The Last [Taco] Stand

“Good morning!” It’s dark outside as the fluorescent light above my head hums quietly, casting a pale blue/green hue upon my giant veggie burrito. It is not morning.

“I just woke up so I say good morning, been sleeping all day”

His eyes are the youngest part of him. He exudes the kind of friendliness that alcohol can sometimes afford. I watch his young eyes and puffy face as he talks about Alaska and where his tribe is from. He’s Native. His people have been here long before this land was called “America”.

Pat, retired Merchant Marine and friend of mine, talks ferry routes and islands with him. I listen as Pat tells a joke about the lack of women in Alaska. “The first time I was headed up there someone told me there was a woman behind every tree. When I got off the ship I realized there were no trees.”

This burrito is huge and I struggle to finish it. The white plastic picnic table is full now, an older man with glasses listens to our conversation while a young couple share a cup of greasy fries at the opposite end.

Pats tamales are gone and he starts in on his burrito. He tells me I should try the hot sauce, it’s amazing.

I want to ask this Native guy some more questions but I don’t. I just listen and shake my head as he tells tales of roadside inebriations and kind cops. The good people at the Chief Seattle Club gave him a sleeping bag. He said he’d sleep anywhere as long as he has his sleeping bag.

A cyan Natural American Spirit bag is produced and he rolls a loose tobacco cigarette right there on the table. Pat finishes his burrito as I slog through the last bit of mine.

Its time to go. We say goodbye to our taco stand friend and duck out from beneath the illuminated white canopy. We take off across the parking lot in search of a movie, he takes off down the street in search of a place to sleep, and all three of us disappear into the unusually warm and quiet night.