04 May 2009

Sergio's Tacos

I am at the laundromat in Sattler right across the street from the site of the old Mountain Valley School, the land for which was donated by Mr. and Mrs. Marschall in 1874, according to the historical marker along the side of the road. I have chatted up the grande lady who tends the laundromat. She was cleaning quarters out of the machines when I came in. Every one of the folks whom I have met here so far are delightfully open and friendly.

The fact is that I am slowly falling in love with The Hill Country in spite of myself. And all of us who have been around the horn a time or two know that falling in love slowly foretells an abiding love affair. Here is the establishment known locally as Sergio's Tacos, which has contributed to my growing affections.

In a previous life I would rather have given up one of my smaller toes than order something to eat from Sergio's Tacos. However, earlier this morning on the recommendation of my neighbor in the tent, Jim—more about Jim later—you knew that more about Jim was coming when you first read my reference to him, didn't you?--on the solemn recommendation of Jim this morning, I ordered the combo breakfast taco from Sergio's, which was being operated by two other grande women of unknown relationship to Sergio, who in fact may be entirely apocryphal. The younger of these two super-sized ladies simply handed me the taco wrapped in aluminum foil and a couple of napkins. My gawd, was that big ole fat soft-shelled taco delicious! I ate it outside at the one of the two picnic tables situated next to Sergio's. Pieces of that taco flew in all directions while I put the main part of it down.

I enjoy the appearance of the ass end of Sergio's Tacos nearly as much as that of the front.

The upshot is that I have had to do my laundry first while my combo breakfast taco settles and then go to the Full Gym rather than get my workout out of the way first. And now while the dryers roll would be a good time to settle once and for all these questions about my attitude toward large women.

I was raised on a farm without brothers and sisters. It was a somewhat isolated existence. In my preschool days the few men in my life were all hard-muscled, sun-burnt, mean bastards with beards like sandpaper. The women, however, were all mesomorphs and completely into gushing, physical affection. The two primary specimens of this species were my paternal grandmother, Cora, and my paternal great aunt, Hazel. Cora and Hazel were large women. The doctors' notes in their charts undoubtedly described them as “obese”--not “grossly obese” but not "moderately obese" either--just “obese.” Cora and Hazel both sported enormous pendular breasts, breasts that seemed doubly enormous to a smaller than average preschool boy.

It is true that I was a pretty little boy. One of the sales clerks at Armstrong's Department Store used to weep over the beauty of my eyelashes alone. Cora and Hazel adored me. “Gushing, physical affection” does not do it justice. They engaged in a love ritual with me. First, Cora would forcibly hug me with my face buried up to the the ears between her breasts until I fuckin' near suffocated, my little feet flailing, vainly trying to gain a purchase on her belly. Then Cora would pass me to Hazel. I would have just enough time to take a big gulp of air, maybe two if I was quick, on the way. Then Hazel would forcibly hug me with my face buried up to the ears between her breasts, her perfumed cleavage slightly damp, until I fuckin' near suffocated again. This would usually go on until both women had had at least three turns at me. Afterward, blue in the face, I would always be rewarded for undergoing this near death experience with an ice cream cone or something else delicious to eat, chocolate maybe.

Now it does not take a Freud to figure out that this small boy's experience could lead to rather conflicted attitudes toward large women in his manhood, and it did.

[Excuse me for a moment. I have to fold.]

[Okay. Where was I?]

Take for example this morning. I was standing back on my heels with my hands in my pockets, my mouth slightly agape, regarding the rear ends of truly stunning proportions on those two latinas through the service window at Sergio's while they were assembling my combo breakfast taco. On the one hand and with all due respect to their menfolk, I would truly love to roll around with those two women in the Texas heat. Both of them. At the same time. I mean it. I have quite pleasantly vivid mental images of it in fact. On the other hand—and I know this sounds silly, but you must remember that I am still only five feet ten inches tall and weigh only 150 pounds—I feel this drear foreboding that I might not come out on the other end of the encounter alive.

That is what psychologists call an approach/avoidance conflict.

I need to get in a workout now.


Lynn said...

Your formative childhood experiences with Grandma Cora and Great Aunt Hazel remind me very much of the long version of Greg Brown's "Canned Goods" (from The Live One). I hope you're familiar with it. I love listening to the narrative in the middle of it because it creates such a vivid picture of a rural Iowa boyhood.

Steve said...

I'll be darned, Lynn. I've let you down again. I am not familiar with that Greg Brown piece. I will become familiar with it though.

And my late blooming but fervent fondness for the opera should be no mystery now either. First, no other art form more vividly addresses the conflation of death and sex in our minds. Second, it is the only art form in which large women are the preëminent artists, although that has unfortunately been changing recently.

Lynn said...

I downloaded it to iTunes from Amazon just to make sure I was remembering it right. You need to make sure you find the 13+ minute version to get his story in the middle.

Steve said...

The 13+ minute version. Got it, Lynn.