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, not that she was in a rush but – damn good timing.
Rhea sat at the counter. Waitress George seemed happy to see her… “What?” she asked; there was always something.
Rhea slid the bagged tamale across the formica.
George checked around to make sure no one was looking. She slipped the tamale into a microwave, gave it a thirty second nuke, then gave it back to Rhea. Plated.
“I owe you.” Rhea thanked her.
“Yep.” George agreed.
Rhea sprinkled it with bottled green taco sauce. George poured her 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.
Three empty stools down, a stylish Mexican man working on a Denver omelette chuckled.
George leaned in to Rhea, trying to pump her up a little, “You’ll get your job back.”
Rhea let out a breath, she did not want to talk about it, “Can you get me the “Cholula” too, please?” She asked.
“Bad night?” George asked as she got Rhea the bottle of hot sauce.
“Bad date. I’m out two tamales and I’ve got ancho sauce all down my thighs.”
The omelette man looked up.
Rhea drizzled Cholula over her food.
“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 that too. The tamale, on the other hand, was pretty fine.
“Where do you get the tamales?” the fifty-ish omelette man 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.”
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