Largest Petrified Log Ever Found in Badlands
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“I’m not a cynic, I’m just a surrealist” ~ Yuri
Light cigarette with match in left hand. Inhale. Blink. Left foot forward. Grasp cigarette with right hand. Right foot forward. Remove from mouth. Exhale. Flick match with left hand. Left foot forward. Turn head right towards window. Stop legs. Look at mannequin heads wearing mens hats in storefront. See image of self exhaling. Left hand in hair. Stare in eyes. Squint. Turn head left. Left foot forward.
Autonomy is a blessing from the sun. Los Burritos. Stop here for awhile. You know what I’d really like? An orange-carrot juice. God, but if I get that chile relleno burrito one more time I’m gonna have to run home in agony again. That’s it, stick to the juice.
Smile and blather. Overpronounce simple Spanish terms for food. Sheepishly repronounce in anglicized fashion. Slump shoulders. Pay cash. Sit on vinyl chair. Notice salsa stains on polyester pants, grease on counters. Mutter to self. Fiddle with Nokia phone. Aimlessly play that snakes game. Stare at lady making juice.
It’s like a woodchipper. That pulpy mass that falls away as the good, sugary stuff pours and splatters. Orange and red and styrofoam at room temperature with that plastic lid that doesn’t quite fit. It’s as if the construction of this beverage when finished will still be incomplete. Even when ingested it really never becomes the finite product I’ve come to expect from things which are more recognizably beverages. Ready to drink, cold, brilliantly colored and branded explanations of benefits and dietary enhancements. Maybe some screaming text in a yellow circle that says “New” or “Same Great …” or “Vitamin” or “Extra”. This drink is so clinical in contrast; so boldly elemental as to be inexplicably embarrassing to my sensibilities. Why is that? Why would the on-demand juicing of a fruit and vegetable for my consumption make me feel shame? Maybe because it’s like watching the animal you’re about to eat be butchered. Maybe it’s the waiting, the arrogant presumption of service. I don’t feel this way about the burrito. I don’t watch them make the burrito, I suppose. But she makes the juice with those same hands that handled my cash. I don’t think she washed those hands. Maybe it’s the lack of preservatives. It sounds like she’s talking about her kid to the cook. Just waiting to get this juicing over with so she can ring up the next guy in line. I don’t feel this way at any number of chain “juice bars” in this city. Their drinks have clever names and supplements and are blended with ice. I get impatient when waiting there. There it is my time that is wasted. Here I’m just making them work harder for the same amount of cash and probably less profit. I should have had the horchata.
Grab bag of burrito and chips. Shuffle out. Lift drink to mouth with right hand by grasping on lid.
Spill on sidewalk.
Spill on polyester pants.