I get a late night craving and break my fast-food fast. My eye is single to the glory of the deep-fried chicken strip.
I hand my cash to a petite Latina woman. She is very, very pregnant.
“Is it hard to be standing all day?” I ask. She struggles to understand me and says, “Yes.”
“Cuantos meses?” I say, reaching way, way back to my high school Spanish.
“Ocho,” she says, smiling. She tells me in a mix of English and Spanish that she will leave in a week to have the baby.
“Is it a boy?” I ask.
“Si! Su nombre es Victor Hugo.” She rests her hand where her belly begins to swell, just below her breasts.
“Ah! Como el autor.” This really pleases me. I thought seriously about naming our first child either Victor Hugo, or after Bishop Bienvenu from the opening chapters of Les Miserables.
I congratulate her and drive off. The chicken strips remain in the bag, warming the passenger seat, but I am satisfied.
2 responses so far ↓
1 pilgrimgirl // May 9, 2006 at 6:37 am
Nice, John. The ending makes me feel as if your late-night snack craving was less about food and more about the need for human connection.
Like you, I am continually amazed with the connections I make with people who aren’t the local ivory tower elitists that I’m used to. Like yesterday, talking with the foreman of the garden workers and reveling in his knowledge of plants–his knowing the Latin names and common names of very plant I pointed to, telling me about the root systems of various types of plants, knowing which ones were thriving and which were dying. I was amazed with him and then I was annoyed with myself for assuming that the local gardeners wouldn’t know such things.
2 Miko // May 9, 2006 at 4:10 pm
Mistress Pilgrim: I think he’s just disguising his need for feed with that.
Master Pilgrim: you remind me that I need to learn Spanish, as a denizen of SoCal…but I did read Les Mis in French!
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