Orchata

By Paul Smith

I knew something was up as soon as she said ‘orchata’. It wasn’t just the word, it was how she said it. She said ‘or-cha’-ta,’ heavy accent on the middle syllable. She was one of us. He was one of them. What were they doing here? Well, they were hungry.

“Stop it,” he said. She was getting at something, probably something that began in the car, in bed, in the kitchen.

“Just saying,” she said. I was on my way over to their table. If I didn’t have to work here, I would have just held back a bit so I could listen. “Would you like something to drink?” I asked, all innocent and peppy.

She wanted a margarita. “And you, sir?” I asked, watching her, not him. Her eyes got all smug, like she knew some kind of secret and wanted to say something.

“Pacifico,” he said.

“Proper,” she said.

I left to fill their drink order. I so wanted to stay, just to see that look on her face again, that ‘gotcha’ look, the look that meant she could have said something that really hurt but she didn’t so now he owes her something. It made me think about orchata and what it was—a milk-like drink, watery and bland. It’s for us gals. Men don’t drink orchata, so she was hinting he wasn’t up to it. Up to what? Well, you know, the obvious, but it could have meant any masculine failure. I’m married, so I know all this man-woman stuff. Like I say, it probably started wherever they’re from. Who were they, anyway? This was like a small adventure for them. He looked mild-mannered. I could see her point. He failed her one way or another, and she went right for the private parts. I wanted to know a little more.

I brought them chips and salsa. He dove right in, Señor Pacifico. She was dainty and all with her margarita. He finished his beer fast, and I brought him another before taking their dinner order. Then we started to get busy, people wandering in from Twenty-Sixth Street, some folks like him, but mostly like her, from around here. Tony’s group showed up and took out their instruments, setting up at a corner of the dining room where Twenty-Sixth met Trumbull. That way Tony could bring in people from the sidewalk to come hear live music and have some drinks. Fridays were always good. When I came back with his second beer I took their order.

“Siete mares,” she said crisply. That was one of our best dishes, like a seafood gumbo. She was from around here. Nobody else would order that.

“Cochinada pibil,” he said. He had a big smile.

“Cochinita,” she corrected him.

“It isn’t cochinada?” he said with a straight face.

“Stop it!” she hissed.

“Co-chi-ní-ta pibil,” he said. I took their menus. A drama was unfolding. Who were they? Tony had his full group with him. Sometimes on weeknights it was just him and Calixto on guittaron’. Tonight he had a trumpet and a drummer, too, perfect for dancing on the tiny square we called the dance floor. It was as big as a postage stamp. You couldn’t really pull any moves out there. People liked to dance close, so Tony would play mostly rancheros, nice and slow. Maybe he picked her up at the Diplomat Motel up by Lincoln. Or maybe even Sportsman’s Inn on Cicero near the airport.

I brought them dinner and a couple more drinks. Then we got real busy. I don’t know if the air conditioning went out, but suddenly it got hot inside. Maybe it was the music or the alcohol. I wasn’t drinking, but I could feel it. The women’s make-up got all shiny like it was melting, and the men got swarthy. Laughter exploded, died down, then sprung up from tables near where it started. It wasn’t a friendly, good-natured laughter. It was something else, an echo of everyone’s pang for company and what went with it. I watched the two of them getting softened up by the booze as Tony’s guitar spun tales of love and spite and misery. He took her hand. They waltzed up to the tiny dance floor and grabbed each other. He didn’t look to have orchata in his veins anymore. Where had they met? He might be immigration and they made a deal. They swayed, cramped in by the tininess of the danced floor, locked at the hips and the eyeballs. It looked like this evening was going to work out after all.

Then something unexpected happen.

Señor Pacifico stood back from her, and in a loud voice shouted, “Twenty dollars?”

The music stopped. You could hear an enchilada drop. The room was full now, all eyes on them. The gal, whose make-up was all slick in the humidity, turned beet red from the neck up. He stood there looking at her, hands at his side. She flounced back to the table, grabbed her purse, and went out the door into the cool night air of La Villita. She flagged down a taxi and was gone.

“Adios, cochinada!” he yelled.

He went back to the table and waved to me. I brought him the bill and Tony started playing again. He looked at the bill with a pair of watery eyes, blinked, and then pointed at the total on the bill.

“Twenty dollars?” he asked.

It was supposed to be a joke of some kind, I guess. I didn’t find it funny. He had just humiliated one of us, treating her like a puta. Then he laughed. He pulled out his wallet and opened it up so I could see a big wad of cash, making a point of spreading it wide so I could see how thick the stack of bills was. Now my face got red as he stacked some bills on our white tablecloth. I didn’t need his fucking money, but I just stood there. Tony’s music got louder as they switched gears and started playing bandas. I got a large tip. He gave Tony a tip too and left. That’s when it sank in.

Maybe they were married. He gave me and Tony a big tip just to rub it in – that she was one of us and he wasn’t. I pocketed the tip anyway and wiped off the vinyl tablecloth where they had sat as two women came in from Eighteenth Street and ordered orchata. I gave them both a straw.