Grim and Chronic: El Rey Del Taco

The new century was young and green, internet IPO’s were the bees’ knees, and the radical Islamists had not yet re-invented the smart bomb.

I was living in Brooklyn at the time. I had a second-hand laptop, an illegal apartment in a converted factory space, and a fairly non-sucky job as a high-rise window washer.

Almost overnight, my neighborhood became trendy. A Starbucks sprang up next door, eventually running the Crazy Coffee Lady out of business, and the Mother Superior Bar and Grill raised the price of a pint to 6 bucks.

Julian was my upstairs neighbor. He had an entire cavernous loft space to himself, not just because he could afford it so much as because it was the cool thing to do.

Julian had invested in New Technology, and he had gotten in early. Julian was a millionaire on paper. We were hanging out at the bar over at the Mother Superior. I really couldn’t stand Julian, but Julian was buying the drinks.

“Do you know what the difference is between me and you?”

Why yes Julian, I sure do. You’re rich and I’m broke. “What’s the difference?”

“I’ve got ambition. I’ve got drive. I get shit done. While you were wasting your time going to college,” Julian paused and took a swallow of his beer. Budweiser. I was drinking Brooklyn Brown. “While you were wasting your time in school, I was working the market. Investing. Investing in the future, my man.” Pretentious Prick.

Julian ordered sushi for delivery on a daily basis. Julian owned two bicycles: a road bike and a mountain bike, neither of which I’d never seen him ride. Either one would have set me back a full paycheck, and I get paid bi-weekly. Julian had to bribe his scumbag neighbors with free beer to sit around and listen to his monologue.

He was telling me about how he had hired a guide service to take him rock climbing. It was a story I’d heard before.

“Those people are all idiots. I can’t believe people actually pay good money to risk their lives like that. I can’t believe rock climbing is supposed to be trendy these days.” He shook his head, “What a stupid fad.”

I shook my head noncommittally. My pint glass was almost empty.

“It’s not like I’m actually scared of heights,” he said, signaling the barkeep to bring us two more. “It’s the falling I’m afraid of,” he lowered his voice confidentially; “it’s the landing that’ll do ya. So I’m afraid of death. So sue me.”

Suing people wasn’t really my style. And anyway, it would have been a waste of time. I’d just spent a long day on a motorized scaffold, freezing my ass off while I squeegeed windows. Chuy, my partner, had gotten back on the heroin and managed to drop a five-gallon bucket of soapy water from 46 stories up, and nearly gotten us both fired. All I wanted was a change of clothes, pizza, beer, and pornography.

I ran into Julian three days later, coming home from work. He was sitting in the stairwell, just above my front door, looking unusually despondent. He clearly wanted someone to talk to. I didn’t particularly feel like listening to him go on and on about whatever his yuppie woes happened to be that day, but he looked so miserable and downtrodden that I felt like I had to ask him what was on his mind.

The bubble had burst.

“I’m broke.” He said, shaking his head, “I’m broke. I’ve lost everything.” He plopped down heavily on my futon couch, still shaking his head, folded copy of the Times still dangling limply from his hand. “Everything. Dude, I won’t even be able to make rent.”

“Don’t worry Julian,” I said with a reassuring smile, “I can get you a job.” I popped open a beer and handed him one. “Working with me.”

There was a stiff cold wind blowing in off the Hudson. I had to help Julian with his harness. He was shaking, and it wasn’t just from the cold. We stepped onto the motorized platform, and I attached his lanyard. I double-checked my own harness, flashed Julian a smile, and pushed the start button. The scaffold lurched as we lifted off the ground, sloshing soapy water out of our collection of five gallon buckets. Six inches of the ground, I waited for the deck to stabilize a little before running us all the way up. We were supposed to be starting on the fiftieth floor, and working our way down from there. It would take a good twenty minutes to get up to our high point. I pressed the UP button on the onboard winch with one finger while I sipped hot coffee from the spill-proof mug I held in my other hand. Julian was gripping the handrail with both hands.

The machine cranked us slowly upward. I kept my thumb on the UP button, and sipped my coffee. Office drones inside, just starting their workweek, pointedly ignored us. “Please stop a second.” Julian said from his end of the platform. I pretended not to hear him. His puffy face was pale and streaked in sweat.

“Oh God. Stop. Please Stop It.” We passed the eleventh floor. We were probably a hundred feet above the little rectangle of caution tape that marked out our footprint on the sidewalk. Julian was down on his knees, clinging to the edges of our plank.

“Dude, it’s only 37 more stories.”

He looked up at me, still gripping the scaffold with both hands. Tears were running down his cheeks, “I can’t do this,” he said, “Please just let me down.”

I may be a dick, but I’m not that big of a dick. I ran the lift back down to the sidewalk, and helped him out of his harness. He didn’t say much to me, just wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve, turned his back and walked away. A defeated man.

Three months later, I saw Julian working at the Taco Mobile. I swung by the converted bus to grab a couple of tacos, and there he was behind the counter, towering over the Mexicans, wearing a chorizo-spattered white apron. He smiled when he saw me, and shook my hand, and piled extra guacamole on my tacos. “No charge for an old friend,” he said, and I tipped him generously.

By the end of the year, Julian owned the Taco Mobile. You know why? Because Julian had ambition. He had drive. And his tacos were delicious.

End