As I rode my bike home from a long night of bar tending I had a craving for oatmeal. Granted, it was nearly time for breakfast and damn it if I couldn’t still taste the refluxing tofu-Tuesday tacos from eight hours prior. Not to mention that I didn’t feel the least bit hungry. I got home, hit the hay and after barely enough sleep I scrambled out of the house hoping to make it to Weaver Street Market’s hot bar before it closed. I did, and filled a large bowl with steaming oats. I topped it with brown sugar, raisins and soy milk. Then I chose a lonely seat outside and began enjoying the morning. It had been a while since I needed a sweatshirt and the one I wore felt cozy around my wrists and chest.
I recognized a Mexican guy sitting near me as the guy I usually see drinking a Modelo when everyone else is hobbling for their first cups of coffee. I didn’t realize beer was available so early in the day. He was sitting with two other men, one with a thing of OJ that he kept recapping and shaking, and another with a soda cup from Wendy’s that looked empty. The spoke in Spanish. And though I can usually understand Spanish rather well, with these guys I was all a mess. I don’t know, maybe I was tired? Sure, I recognized tones and accents, but mostly I just heard a jumbling of easy to recognize words like sí, mañana, rápido, and todo el día. The rest was like listening to a clumsy cat run across piano keys. Also, they giggled a lot and seemed to be having a fantastic time. This made me feel a bit out of place – their having a good time and all. It made me wish I had some pals who’d meet me out at 10:00am for a coffee (or a beer) so we could yuk it up like these guys were. I kept trying to translate what they were saying and, for the life of me, couldn’t track it worth a damn. Yes, tomorrow, fast, and every day – that’s not even enough to get the gist of what was so doggone funny.