, Brenda," I say. 
"I’d do it myself, but…I’m vaguely busy." She’s checking her email at her desk while eating a sandwich. I look at the label. It’s a Madeira port. 
Madeira port wine is a complex elixir that takes years and years and a complicated aging and tempering process to bloom into is trademark flavors of orange rind and cinnamon, toasted nuts and caramel. This winemaker is called Blandy’s. Now, I understand it’s your family name, you probably inherited the place from Great-Grandpa Blandy himself, but…is that really the best marketing plan, with a product like Madeira, and a name like Blandy? No one wants to buy crackers from Staley’s, no one wants to buy milk from Chunky’s, no one wants to send their kids to Dummy’s Private School. Come on, Blandy. Think this through. 
"Also…" Brenda looks up quickly, startled at something in the window. "I have to go." She darts around the corner just as the door opens behind me. 
"Hey, Guy!" Oh no. Flamenco Kid. The long black leather trench coat. The long black ponytail. The patchy little wisp of a moustache. The classical guitar slung across his back. I don’t know where he comes from, or where he goes when he leaves. But all I want in the world is for him to go back to that place. I turn around slowly. He has a fist extended toward me. "Gimme some rock, man!" I reluctantly "give him some rock." 
"Yeah! What’s up, man? What’s new around the store?" He slaps me on the back. Hard. I wince. 
"Oh you know, man. Same old stuff." 
"Awesome. Are you guys doing anything special for Cinco de Mayo?" 
"Well, not really. I mean, it’s not a Spanish holiday." He looks slightly alarmed. 
"That’s right. Mexican Independence Day, right?" 
"I believe September 16th is Mexican Independence Day. Independence from Spain, actually." 
"Oh. What’s Cinco De Mayo?" 
"Mexican victory over French occupation. 1861." 
"Oh! Well that’s great!" 
"Yeah, I mean. The French did come back, though, and then they occupied Mexico for 3 years after that." 
"Oh. Where were we?" 
"Fighting the Civil War, I believe." 
"Oh, right. Well, listen. Can I park there?" He points outside. 
"Where?" I know what he’s going to say. 
"In the ‘three minute zone’?" 
"Well…yeah. I mean. For three minutes." 
"No, I need to be there for a couple hours." 
"Yeah. Then no." 
"Because I can’t find a spot anywhere else, and I really need to park there." 
"Well. Sorry, man." 
"Can I stay there for just like…an hour?" 
Do you think I’m the one in charge of the three-minute parking? What do you want me to do? Write you a note and pin it to your shirt?
Dear Police, 
Please excuse Flamenco Kid from the three-minute parking rule. He’s too lazy to follow the rules of society, so I said that was fine. Call if you have questions. 
Thanks, 
Some Guy at Some Store 
"I just don’t want you to get towed, man," I offer helpfully. He shakes his head like I really let him down and walks out the door to his car. "If you can’t find another three-minute zone, I’d suggest a Handicapped Space or a Bus Stop!" I say under my breath. I price the last of the case of wines and heave them onto a shelf. Brenda reappears. 
"Oh, hey–did I say $39.99 a bottle? Because I meant to say $49.99." She whisks back around the corner as I pull the case of wine back off the shelf. 
I’m halfway done relabeling when there’s another slap on my back. Flamenco Kid. He’s got his arms full of CDs, books, souvenirs. I didn’t even hear him come back in. 
"Hey bro! I’m back!" 
"So you are." 
"Question. Where might I find the ferge?" 
"Sorry?" 
"The ferge?" 
"I think I’m unclear on just what that might be." 
"The sign. Over there." I look. It reads, "MORE ANTCHOVYS UPSTARES IN THE FERGE." 
"Oh yes. I think Pascual did that sign. I think it’s short for "refergerator." Which is Pascual for refrigerator. On your right at the top of the stairs." 
"Cool. I’m just going to leave this stuff here, and I’ll be back in a minute to pay." 
He dumps it all on the counter. 
The thing is, Flamenco kid has never bought anything in the store. Nothing. He comes in, he talks, he never breaks eye contact, he asks a lot of questions, he piles stuff on the counter, and then he says, "You know? I think I’ll pass for today," and walks out. Every. Time. 
Once when I was four, I wandered off at one of my brother’s soccer games. There was a big wooden play structure and I decided to get under the stairs, and stick my head between the slats. I got stuck for an hour and a half, staring at wood chips while splinters dug into my neck, and the damp planks stained my Osh Kosh B’Goshes. I did finally escape, but I relive the whole experience whenever I see Flamenco Kid. Not because he was there or anything, he just gives me a very similar feeling. 
He sprints up the stairs and I finish labeling the wines. I get the ladder out again, and I’m just grunting them onto the shelf when I hear Brenda. 
"Oh, hey, you know what? Those are for a special order. So go ahead and just take the price tags off and put them upstairs." 
"Ha, ha. Wait. You’re kidding, right?" 
"No. No, I’m not." 
"Right. Ok." I reach for the ladder. You know what’s NOT going to be on my flag? Blandy. Ladders are out, too. Maybe even the pony–I can’t have him eating the ice cream sandwich when I’m not looking. Ow. Slap on the back. 
"Hey, Guy!" 
"Hey, Kid. This all for you?" I point to the pile of merchandise he’s left on the counter. He sets down the ‘ANTCHOVYS’ next to the pile. "Actually…maybe just the Flamenco CD, and the flag with the goat on it. No, the one with the pony. Ooooo…is that Blandy’s? Actually…" He pretends to be deep in thought, and then suddenly brightens. "You know, I think I’ll just pass today! Thanks!" He gives me a high five, and he’s out the door.
 A minute goes by and he pops his head back in. "Hey–real quick. I’m going up to get fish ‘n chips. Can I park here?" I fake a cell phone call. 
"Hello?" I cover the receiver. "Sorry, I have to take this. It’s a duck."

POSTED BY closesecond ON 05.23.06 @ 11:52 pm | 16 Comments

Droppin’ Washingtons

Today I was in Pike Place Market, and I saw a homeless man blow his nose with a dollar bill, and I thought, "Incredible!" It’s like he’s saying, "Yeah, I don’t have a home, but that’s not going to stop me from living the dream. Dollar bills? Who needs ‘em? I drop a Washington every time I sneeze!" And then I thought, "Perhaps this is why he’s running low on cash." 

I buy my vegetables and walk back to work. I’m peeling potatoes when I realize I’ve forgotten the milk. 
"Augh! The milk!" 
"Esteven? You need some milk?" Enter Pascual, our warehouse manager. I don’t understand what he is saying most of the time. All I can gather is that he is very, very smooth. So when he asks me if I need some milk, he asks as though there were a special magical milk that was hidden in a far-off land whose geography only he knows, but if I said the word, he would lasso a feral steed with a licorice whip, lash it to Apollo’s chariot with Bubble Tape and ride it to the Promised Land for a thimbleful. Which would be totally unnecessary. So I suggest the corner market, and he seems pretty open to that, too. 
"What are you making there?" A wide-eyed grinny woman is leaning over the counter at me. 
"Tortilla Espanola," I reply warily. 
"Ohhhhhh…" She leans in further, straining to see. "Tor-TILL-io." I know she doesn’t speak Spanish. I also know she wont leave me alone without a conversation. I decide to play the foreigner card. 
"Um. Jes," I slur. 
"So where are the tortillios?" 
"Jes. I think ju are thinking of Mexican tortillas. Dis ees potato, and egg, and onion, and olive oil…" 
"Ohhhhh…" She is concentrating furiously as I brush the top with olive oil. When she speaks again, it is slowly and clearly, so I can understand her English. "SO THEN…YOU PUT (here she gestures wildly) THE TORTILLIOS ON TOP? ON TOP?" 
"Um…" 
"Have you tried this wine? Tried? This wine?" She is pointing at the bottle while waving it with the other hand. I stare at her blankly. 
"Oh!" I say. "Jes. It ees so good. It ees…undescriptable." She is delighted. 
"What is it like? What does it taste like?" She is pointing to her tongue. "Taste?" 
"Iss great. Iss like…with the berries and the fruits? And tastes with the…with the…" I struggle for the words. Her brow is furrowed sympathetically. I continue. "With the espices? En jus bery small tastes licoriss." 
"Licorice?" 
"Jes. Licoriss." 
"Black licorice?" No, RED licorice, lady. The wine tastes like RED licorice. And then there’s just a hint of Blue Razzleberry and a flutter of Red Hots–are you kidding me? This is seriously the third person to ask me this. Do people not know that there is no such thing as red licorice?
"Esteven!" Pascual has returned. "I have returned," he whispers. "The milk. For you." The woman takes her wine downstairs, and Pascual flashes me a wink and a smile as if to imply that this milk is my very own dairy valentine, my golden fleece from the end of the rainbow and yet no trouble, no trouble at all. 
I saw the end of the rainbow, once, driving back from Portland. It arched from behind the distant west hills and fell into a meadow. You know what was at the end of the rainbow? A Chevy pickup. I know. It was all very disappointing. 
"Esteven! Your tortilla!" I’ve just pulled it from the oven, and it crackles brown and gold. Pascual’s earnest eyes meet mine, and he speaks with devout conviction. "Your tortilla is like a beautiful woman," he says gravely, "I cannot look away." 
"That’s very kind, Pascual, thank you." 
"How do you make it so round? You must use a compass." He is grinning widely. 
There’s a sign on the wall, an advertisement for Andalusia, Spain, that says, "Why do Andalusians smile so much?" Underneath the question are pictures of a man conducting an orchestra, a woman dancing flamenco, a man preparing an elaborate feast. None of these people are smiling. No one on this poster is smiling. So I guess my question is "Do they?" Maybe it’s some kind of logic problem, and the pictures are hints! We can definitely rule out music, dance, and food. What could it be? 
"Everyone gather please!" It’s Pascual. Often, we get samples of new products to try and then determine whether or not we’ll carry them in stock. Chocolates, fig bread, dabs of jelly, roasted nuts, truffle oil. Today it’s Chapurrines. Dehyrdated grasshoppers. "Esteven? You will try the bugs with me?" 
"Sure," I say. 
"Brenda? You will eat the bugs?" Brenda looks appalled. 
"My father used to chase me with grasshoppers." 
"So you’re just going to keep running from them?" I prod, "Like Pac-Man and ghosts? Maybe it’s time to face this fear." She turns to me coldly.
"When my father said, "Brenda, follow your dreams," I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean my nightmares." 
"Oh. Ok. Wow." 
Grasshoppers are peculiar creatures. Looking at them, you’d think they were no fun at all. Clenched jaws, beady eyes, steely gaze. And yet, their lives are spent playing leapfrog, and hopscotch, and fiddle jigs. They’re like the Westside Story of entomology. Sure, they talk tough and flash their knives and flex but all they really want to do is high-kick and shimmy and sing. That’s why it makes sense to me that perhaps there was a grasshopper on his deathbed, with his dear ones gathered ’round, who said, "Well, no one lasts forever. I’ve had a good long month. I don’t want to be buried when I go. Instead, I’d like to be toasted and salted and eaten like popcorn. I want to be a crispy-crunchy treat!" 
So even though they darkly glower at me through the wall of the jar, I know they mean no harm. Because really, they’re in grasshopper heaven, high-fiving, and swigging Guinness, and doing the Rumba. I pop one in my mouth and crunch down. It tastes like a pet store. A very salty pet store. Like what fish food might taste like. I can feel its little legs crackle between my teeth. This is not a crispy-crunchy treat. It is a spectacular exit for a grasshopper, though. An incredible way to go. I reach for another. It’s an odd feeling, putting a whole creature in your mouth. I feel like a dinosaur. Or Jonah’s whale. Or Pac-man. I waltz him across the table. 
"When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way–" CRUNCH! Another peeks out meekly from the jar. 
"Mariaaaaa!" he warbles, "I just met a girl named–" CRUNCH! They never see it coming. 
The verdict? I give them a 10 for entertainment value, and a zero on taste. These are seriously a blast, but they’re really not delicious at all. If someone could make these taste great, they just might be the perfect food. In the meantime, does anyone have a dollar? I think I need to spit this out.

POSTED BY closesecond ON 05.01.06 @ 2:05 am | 16 Comments