the saddest taqueria

The saddest taqueria I ever placed my feet upon, the saddest taqueria I had placed an order in, the saddest taqueria I ever paused into to wait for my order, the saddest taqueria of course had its pair of the saddest bathroom is located on the corner of sutter and polk. A strange place for a taqueria. A strange place to find myself trying to order mexican food for I am a frequent flier of the taquerias in the mission. But when push comes to shove and you have been day drinking a taqueria and any taqueria will do.

As I push my hand on the door in. There is feuding- music the beat of latino and the tv telemundo. My face is washed in a cool breeze. I scan the menu and workers and patrons in unison. Everyone looks as if the color has been taken out of their eyes. The spark lifted not recently but years ago. In a robotic fashion people move around as the skin loses their color. Dimming and fading away. At first I thought I might turn around and run away. And find solace in the subway across the street but with courage of beers and hunger my reminder. I stick it out. I order. The woman’s eyes seem to open up for a moment. She must be the cheerleader in this place. I order something I deem safe. I order it hot as always. The man the creator of the food at her side. States we are out of hot salsa. Out of hot salsa. The saddest taqueria I have ever been in ran out of hot salsa. And when this white woman thinks that is unacceptable this taqueria is really in trouble.

I walk over to see what is left given the point of where the salsa that is left lives. I pick it up. It looks like green water. And has no taste. It spills like a green watery mess next to the plastic container. The saddest taqueria mourns the loss of salsa. I mourn it as well. I scan back and froth. Until I find the safety of a tapatio bottle. I find a plastic container and transfer it – it splashes out. No one will deny me heat. Not in this mourning taqueria. I find a seat. It is the glimmer of hope in the darkness. It is the variety of the chair and table connection of my childhood from fast food and diners. I flash back to my old days of sitting in. And playing. And I start swinging back and forth. Warming my mood up. In the darkness of this taqueria. I glance around.

To the patrons. A couple latino sit side by side talk and watch tv. They seem to have not be overtaken by this cult. And next to them. A group of white people co-ed. The girl with a flower in her hair. Her face talks in solemn tones. Her friend, a male starts doing exercises in his sweater. And I wonder do I look like them. Across from me a white man with tacos and tapatio tries to make eye contact with me. But I decline in participating in the duel with the short wearer and nike holder and tapatio eater. Next to me a couple of guys talking. I can't remember their faces now.

The walls are moving in old signs fading into the wall wrinkling into what was. I am bored with the chair swinging now. And try and find the bathroom. Past the sadness of the kitchen I make a sign of the cross to be sure as I lift myself up the stairs. Into the partner of the saddest bathroom. One where you look like it might be your last time going. My heart races as I fear rape and death and try to pee. Hard to multitask fear of death and the stream of pee. Someone tries to come in. This is it. I am going to die in the saddest taqueria I have field tripped in. No. Im in here. Its not stranger danger just the woman with a flower in her hair. I walk down the stairs heart still beating and walk. Walk to pick up my failed attempt and of a quesadilla and get out of here.

The saddest taqueria I ever went to reminded me why I only eat in the mission. Full of heat and vibrance and salsas and green sauce that burns my tongue and music playing from guitars and life. I will leave the sad taquerias to live in neighborhoods where taquerias go to die. I eat at taquerias where they live. And I breathe in the life. So thankful to have seen the saddest taqueria to remember. How lucky I am.