The coffee is hot. The coffee is fresh. The laptop is open and fingers furiously pound the keys. He makes a call. He asks a questions and then makes decisions. He clicks his pen. He summarizes. He is a true taco mogul. He is large and in charge. … not fat, just large with his personage. True, …. taco moguls come in all shapes and sizes. The mogul sitting next to me currently owns one trailer. He’s expanding to another one next weekend and will set up at local farmer’s markets this summer. His tacos are vegan with some Vietnamese ingredients here and there. His lieutenant arrives. Her hair is up and she sports bold hoop earrings. Her notebook is open and she is ready to get down to business. They immediately do just that. There will be four locations- the pop-ups at the farmers markets. Tables, ice chests, and various other details emerge. They’ll offer the #1,2,4,and 5. I wonder why they aren’t offering #3, but don’t interrupt their flow to ask, despite my burning curiosity. I am intrigued by their focus and their passion. … and amazed that I don’t have a single negative thought about either of them. I say silent thank you to the fortunes of chance that placed these two fully clothed emperors at the table next to me. They are disrupting, innovating, strategizing, and game-changing without invoking my ire. …. and it occurs to me, no one hates a taco mogul. In a world full of hate, confusion, fear, reality distortion, and chaos, tacos remain peaceful … and delicious. No hate, no anger, no politics, no marketing spin, no hyperbolic esoterica… just a hard or soft shell with some goodness inside. Let's go forth and eat more tacos. …go toward the light y’all.
Santeria Coffee
I can’t see the coffee cups. They are under the counter, and the shelf opens on the barista’s side. She doesn’t look as she grabs one and sets it on the counter. It’s the wrong one. I’m not a regular here, so it’s not like I have a cup that I always get. I don’t even have anything in mind. I just know that I’m not drinking out of that burnt orange oval mug today. It just doesn’t feel right. So, I stare at the mug, and then I stare at her. “I can’t use that mug. Can I have a different one?” She looks at me. She looks hard. I look hard back, knowing that I will fight to the death on this if need be. She had dreadlocks. In a peaceful Rasta sort of way. I am bald. In a “you can’t kill me if I’m already dead” kind of way. Her pupils and irises are black coffee, blended together via gentle smoke right before her coffeeshop shift. The clock ticks slowly. There’s a line behind me. I don’t care. I am surefooted. A heavy stone. I breathe in and I breathe out, quietly and intently. She takes the offensive mug off the counter. She hunches down below the counter, digging through the coffee cups presumably. Either that, or she’s getting a weapon, and it will be a full on Kung Fu show down. I’m ready in either event. The Rasta dreads pop back up, she sets two cups on the counter. “You choose,” she speaks softly. Both mugs are black. One has a yellow Batman logo. One has a Skull and Crossbones. “Both of these seemed like they could be the right one,” she offers, seeing me evaluate both mugs. It’s quiet. People are waiting. “My aunt (pronounced “aahnt”) practices Santeria,” she offers …. for reasons unknown. But then she explains, “She can be kind of spooky…” which I suppose she intends as a compliment. The clock ticks slowly. “I’ll take that one,” I spoke softly also and pointed at the Skull and Crossbones. I picked up the mug, and examined it. “Everything is a little bit Angels/Devils isn’t it…” I told her … a nod to her spooky Santeria Aunt. She smiled and rang me up. I smiled and paid. … No actual Kung Fu required. Go toward the light… y’all.
Skull & Cross Bones Mug