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One of my favorite Mexican restaurants has great happy hour drink and appetizer specials. No, I’m not plugging a restaurant. I’m just telling you where I went.
I ponied up to the bar, ordered a margarita and guacamole and sat next to the least socially-warm man I’ve sat next to in ages. But kids, let this be a lesson to you, don’t judge a book by its cover.
The order of guacamole was HUGE, so I offered to share it with Mr. I’m Drinking a Beer and Don’t Want to Talk to You… aka Miguel.
Turns out, Miguel is quite talkative once you get him going, and offer to share your guacamole with him. (To be fair, I think he was just being polite with the guacamole because he left me to eat it all by myself anyway.)
Miguel dreams of a day when “all Mexicanos can come to sit with us at the bar, work and pay taxes and have the same life we are enjoying at this moment.” He hopes “Mr. Obama will give them all the chance to have a drivers license and the right to try” and share my guacamole.
His mother and sister are still in Mexico. His mother doesn’t want to come. She wants it for her kids, but she wants to stay. I suppose I can understand that. Home is home, and there comes a point in life when moving somewhere without command of the language… that shit is ridiculous.
I can’t imagine being on one side of a line while my family is stuck on the other. I literally can’t imagine it, or it will make me a little insane. It’s easy to understand why it’s the center of his whole world and his hopes and dreams.
This was the first time I’ve started a dream chat in a social setting. The bartender and hostess ended up in our conversation too. It was awesome. Collective dreaming. Score.
Luis, the bartender, said he wants to get laid once a day, every day. I said, “Just once?” He had the slick-rick charisma of a young latin bartender. The kind that says, “Moms out for a drink at five in the afternoon want to put money in my underwear.” This mom wanted to know what his dreams were instead.
And then he admitted that he wants “to change the world, make it better, one little bit at a time.” He wasn’t sure how. He didn’t have many answers when I probed further. He had something he didn’t say though, something he held back. He started to say it, then didn’t. The liability of the group dream I suppose.
The hostess, whose name I didn’t catch wants to be a pro basketball player. She’s good. She wants to play abroad to get her foot in the door. She had drive and ambition in spades, it was obvious.
Once again, they all asked me about my dreams. They absolutely would not take the truthful answer of I didn’t know. You get a group of friendly Latin folk in one conversation and they will talk you, love you, and push you to death . Personal boundaries aren’t really their forte—a dynamic I forgot while living in England.
Two margaritas, one order of guacamole and three new dreamers. That’s some pretty good odds, I’d say. Also? I got invited to some shindig next Saturday at a different Mexican restaurant, by Mr. I’m Drinking a Beer and Don’t Want to Talk to You… aka Miguel (like I said, books and covers are rarely the same). Something with a DJ… and more margaritas. Put that dream in your pipe and smoke it.