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Oct. 22nd, 2010 10:57 pm
"Mucho pain": a Talk to Muckefuck Story™
Something told me not to trust that e-mail. It's a damn good shuttle service most of the time, but it doesn't seem to cope well with special events. When I saw the hot older ex-Navy bear from IT (until I started that sentence, I didn't realise how many qualifiers I'd end up needing) fleeing early, I thought He's got the right idea. Heck, maybe they didn't lie to me after all, maybe the 5:55 was the last run of the day. All I know is that fifteen minutes waiting on crutches is already about ten too long. Which is why when the CTA came along, I hopped aboard. And that turned out to be a lucky stroke, since otherwise I'd likely never have run into El Cojo.
When one of my regular lunch places, Pita Pete's, went under, I was bummed for a host of reasons beyond the fact that it was good healthy food at an unbeatable price for downtown E-town. One of these was Pete himself, an ex-stockbroker who was always interesting to talk to. A half dozen more were various people who worked there, chief among them the dynamic duo of El Peruano and El Chilango. And then there was El Cojo, a hot Mexican bear daddy who always had a smile for me. He was barely scraping by with his part-time job there, so I was particularly worried about where the fates had tossed him.
So imagine my surprise and relief to find he'd righted himself exactly like Daruma doll: in the same spot. The last time I wandered by, there was nothing in the old storefront; now it's apparently a hamburger place--and a good one. "Everything fresh!" El Cojo assured me. And he should know because he's the man peeling a hundred and fifty pounds of spuds every day. El Chilango had moved on even before the demise of Pete's, but El Peruano was working there, too.
The old man imparted all this riding southwards with me, his prosthetic leg pressed up against my dodgy one. We'd recognised each other immediately, and this time I hardly even tried speaking Spanish to him. Partly it was that I didn't want to make him self-conscious on the bus, and partly that whatever I speak to him, I get the same stream of chapurreado in response. There's not a lot of anything in his speech; it's always "mucho". And there are no people and no hassles, only "personas" and "problemas".
Maybe he told me before he lives in my neighbourhood, but if so I don't recall it. I had to promise him several times I'd stop by for a burger soon. And I will--gladly. After all, who doesn't enjoy a good burger with old pals?
When one of my regular lunch places, Pita Pete's, went under, I was bummed for a host of reasons beyond the fact that it was good healthy food at an unbeatable price for downtown E-town. One of these was Pete himself, an ex-stockbroker who was always interesting to talk to. A half dozen more were various people who worked there, chief among them the dynamic duo of El Peruano and El Chilango. And then there was El Cojo, a hot Mexican bear daddy who always had a smile for me. He was barely scraping by with his part-time job there, so I was particularly worried about where the fates had tossed him.
So imagine my surprise and relief to find he'd righted himself exactly like Daruma doll: in the same spot. The last time I wandered by, there was nothing in the old storefront; now it's apparently a hamburger place--and a good one. "Everything fresh!" El Cojo assured me. And he should know because he's the man peeling a hundred and fifty pounds of spuds every day. El Chilango had moved on even before the demise of Pete's, but El Peruano was working there, too.
The old man imparted all this riding southwards with me, his prosthetic leg pressed up against my dodgy one. We'd recognised each other immediately, and this time I hardly even tried speaking Spanish to him. Partly it was that I didn't want to make him self-conscious on the bus, and partly that whatever I speak to him, I get the same stream of chapurreado in response. There's not a lot of anything in his speech; it's always "mucho". And there are no people and no hassles, only "personas" and "problemas".
Maybe he told me before he lives in my neighbourhood, but if so I don't recall it. I had to promise him several times I'd stop by for a burger soon. And I will--gladly. After all, who doesn't enjoy a good burger with old pals?