nachos + margaritas

I was like damn. She fine.

I’m nineteen. She’s twenty-three. 

I’m a bus boy. She’s a bartender.

I mopped her floors.

At first only literally.

She made me nervous.

Rest your ear on a rabbits’ chest. That nervous.

I didn’t sound like myself when I spoke to her.

It was like my voicemail greeting was doing all the talking.

When the courage words finally came out she said yes.

The next night she picked me up in her red convertible Ford Mustang GT.

We drank margaritas and ate nachos.

***********************

If we didn’t drink margaritas and eat nachos on the first date there never would have been a second.

And for sure without margaritas and nachos she wouldn’t have moved in fourteen days later.

She talked to me a lot about California so we moved here.

We drank margaritas and ate nachos at Marix on Kings Road, and with Henry Rollins at the El Compadre next to the “Rock ‘n’ Roll Ralphs” on Sunset.

We moved from West Hollywood to Venice to Chinatown.

We drank margaritas and ate nachos at the old Barragans in Echo Park and upstairs at El Conquistador in Silverlake.

I was running on Echo Park Avenue in 2009 when she called me.

That “If you want to make God laugh tell him about your plans” saying

applies here.

We thought there was only one, but the egg cracked like Obama’s “I’m always on the left” joke.

We named the identical twin people Everson and Royce.

Margaritas and nachos. I love them. They’ve given me way more than I’ve ever given them.

So now it’s our turn to say thank you.

And give margaritas and nachos the bright spotlight they so deserve.

Because without them none of what you just read ever would have happened.

Including Vamos. Vamos.