At the bottom of that forest, the twisted drive heading away from the reservoir was dead quiet. Rhea stopped and put the top down, letting the two AM summer night air curl around her, making her forget the bad vibe that whole tamale debacle was. Almost. And even though she hit some traffic once she turned onto Cahuenga, it still only took her seven minutes to get to the Denny’s on Sunset and Gower and that was something.
Rhea went straight for the pancakes: A short stack with butter and fake syrup. She didn’t want to go home; didnt want to think. Pancakes were good for that: for not thinking. They were numbing, filling. They didn’t have the edges of a waffle or the versitility of a crepe. But she needed, wanted more.
Waitress George wandered back over, one hand on bountiful hip.
“And?” she asked; checking Rhea’s half-assed smile.
Rhea slid the bagged tamale across the formica.
George checked around to make sure none of the seven other people at the counter were looking. Six of them were on their phones. The seventh, a stylish Mexican in his fifties man with a broken nose, wearing a sixty dollar suit and working on a Denver Omelette was angrily mumbling at a text.
George slipped the tamale into a microwave, gave it a thirty second nuke, then slipped it onto Rhea’s plate.
“I owe you.” Rhea thanked her.
“Yep.” George agreed.
Rhea sprinkled it with bottled green taco sauce. Then she dotted the syruped pancakes with tabasco. Omelette Man noticed.
George poured Rhea an iced coffee then watched as Rhea tore the ends off three packs of Sweet ‘n Low and stirred them into it.
“That stuff’ll rot your brain.” George commented.
“Unlike LA?”
“You love it here.” George chided her.
“It’s unrequited.” Rhea pointed out.
“That editor guy who comes in here really likes you.”
“Not my type.”
“What, too nice?”
“Yeah, maybe I should just date you.”
“Dream on.”
Rhea laughed. It felt good. George knew a thing or two about Rhea. Maybe they were even friends. Like Rhea and everyone else in la – dead and alive – she was waiting for a break.
“But if you don’t get your job back, I’ll put in a word for you here.”
“Just get me the Cholula.”
Omeletts Man heard that too, looked up.
An order was up. George went to get it. After she served it to a drag couple six stools down, she returned to Rhea with the Cholula. Rhea generously dumped it on her food.
“Whoa. Bad night?” George asked as she watched.
“Bad date. I’m out two tamales and I’ve got ancho sauce all down my thighs.”
“Where do you find them?” George asked her.
“The guys or the tamales?” Rhea asked as she took a bite.
“The guys.”
“…they’re around.” Rhea demurred. She was tired and frustrated and wanted to forget about it. The tamale, on the other hand, was pretty fine.
Omelette Man watched her dig in.
“Where do you get the tamales?” he asked.
Rhea looked at him for a minute. So, the Vato was an eavesdropper. Well, wasn’t everyone?
“Out of a steamer in the trunk of a Buick in Boyle Heights.” She smiled then turned away.
Omelette Man wasn’t done. He moved closer. She ignored him. He leaned in, “I heard her say you lost your job?”
“So?”
“You want to make a little money?”
WTF, Rhea thought. “Sorry, Dude, I don’t do old guys.”
“I don’t do white chicks.” He shot back, “But I like the way you eat.”
“What?”
“I like the way you eat. Can you write?”
“What??”
“Can you write? Do you write? Stories. Articles. Letters. Google reviews. Yelp–”
She looked at him, closer. He was sober. Present. Serious.
“No.” she turned away. Curiosity got her, though. She turned back. “Why?”
“I need a food writer.” He explained.
“Seriously?” Rhea didn’t believe him.
“Seriously.” Omelette Man confirmed.
“Well…” she found herself replying, “I’ve written reports. And sometimes some… musings, I guess you could say.”
Recent Comments