Where the Hell’s the Barbacoa

Where the Hell’s the Barbacoa?

Where the Hell’s the Barbacoa?

He sits on the gum stained curbside. His jeans are clean, so’s his shirt. The only thing that stands out about him are his eyes. They dart furtively from person to person. The dumpsters behind him are filled with a week’s worth of trash so the smell of garbage wafts, seemingly from him. It’s 12:30 in the afternoon. People are eager to get lunch. Most passersby avoid or ignore him, but that doesn’t deter him at all.

Keys in one hand, wallet in the other, I approach the entrance to Chipotle.

“Hey lady…” I don’t wanna turn around, but I do.  Two words and I’ve already made my mind up about him. “Can you grab me a couple tacos or something?”

“What kind?”

“Uh… barbacoa. White rice, no beans… cheese, tomatoes. Lettuce.”

“You want guac too?”


I wait in line, get my food and his, and find him outside, exactly where I’d left him. He’s got a Chihuahua (a dog so small I somehow didn’t notice it before). He’s fanning himself with his baseball cap, black knuckles cracked, ostensibly white. I hand him his food. He thanks me and I walk to my car.

Where the hell’s the barbacoa?” he calls out with irritation. A second later, he finds it under the veggies. “Oh… never mind.”

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