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The Taco Conspiracy
by Timothy West
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The following is an excerpt from The Taco Conspiracy. For access to the entire story, sign in or create an account to purchase this issue. I head across the traffic, eyeing the taco guy. Church is out. Three little girls are running at the cart. I think I hear them yell “Papa.” That makes me feel a shitload better about shutting the guy down. Maybe I’ll tell my mom about it, that I took food off the table of three little Mexican girls, and probably put them on the street. That one of them looks just like Gloria, the curandera’s daughter she decided I should marry when I was three. Taco guy’s looking at me. His eyes are wide, like he’s just heard someone yell “imigración.” But I don't have a uniform, and I’m still half a block away. He’s opening the back door and pulling his daughters in. The big window closes, blows empty salt packets across the sidewalk. The box truck takes off. I head back for my car, running between the traffic. Cars honk and men scream obscenities about my mother. Like I can’t understand what they’re saying. I’ve never been in a chase before. It’s about damn time. My car starts up and I pull a u-turn across six lanes of traffic. I’m sure there’s more cussing, but I can’t hear it. My focus is on the box truck, taking a left. A gaggle of nuns step into the street in front of me. I hit the brakes and wait until I can chase the bastard again. The nuns clear and I’m off. The truck is big and bulky. Not the kind of thing that can take corners well. Never would have thought my Civic would be perfect for a car chase. I stay with him all through town. He heads over the river, into West Sacramento. Into my old neighborhood. Probably thinks he can lose me here. Thinks nobody as white as me could know this neighborhood. I know every corner, every alley, every dark corner where a frisky teenager could get a few minutes alone. He won’t lose me. Only he does. We take a left, by the gas station where my mom bought her Lotto tickets. By the time I clear the corner, he’s gone. I can’t figure it out. I circle a few times. There’s nowhere for the truck to hide. This whole stretch is empty lots and no garages. The truck is just gone. It takes a while, but my brain comes down from the six shots of espresso rush of the chase, and I’m just pissed off. I wasted a Sunday I could have spent watching football, and the bastard’s gone. I’ll still get screamed at when I get to work tomorrow. The Taco Conspiracy © Copyright 2010, Timothy West
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© Copyright 2010, Zefram Media LLC |
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