Leaving Out The Salsa

            I was on the roof again. When Gloria left she took the TV. Now I had to climb up through the bathroom window and squint through the windows of neighboring houses just to catch a decent show. It wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. Tonight the family right next door was watching “Arrested Development” again. Good show, but this was the fourth time they had watched this episode. Christ all mighty, I knew all the words by heart. My neighbor’s head was silhouetted by the glow of the screen and blocked the bottom half of the TV. I scooted over to see past it. My nightly visits to the roof were getting less comfortable and because the air was cold, the kid’s window was closed so no sound came through. Sighing, I tightened my coat around my neck and inhaled the smell of old dust embedded in the fabric of the collar.

            The sound of music drifted through the air. It was a cheerful tune coming from the Mexican restaurant down on the corner. I knew it would be packed for dinner right now, the line quite possibly going out the door. My feet were tingling, almost asleep, from being stationary for so long. I smacked them back to life, took one more glance at the TV, and then stood up. My stomach felt incredibly empty. I was always surprised to feel that hungry sensation. My gut, I knew, came from the beer, but it looked so solid and full of food. It made me never want to eat again. And shit, here it was, demanding food again.

            The song in the restaurant had changed. It was faster, more cheery. It seemed to be calling me, or, I suppose it was calling my stomach.

            I walked over to my open window a couple feet a way. It was always such a squeeze getting through. I glared at my belly. It really needed to go. I was now sitting in the frame of the window. Both sides of it dug into me. My hands grasped the window and I wiggled to get free. There was a loud thud as I hit the ground of the bathroom below. A glass of water perched precariously on the counter tipped over and I shuffled across the room to fetch a towel. The towel was new. I had just thrown out all of Gloria’s old light blue and embroidered ones. These new ones were nice and white but weren’t very absorbent. It took awhile for all of the water to soak up.

            I closed the window and took the partially soggy towel out of the room with me. Through the house I went. The floors were dirty, as were the windows. Hell, even the walls were grimy. It was amazing how quickly the filth appeared. Another reminder of Gloria. Every speck of dirt was a slap in the face, proof of how much she did, how much she meant and how much I needed her…I dropped the towel in the hallway and told myself I would get it later. I knew I wouldn’t.

            Shuffle, shuffle. Into the bedroom. The remainder of the “money tin” money disappeared into my pocket. I put on a green felt hat on to cover my embarrassingly prominent bald spot. I adjusted it to be slightly tilted to the left.

            Shuffle, shuffle, over to the closet. My tennis shoes sat dejected in a corner, dirty and worn. Like the house, like my coat, like me. I tried to put them on while standing up but lost my balance and fell to the floor. I sighed and grabbed the other shoe to put on. I pushed myself back up, slowly.

            Shuffle, shuffle, to the front door. I grabbed my keys and stepped outside. It was colder than it had been on the roof. Luckily I didn’t have far to walk.

            I got to the end of the block. The line wasn’t too long; the end was just inside the door.  A homeless man asked for spare change. “No,” I said, “I’m sorry.” Then I walked inside, gripping my money in my very cold hand. Music, warmth and the smell of beans washed over me as I grabbed a menu and took my place at the end of the line.

            The color of the menus changed every couple of weeks. It was really fucking irritating. Currently, they were a disgusting shade of salmon. Gloria would call them pink. They were definitely salmon. I glared at the menu I was holding and noticed a small speck of something, probably beans, on the upper right-hand corner. I tried to scratch it off with my nail but succeeded only in rubbing it deeper in the paper. Some lady a couple feet away watched me curiously. She had food on her face and I gave her a dirty look. The spot on my menu was pissing me off so I put it back in the menu box and grabbed another one. I regretted doing so almost immediately. It was shit like this that made Gloria leave. Perfectionism mixed with laziness or something like that.

            A corner of the new menu had been torn off. I tried ignoring the missing bit but it was really fucking distracting. It didn’t matter; I already knew what to order. It was always the same. The menu was reunited with its bean-stained brother in the box.

            I stared around the building, noticing crooked light fixtures and untied shoelaces. That lady was staring at me again but quickly turned her head when she noticed me glance in her direction. I shook my head indignantly and took a couple steps forward. The line was moving fast but not fast enough; I was famished.

            The register person called for the next customer. I shuffled up to him and sniffed. He looked at me expectantly but didn’t say anything.

“I’d like a burrito” I said.

“Alright.”

“Are you going to ask me what I want in that burrito?”

“What would you like in that, Sir?”

“Chicken, pinto beans, cheese and rice”

“No sour cream?”

“No, thank you”

“Guac?”

“Nope. Just the chicken, beans, cheese and rice.”

“Alright, do you want salsa?”

I frowned skeptically. I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“No,” I said finally, “No, I don’t want any salsa.” He nodded and charged me the four dollars. I didn’t put any money in the tip jar.

            I walked over to the bar section of the restaurant and sat on a stool to wait for my order. The wood of the counter was covered in old ring marks left from beer other drinks. I picked at them impatiently. My number was 48. Forty-eight, forty-eight I repeated in my head. I had a little ticket but I thought I might forget anyway. Forty-eight, forty-eight, forty-eight.

“Forty-eight,” a voice called out. I slumped out of the stool and made my way over to the pickup counter. A large-nosed, bug-eyed person was holding my burrito in a bag and shouting out the number over and over again. I wondered if the person was a man or woman. I showed it my number and grabbed my bag.

There was an old wooden bench outside the restaurant and I walked straight towards it as I exited. I sat down on the far right side of it and wiggled around to find a comfortable position. It was cold and dark outside but inside was a little too crowded. The bean scent wafted out through the opening and closing doors. Damn, it smelled good. A nice background hum was created by the music and people sounds coming from the restaurant behind me.

            I opened the brown paper bag and reached inside for the deliciously hot, tin-foil-wrapped burrito. My cheeks were cold, so I rested it against the side of my face, closed my eyes and sighed. This earned me an angry look from the homeless guy hungrily eyeing my purchase. I felt sorry for him, but this pity was fleeting.

            My attention was re-focused on the burrito. I slowly unwrapped the top and peeled back the foil in a spiral strip. The tortilla looked perfectly doughy and folded. Thin tendrils of steam rose from the thing, making cool patterns in the air. Mouth watering, stomach growling, I took the first bite. Deliciousness filled my entire being.

            Then I tasted it. Really tasted it. That terrible tang and cold that meant only one thing: salsa in my burrito. There was salsa in the burrito. Tomatoes and onion and only God knew what else were all in my food. Anger and disappointment swept over me. I tossed the burrito back in the bag and stomped back inside. That lady sitting down saw me and raised her eyebrows again. I ignored her and shuffled up to the man/woman handing out orders.

“Hey,” I said, “Hey, you.”

It looked at me. “Yes, Sir?”

“There’s salsa in my burrito,” and at that, I handed over my receipt. It (I decided it was probably a she) looked it over and yelled something back to the cooks behind her. My receipt was handed to me and the “woman” apologized for the mistake. My order would be ready within five minutes. “Thanks,” I said. Then stood near the bar. All of the stools were taken.

            I thought of Gloria. What she would say to this nonsense. I would be the bad one. The nit-picky, unsatisfied, asshole making everyone’s lives miserable. I would counter with the fact that it was only a burrito. Making a new one wouldn’t be that much effort on their part…

“If it’s only a burrito,” she would say, “then why can’t you just deal with it?”

I shook my head to clear it. The woman at the counter caught my eye and held up a bag. I walked over, grabbed it, thanked her and headed back out to my bench. Once I had reached my destination, however, I decided it was too damn chilly so I started my walk home. The block seemed especially long and the house refused to get closer. I wouldn’t wait for the burrito.

            I finally made it to my kitchen where I switched on the flickering florescent light above the sink. I hated this light, but all the others had burnt out. Again I went through the process of unwrapping the burrito. This one was bound to be right… I bit into it and almost gagged. Where there should have been chicken there was beef. The salsa, thank God, was absent, but in its place was a large dollop of guac. I spat the bite out into the garbage and threw the rest of the burrito in as well. The last of my money had been wasted on this shit. I wondered where I could get some more cash… My stomach growled as I shuffled up the dusty stairs towards the roof. Maybe I could catch the rest of that show… My eyes caught on the wet towel I had dropped earlier. I stared at it for a moment then leaned over and picked it up.