The rush hour finally ended. Our regulars, a group of about ten or so, avoided that crowd. Most of the regulars were loners or quiet couples with no kids. Not the crowd you would find at Walmart in the middle of the night. They had a quality to them, that of knowing and distance. They all loved Abuelita. It wasn’t just for the food that they came; most wanted private talks with her. During those times, Angelito would prepare the food while I managed the serving and cleaning of the tables.
By eight o’clock, the happy-hour crowd had left. The first of our regular customers walked in. The couple was in their early thirties. The lady had flowing dark hair and always wore a peasant skirt. My godmother and she probably shopped at the same stores. The gentleman, on the other hand, had the best collection of Hawaiian shorts and sandals I had ever seen. Even in the winter he wore them. Today he wore a blue pair with a midnight-blue shirt.
The couple always sat at one of the tables by the large windows. She always looked even paler standing next to her man, with his perfect tan. If he wasn’t Hawaiian, the man was probably Filipino. Seven years in the army had a way of expanding your horizons when it came to ethnicity. They always ordered the same: horchata to drink and enchiladas with corn tortillas. It was rude to assume, so I stopped by their table to check on them. I brought them the horchata anyway.
Horchata was a typical Mexican drink made out of rice. Few people ordered it unless they had had it before. Sweet and very refreshing, it was our number-one seller with our regulars. I placed two glasses down and smiled at the couple. The lady looked up at me and smiled. The moment our eyes met, I felt a sharp pain in my forehead, almost between my eyes. I took a deep breath and leaned on their table.
“Isis, are you OK?” She touched my hand as she spoke. Her hands were hot, almost burning.
I pulled away without thinking. I tried to speak, but her eyes were glowing. I looked at her man, and his eyes were catlike.
“Oh God.” My mouth went dry, and my hands were sweaty. I bumped against the table behind me as I backed away. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back.”
I ran past the kitchen and out the back door. Deep breaths were not calming me down. I rubbed my face with my hands, trying to erase what I had just seen. What had I seen? Nothing made sense. My headache was worse. The back door opened, but I didn’t dare turn around.
“Isis, are you OK? The Joneses just told me you ran out the back. What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird all day.” Abuelita had her arms crossed over her chest when I turned to face her. She looked younger and stronger. There was a faint glow to her. She always radiated heat. I couldn’t focus on her face. “Isis, are you listening to me?”
“I’m sorry, Abuelita. I really don’t know what came over me. My head is just killing me.” I looked at the ground as I spoke. Abuelita was too much to look at now. It was probably the light overhead that gave her that weird glow.
“Child, you need to start taking better of yourself. If you’re good, let’s get inside. The regulars are hungry.” She walked back inside and held the door for me.
I took another deep breath. I needed to get it together. In less than twenty-four hours, I had been followed by Death, met a talking cat, and hung out with a boy genius. At this rate I was going to go nuts before my three-day deadline—if it was actually real and I hadn’t been just dreaming or hallucinating. To top off this crazy day, I just needed Samuel L. Jackson to walk in and recruit me for the Avengers or XXX.
Breathe. Just breathe, Isis. You’re going to be OK. Why did we talk to ourselves as if we were three years old when all hell broke loose? That was one of those horrible habits I couldn’t break. I steadied myself and picked up the plates of enchiladas. The Joneses were creatures of habit.
“Hi, here is your food. I’m so sorry about earlier. I’m having a horrible headache.” That wasn’t a lie, but I made sure to keep my eyes on the plates when I talked to them. Whatever was going on, I didn’t want a repeat of it.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you going to be OK?” Mr. Jones sounded very sincere. I nodded and slowly walked to the bar before one of them tried to touch me again. I still felt the heat on my hand where Mrs. Jones had touched me.
“Isis, come over here and help me with this pot,” Abuelita said from the back of the kitchen. The kitchen area of Abuelita’s was larger than the front. She had three large fridges and two deep freezers. The cooking area was to the left of the building, and a sink sat all the way on the far right. The back door was in the middle of the back wall. Abuelita always made extra beans and rice on Saturdays to donate to the shelter downtown. She was struggling to put the bean pot in the fridge.
“Angelito, watch the front for now. Isis can handle the back.” I was so grateful to Abuelita. She was truly a caring woman.
“Thank you, Abuelita.” I really meant it. Her compassion for people was probably the reason I never looked for another job. I was making a little less than minimum wage, right at $6.50. With the tips, the money
