La Casa de los Sabores

Everybody knows a sketchy Mexican restraunt. For me, it was La Casa de los Sabores on 4th street. In English, it meant "the house of flavors" but really everyone called it the "house of favors." Smack in the middle of the town, it seperated the good side and the bad side. I lived one street over on the side no one wanted to live. At night I could hear gunshots right outside my drafty window. But La Casa de los Sabores--that was the one place everyone went, good side and bad. The workers wore sombreros and smiles, danicng down the aisles to cha-cha music. The adults got drunk on tequila and the kids munched on tortilla chips and salsa until they were too full for their quesadillas. Mock portraits of Frieda Kahlo hung on the walls. But, none of that changed it's reputation.

When I was 9, I was finally old enough to walk there alone. I used to go once or twixe a week with my brother or my mother, sometimes just to get take out. I was on my way to pick up some burritos for us when I saw a drug deal in the parking lot. Of course I didn't know it was a drug deal at the time. I just saw some twitching guy with an afro, handing over dollar bills with uncontrollably shaking hands, to another guy in a leather jacket, who exchanged the money with a bag of white powder. I didn't understand why someone would pay for a lousy ziploc bag of sugar. A few years later my older brother, Jax, got hooked, though, and that's when I understood. We ended up using all my college savings to send him to rehab. It was worth it though. He got better and got a job at the restraunt, working to blend the two sides. I didn't get his optomistic side--not the same brother that used to beat me up for looking at him the wrong way--but I was glad he was alive. I knew now the kinds of things cocaine can do to you.

Still, if the worst thing I ever saw was a drug deal in the parking lot, I would probably take the restraunt for a refuge instead of the darkness that gripped both sides. A few months ago, Jax and I were about to leave after his late night shift--La Casa was open until 2 am--and we were stopped short as we saw a body slam another into a car. They were arguing, shouting words in drunken Spanish. I saw the guy get knifed right in front of me. I still imagine blood stains on my own clothes and hands.

And yet even that, seeing cold-blooded murder, did not account for what happened today at La Casa de los Sabores.

Jax took a washcloth to the table I was sitting at, seperating me and my coke by a soapy line. "C'mon," I complained, as some of the water splashed on my arms.

Jax rolled his eyes at me. "They don't pay me to babysit. You're taking up space for our valuable customers."

I made a hurt face. "You don't think I'm valuable?"

He swatted me with the washcloth. "C'mon, Clay, you've been working on that coke for almost two hours. You should go home. Do your homework. Make sure the house is clean for mom."

"Okay, DAD." I said mockingly, and intstantly regretted it. I know the insult stung. I don't remember our father--I was just a baby when he left us. But Jax was five, and can still recall how he was stranded at school all night--or until 10pm--because Dad never picked him up. He remembers how in one night the man he most loved betrayed him and he was still touchy about the subject 15 years later. Still, I was too proud to apologize, so I threw down a few dollar bills and watched them grow damp in the soap before heading out the door.

Two steps outside and I was in a war zone. On either side of the parking lot was a group of six men all pointing guns at each other. One side had leather vests and biker boots, holding a banner with their gang sign, a crown, the symbol of the Knock-Out Kings. The other side had red bandannas hanging out of their pockets, and skulls on tattooed on their bare chests. I recognized the symbol. They were the gang known as the Grim Reapers, the gang who would kill anyone in their way. And I just stepped in their path.

"Get down kid!" I heard someone yell, and without thinking, I dove behind the green dumpster before a series of gun shots went off. I heard a woman scream. Some people tried to leave the restraunt--I heard the door screech--to get a good look. I heard my brother in panicked yells, telling everyone to stay inside. I wondered if he was worried about me.

Crouched behind that dumpster, listening to people die, I felt like it was hours. In reality, it was probabably only 15 minutes before the bomb went off. I didn't see it but I felt it. The explosion sounded like a firework too close to my eardrums and the ground shook, cracking beneath me like thin ice. Before I could react, the dumpster tipped over on me, part of it aflame. I heard, rather than felt, my leg bone crunch beneath its weight. Later, at the hospital, the doctor would tell me that I had been in shock and couldn't feel anything, and then the pain would hit me like a million bulldozers running me over. But here, I was trapped, crushed, watching the flames grow closer to my skin, and seeing the sky turn red with blood. I tried calling for help but my voice didn't work, not until the fire finally reached my arm and I screamed, louder than anyone has screamed before.

"Clay! Jesus!" It was Jax's voice, strained. "Goddammit someone help me get this thing off of him!"

I blacked out. I woke in the a hospital bed, my whole right side bandaged up. I tried to peel back the gauze on my arm but when I saw charred skin I quickly put it back. A few minutes later Mom and Jax came in. Mom was crying.

"Clay," she sobbed and my heart broke for her. I didn't meant to put her through this. "I thought you weren't going to make it."

Though Jax wasn't crying I could see the expression in his face, through his grimace, saying the same thing. Through cracked lips, I tried to apologize but Jax shushed me.

"I should never have told you to leave." He shook his head and mom sent him a resentful look that melted into sympathy in an instant. I tried to shrug but the pain in my body was too great and I ended up wincing instead.

Finally, I found what I wanted to say. "What happened? Is everyone all right? The town? La Casa?"

Mom and Jax exchanged a look. Jax sighed. "A lot of people died, little bro. But no one we knew except Mr. Garcias." Mom cried harder and Jax's face blothced up. I felt too shocked to say anything. Garcias was the owner of the restraunt. Mom had known him since before I was born. When he was around, he always gave me extra tortilla chips.

"But the restraunt..."

"is gone, sweetie." Mom interjected. "Along with half the town." She gave a rueful smile. "Some are even saying YOU blew up half the city."

Even with the chaos and despair, I had to give a short chortle at that. I wonder what the kids are saying at school.

Jax smiled too. "I guess this means no more sides." he said, and his chest puffed up with a little pride at the sentiment.

We nodded and looked away for a moment.

Finally, I broke the silence with something I never expected to say. "Let's rebuild the restraunt. A real broker of sides. No gangs, no guns, no drugs, no violence allowed. A real Mexican restraunt."

Mom looked up, surprise glistening her tear-stained face. Jax's mouth was set in a hard line.

But a few months later we stood in a restored parking lot for the grand opening.

La Casa de los Sabores. Dos.