Burritos With My Grandfather

I started the day looking for a new burrito spot. I did not start the day looking to be leveled by nostalgia.

I was driving down North Chester towards La Tapatia which happens to be a lot of Bakersfield's first experience with Mexican food, but I've never once eaten there because my grandfather always took me across the street a few businesses down to El Taquito.

See, this small shack on a broken asphalt slab was right across from his then favorite bar Bud's which later turned into the Long Branch. He spent many a night drinking, fighting, and earning the stories he would one day impart to me across a small wooden table in the brick corner of the burrito joint across the street.

My grandfather ran a lawn service of sorts, and, on the days I would help, we would head over to El Taquito dragging our heels towards the day's beginning. He would tell me, "You can never be late. You arrive when you get there." I may have lost a few jobs over that bit of advice, but I've been able to keep a few more hairs than he had at my age.

Plied with chips and salsa, my grandfather would jump from story to story whether it was about the time he knocked a guy out and his head went under the cigarette machine saving him from further pummeling or the time his wife shot him after she and my great-grandmother were good and drunk arguing over who was going to pull the trigger.

This was the only time in my life when I felt equal with Jim. Like both of our voices were valid. When we were out earning money together, eating asada burritos, and shooting the shit over a bowl of chips. He gave up drinking before I could ever get one in, so the the Coke's over crushed-ice would have to do.

Now, I'm older, and I'm not much on family. Too many wrongs demanding too much to ever make it right have left me stronger and more independent, but sometimes I can feel the hole. It sneaks in and spreads out during quiet times, and then I'm stuck waxing poetic through the dirty window of a taco shop as an old junky pedals his daughter around in the basket of a beat up bicycle.

I savor the asada taco in between bites of everything else. Holding on to it, knowing that the steak is the last thing I want to taste this morning. I mix the pico de gallo with the red sauce like we always did. I spooned it over everything like we always did. But I'm alone, there is no conversation, and I can see his gap-toothed smile like a ghost pulled up a chair.

The man behind the counter didn't understand what I meant when I said I used to have breakfast here with my grandfather. Why I tipped $5 for the $10 meal. I recognized him from when I was a kid, but I'm sure he didn't recognize me. But maybe someday someone will look back on a meal we shared and the good hurt will wash over them, reminding them to slow down and savor what you have with those you love.