Through the stench of cow manure and putrified sewage, Norco was a piece of heaven rested near the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountains. This was God’s country; the resting place of the Luiseños. When Mark Twain came through here in 1901, he said that if anyone heard that his knee caps were shot out and he was buried alive that it happened in Norco. So my heart leapt with joy when I saw the glorious Beacon Hill and the convenient AM PM gas station at its base.
I neglected to gather my cigarettes from the backseat in my hasty escape from a vengeful cab driver. I was desperately tired and in dire need of a nicotine bump. So I waltzed into the AM/PM and rested my hands on the front counter and asked for a pack of American Spirits.
“We don’t have those sir,” the cashier told me.
“What about the Camel Crushes?” I ask.
“We are all out of those.”
“Well goddamnit give me some Marlboros then!”
“Which flavor?”
“The brown ones.”
“You mean the gold ones?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t have those either.”
“Well fuck it then. Give me some Black and Milds”
The cashier turns around and reaches for a pack of Black and Milds. He rings them up and gives me the total. “That’ll be $27.80 sir,” he says.
“$27.80 for some Black and Milds?”
“Yes sir.”
“Let me run out to my car and get my wallet.”
Of course I didn’t have a car or the money to afford Black and Milds. Feeling dejected, I walk through the automatic doors while cursing my fate. Then I look to my right to find an elderly Mexican man sitting on the front bench seemingly enjoying the sunrise peeking through the foothills. I felt envious of the peace he was feeling so I approached him.
“Cigarillo?” I ask the man.
“Sí si,” he responds. “Come. Sit.”
I take a seat next to him and he warmly passes a Marlboro and a light. I put the cigarette to my lips and fire it up. I savored every moment off the first drag. “You’re a godsend you know that?” I tell the man as I hand back the lighter.
“Oh gracias. Thank you,” he smiles.
“No. Thank you!”
I figured the least I could offer was a bit of conversation. So as I slowly puffed away, the two of us sat quietly, though not awkwardly, as we admired the everlasting beauty of the sunrise. I took another drag. “It’s another day ain’t it?” I say.
“Sí,” he plainly states in a contemplative manner.
“So you live around here?”
“Sí. Yes. I’ve lived here for awhile.”
“What do you do for work?”
The smile slowly faded as he looked straight at me. He leans in a bit as if to tell me a secret. “This store here,” he explains. “I used to work at this store.”
“You use to? What happened?”
“That boy you talked to in there? The cashier? That’s the assistant manager. He’s 19 years old. He fired me.”
“Christ,” I say. “He did look like a dumbass.”
“Yes. He’s a dumbass indeed,” the old man said and gazed back at the sunrise.
I stamp out the cigarette and lean forward. “So what are you gonna do now?”
The old man took in a deep breath of the shit stanked Norco air and thought. His eyes narrowed as he oscillated between anger and resignation. “My mother would always tell me that to be a good man, one must always tell the truth,” he began. “That a good man is always fair and when he becomes an old man that his hands will bare proof of hard work. These are hands of a man who has worked hard all of his life. And for what? What have I got to show for it? Now that I am an old man, I realize that my mother’s words were words of a slave. She never came to the land of the gringo. In this land, a man does not work hard. He takes.”
The old man reaches behind him to pull out a crisp new Glock 43 and rests it on his lap. “Now as an old man,” he concluded, “I realize that when a slave breaks the chains of one’s mind he becomes the master.”
The old man stands up and lifts the Glock and slaps in the clip. “Dios te salve, Maria,” he utters to himself. “Llena eres de gracia, el Senor es contigo.”
He marches into the store and into his destiny.
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Internet Ruined Everything 