gringo.
One problem. About halfway through that roll, something jetted between my lips and could not longer form one “R,” let along a long series of them.
Something wet and pink hit the sidewalk.
My tongue. Or at least a part of it.
As Marisa and Taco Dude recoiled at the bit of pink meat quickly drying under a brutal sun, Luke smiled. I knew exactly what was coming.
“I guess that was right on …” he said, pausing for effect, “… the tip of your tongue.”
Ever since the birthday party when I blew off my lips attempting to blow out the candles, Luke has delighted in the occasional, and completely unexpected, loss of body parts.
“Zhu up,” I said. That was supposed to be “Shut up,” but my tongue wasn’t where I expected it to be. I scooped up the withered husk from the sidewalk, wondering just how I was going to reattach it. Duct tape was going to be extremely uncomfortable, and I didn’t want the metallic taste of staples.
I rolled what was left of my tongue around my mouth, trying to get used to the new feel, really wishing I had the tip of my tongue on the tip of my tongue.
“Was that really part of your tongue?” Marisa asked.
I looked at what I had picked up. It resembled a piece of fatty bacon. And it was toast.
“La la la la la,” I muttered. “Ta ta ta ta. Ra ra ra.”
I was getting some feeling back on the end of my tongue. I pictured a lizard growing a new tail, because that’s what it felt like.
“You know,” I said, enunciating slowly. “I think it’s going to be OK. I just have to be sure to avoid those rolls.”
“You’ll never see me avoiding rolls,” Luke said. “Especially the cinnamon kind.”
“Not the rolls I mean,” I said, looking back to the Taco Dude, who was still staring at the spot of my tongue’s landing. “Now, where were we?”
Taco Dude shook his head and gazed at Tread. “No chupacabra.” He retreated behind his stand and retrieved a placard. He turned it around and held it up. It showed a fuzzy photo of what appeared to be a hairless beast with a goat in its mouth. It was covered by a large red circle with a slash through it.
“I get it,” I said. “No chupacabras, si . But Tread is un … “I licked my lips to prepare … “ perrrro .” I drew out the Rs without rolling them. “You know. A dog.”
“A dog?” he replied. “ Es un perro muy feo .”
“Yes, he’s a dog and whatever the rest you said.” I smiled. “Glad you understand.”
Wait, was that laughing? I spin toward its source. Marisa.
“Something funny?”
“Not at all,” she said. “You are lucky to have a dog muy feo .”
“Thanks, that’s good to hear.”
Now Taco Dude was laughing. Whatever.
Dad, Luke, and I had been walking back to the hotel after breakfast when my phone chimed. It was a text from Marisa, with the time and place to meet her and collect Tread.
It was perfect timing since I’d convinced Dad we had met someone at the Internet café with an “in” at the customs-office kennel. “As long as we pay the fine, we should be able to get him in an hour or so,” I told him. “The guy said he’d text me when Tread was ready to go.”
“Fine?” Dad said. “Yeah, fine. How much.”
I made up a number that sounded fair, reminding myself to slip the cash back in Dad’s wallet later, knowing he’d never notice. “It’s fifty dollars.”
“Yeah, sure.” He pulled out his wallet, thumbing through it. “Here you go. Glad that’s taken care of so we can get on with things. Because I’m already falling behind, and we’re not even there yet, so the sooner the better.”
I knew Dad was about to launch into a “Time is money” lecture, so I was very happy to see a text pop up on my phone.
Marisa: 10 o’clock, corner of Hidalgo and Morelos, look for tacos
Once I had told Dad it was the text we were waiting for, he ordered us to get back to the hotel no later than noon. It was clear he had other things on his mind, so he
One problem. About halfway through that roll, something jetted between my lips and could not longer form one “R,” let along a long series of them.
Something wet and pink hit the sidewalk.
My tongue. Or at least a part of it.
As Marisa and Taco Dude recoiled at the bit of pink meat quickly drying under a brutal sun, Luke smiled. I knew exactly what was coming.
“I guess that was right on …” he said, pausing for effect, “… the tip of your tongue.”
Ever since the birthday party when I blew off my lips attempting to blow out the candles, Luke has delighted in the occasional, and completely unexpected, loss of body parts.
“Zhu up,” I said. That was supposed to be “Shut up,” but my tongue wasn’t where I expected it to be. I scooped up the withered husk from the sidewalk, wondering just how I was going to reattach it. Duct tape was going to be extremely uncomfortable, and I didn’t want the metallic taste of staples.
I rolled what was left of my tongue around my mouth, trying to get used to the new feel, really wishing I had the tip of my tongue on the tip of my tongue.
“Was that really part of your tongue?” Marisa asked.
I looked at what I had picked up. It resembled a piece of fatty bacon. And it was toast.
“La la la la la,” I muttered. “Ta ta ta ta. Ra ra ra.”
I was getting some feeling back on the end of my tongue. I pictured a lizard growing a new tail, because that’s what it felt like.
“You know,” I said, enunciating slowly. “I think it’s going to be OK. I just have to be sure to avoid those rolls.”
“You’ll never see me avoiding rolls,” Luke said. “Especially the cinnamon kind.”
“Not the rolls I mean,” I said, looking back to the Taco Dude, who was still staring at the spot of my tongue’s landing. “Now, where were we?”
Taco Dude shook his head and gazed at Tread. “No chupacabra.” He retreated behind his stand and retrieved a placard. He turned it around and held it up. It showed a fuzzy photo of what appeared to be a hairless beast with a goat in its mouth. It was covered by a large red circle with a slash through it.
“I get it,” I said. “No chupacabras, si . But Tread is un … “I licked my lips to prepare … “ perrrro .” I drew out the Rs without rolling them. “You know. A dog.”
“A dog?” he replied. “ Es un perro muy feo .”
“Yes, he’s a dog and whatever the rest you said.” I smiled. “Glad you understand.”
Wait, was that laughing? I spin toward its source. Marisa.
“Something funny?”
“Not at all,” she said. “You are lucky to have a dog muy feo .”
“Thanks, that’s good to hear.”
Now Taco Dude was laughing. Whatever.
Dad, Luke, and I had been walking back to the hotel after breakfast when my phone chimed. It was a text from Marisa, with the time and place to meet her and collect Tread.
It was perfect timing since I’d convinced Dad we had met someone at the Internet café with an “in” at the customs-office kennel. “As long as we pay the fine, we should be able to get him in an hour or so,” I told him. “The guy said he’d text me when Tread was ready to go.”
“Fine?” Dad said. “Yeah, fine. How much.”
I made up a number that sounded fair, reminding myself to slip the cash back in Dad’s wallet later, knowing he’d never notice. “It’s fifty dollars.”
“Yeah, sure.” He pulled out his wallet, thumbing through it. “Here you go. Glad that’s taken care of so we can get on with things. Because I’m already falling behind, and we’re not even there yet, so the sooner the better.”
I knew Dad was about to launch into a “Time is money” lecture, so I was very happy to see a text pop up on my phone.
Marisa: 10 o’clock, corner of Hidalgo and Morelos, look for tacos
Once I had told Dad it was the text we were waiting for, he ordered us to get back to the hotel no later than noon. It was clear he had other things on his mind, so he
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