Blue Corn
They never write comic books about the kids who lose both their parents, but don’t have Bruce Wayne money, Clark Kent powers, or an Aunt May to fall back on. That’s probably because they end up like me. A single, lonely, twenty eight year old absolutely housing a Crunchwrap Supreme in his car, parked between a Taco Bell and the Shateria. It’s a wonderfully ironic coincidence that they’re next to each other, but it’s just because the “Wa” in the Washateria sign went out so now it just reads SHATERIA in faded yellow letters.
The alarm on my phone went off telling me it was time to switch my laundry so I stuffed the last bite into my mouth and chugged the dregs of my Baja Blast while I shuffled through the dusting of snow in the parking lot. Unfortunately, the Shateria’s name also does a great job describing the interior. Even when it’s not Christmas Eve, the musty laundromat is pretty much abandoned. The thick smell of laundry detergent helps, but can’t mask whatever rots in the walls.
I grabbed handfuls of sopping clothes and transferred them to a dryer. I was standing on my toes and inspecting the inside of the washing machine’s barrel, plucking out a few loose socks when the bell on the door chimed. A stranger stepped in from the gray outside. His tall, sturdy frame took up the whole entrance and between his red hoody, large sack of laundry thrown over his shoulder, and snow turning his dark hair a powdery white, it crossed my mind Santa had taken a wrong turn and stopped in to ask for directions.
“Oh ho ho,” he said. You’ve gotta be kidding me. “Thought I was gonna be the only one here tonight.” He ran a hand through his hair and shook off the snow.
“You and me both.”
He walked across to the washing machines. I started the dryer and went back to reading a Colson Whitehead book with a severely broken spine. I tried to make myself look busy to keep him from talking to me. It wasn’t that I wanted to be left alone, but when you’re lonely long enough it gets harder and harder to let someone into the bubble you’ve made for yourself. I glanced at him over my book while he pulled off his hoodie, his T-shirt stuck to it and went up to his shoulders, revealing his toned chest. He tossed the hoodie in with his colors and glanced over at me, we just missed making eye contact as I went back to my book.
“Hey, I’m gonna grab some cinnamon twist, puff things next door.” He started the washer. “Want anything?”
“Nah, I ate,” I said.
“Cool. Josh.” He walked over.
“Diego,” I said shaking his hand.
“See you in a minute.”
I don’t know if Josh was really fast or if I just couldn’t focus on reading, but I only managed to read two more pages before he came back. There was a row of twelve chairs, but Josh walked over and hopped up on the dryer across from me, his heels tapping against the white metal. He popped a couple cinnamon bites in his mouth and extended the package to me, but I waved him off. I set my book down, because it didn’t seem like I was going to get much more reading done.
“So, Diego, what do you do?”
“I teach English.”
“Where?”
“I’m a sub in the district. Hoping to be full-time next year.”
“Gotcha.”
“You?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“A lawyer doing his laundry at the Shateria? You don’t have your own machines?”
“I do, well, I did, I’m renovating right now, so they’re sorta outta commission,” he said. I nodded and thought about going back to my book. “So what brings you to the Shateria on Christmas Eve?”
“I didn’t really have anything else to do. Thought it might distract me.”
“From what?” Josh’s eyes were so kind and for the first time in a while I felt like I could shrug off a little of my pain.
“Not having anyone to celebrate with, I guess. Wishing I was eating my mom’s tamales and didn’t have Taco Bell for dinner. What about you?”
“Jewish.” Josh pulled a chain from under his shirt and flashed his Star of David. “What kind of tamales does your mom make?”
“All sorts, but my favorites were always chicken and mole and chicken and hatch peppers.”
“She couldn’t ship you any?”
“No, no, she, um, both of my parents passed away last year. This is my second Christmas without them and I mean, it’s a little easier, but even though as a Mexican I pride myself on being able to make some mean tamales, I just can’t without her yet.”
“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” Josh said. “Traditions are so hard alone.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it sucks honestly.”
“At least you have the Shateria.” Josh held his arms out wide and motioned around.
I laughed and then heard my dryer end. I went to get out my clothes and started folding them. Josh stood up and followed me over, posting up on the dryer next to mine. His clothes still spun in the wash.
“Hey, you ever heard the one about a Mexican and a Jew walking into a laundromat?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well the way I always heard it the Jewish man gets the handsome Mexican man’s
number.”
“Oh yeah? Is that how it goes?”
“Something like that,” Josh bit his lip a little.
“Gonna give me your phone or what?”
“Sure thing.” He dug it out of his jeans and tossed it to me.
For the second time in my life I woke up on Christmas morning alone. Except this time I woke up to a chime from my phone. My heart sped up when I saw Josh’s name on my screen.
JOSH: Free? -Josh
ME: Good morning to you too.
JOSH: Wanna present?
ME: Is this a package joke?
JOSH: Hahaha no get your head outta the gutter. What are you doing today?
ME: Nothing. You?
JOSH: I’m flattered, Diego, but I just said get your head out of the gutter.
ME: Jesus
JOSH: Happy Birthday to him. No but seriously, can you meet me at 1313 Cobb
Lane in about half an hour?
ME: Yeah...is that where I’m gonna get murdered by the cute Jewish Santa I met
last night?
JOSH: Haha great see you then.
I drove as close as I could to the address Josh sent, but had to park my car in a lot at the end of cobblestone walkway. The snow had nearly all melted and I started down the hill. I smiled when I saw that the address was for a restaurant called Blue’s Hot Tamales. A shady courtyard with a few iron bistro tables was out front. I walked through and paused at the door that had a CLOSED sign in the window. I double checked Josh’s text and tried the door, it was unlocked so I went in and knocked on the door frame inside.
“Come on back!” Josh called from the kitchen.
I pushed through the swinging kitchen door and saw Josh unrolling steaming blue corn tamales from their husks onto two plates. He had a denim apron around his waist and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He pulled out a metal stool and patted the top for me to sit down. He busied himself without saying a word gathering sides and toppings. He slid a heaping plate of tamales, beans, rice, pickled onions, tomatoes, and cooked peppers to me and saddled up on a stool of his own in front of his plate.
“Okay, this isn’t gonna be your mom’s, but this is how we make tamales down in the Delta where I grew up. A little more cajun, but yeah, I just thought, tamales made for you would be better no tamales. So you know, Merry Christmas.”
“I, I don’t know what to say, Josh.”
“You don’t have to say anything, just don’t hurt my feelings too bad if these tamales suck.” I took a bite and he was right, it wasn’t anything like my mom’s except for the familiar joy of soft masa, but it was incredible.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“What? Too hot?”
“No, no, they’re just so good, thank you.” Josh nodded.
“So is this your place?”
“Nah, nah, it’s a buddy’s, but I worked here to pay my way through law school so after we talked last night I called in a favor.”
“I think this is one of the best Christmas gifts I’ve ever received.”
“Well, I’m glad. It’s the first one I’ve given. Hot sauce?” He flashed me a green bottle.
