"The Dried Tomato"

Vaqueros in Brooklyn, NY

by Angela Pailevanian

Six in the morning, Ruben woke up for his shift at The Dried Tomato, a sandwich shop in the Lower East Side. Ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, put on the weird-looking hat, and off he went to ride the subway to work.

"Ruben, you're late!" Alice said. She was like the veteran of the place. Eighty years old and still working. With at least 20 grandchildren.

Ruben apologized and ran into the back to get his apron. Conversation continued amongst the workers.

"Hey Riley! Have you caught the kid that threw a baseball through your window?"

"No! I can't even fix it, I'm two months behind on rent. I swear that kid's gonna get a beating when I find out who it is!"

It was noon. People were pouring in. The orders were accumultaing quickly.

"I want a turkey bacon sandwich, hold the mayo."

"I want a chicken sandwich on wheat bread, and fries on the side."

"I want a large coke, with a bacon sandwich, no tomatoes though."

Around 2pm, a boy walked in. He had on a Led Zeppelin shirt. Green eyes. Dark skin. Looked like he was ready to kill somebody.

"Welcome, what do you want to eat?" Ruben asked.

"You want to know what I want? I want to know why my father left. But you can't tell me that, can you? Nobody can. Not even my momma. Now she's three months behind rent, he aint paying a dime and we're gonna get evicted."

"Oh. Well I'm--"

"You have any idea what it's like to grow up without a dad? Watchin' my momma struggle every day, not comign home. She's got five kids. Six including me. I'm the youngest."

"How long has he been gone?" Ruben asked.

"Oh, he was gone before I was even born. Momma said she met him at a bar out in Buswick years ago."

"What's your momma's name, son?"

"Ayleen."

Could it be? The Ayleen he met in Vaqueros 15 years ago? The boy had Ruben's eyes, Ruben's nose, Ruben's slick straight hair. But she never told him anything, never called him. They broke up just as soon as they had gotten together.

Ruben stayed silent for a moment. Then he said: "Man, if I found my father now, he gon' wish he never left my momma."

Ruben shook his head and tried to stay focused on the food: "What do you want to eat, son?"

"Turkey and Me"

by Sara Anis

I don't usually throw up. But the one time I did, wow that was crazy.

It was Thanksgiving night. I was seven. My mother and I were planning on taking a trip to Chandler, AZ right after dinner with the family.

Now, my family is from the Middle East, we aren't really know for cooking the best turkey in town. My seven-year-old stomach would agree on that one. That night, well... I don't know what it was. Probaby nasty for one. Anyways!

My mother and I get on the Greyhound planning to have a smooth ride to Chandler and then BOOM! -- the twists and turns start acting up. I really wanted it to be a good trip, I really did. Too bad the turkey had it in for me.

So there I am, about to throw up, when I notice everyone on the bus watching me. Now being the proper young lady I am, I turn around, gently snatch my mother's cashmere sweater, and let it out.

Gross... maybe. But I actually thought I was being pretty polite. That trip was a bummer, and I can honestly say that turkey and me have never been the best of friends since.

Sorry Mom.

"Chick Chick"

by Oscar Guerrero

I ate some questionable fried chicken from a questionable restaurant, in a questionable street in a questionable area east of LAX. My uncle is a steward at the airport, or something along those lines, so we picked him up from Terminal 20. He greeted us with a "Look how big you've gotten?" and a "Did you lose weight?" and the question we were all waiting for, "Are you hunrgy?"

He stuffed us in the car, took the wheel, and jammed his foot on the pedal until we were going 40 in a 15. "I know a place!"

Before we knew it, it was past nine and we had driven for two hours. "I think we missed it. It was supposed to me fifteen minutes from the airport." We gazed at him but bit our tongues, as we couldn't refuse his hospitality for offering to pay.

Then we spied a place: "Chicky Chicky," with bright flickering neon lights that, as Simon & Garfunkel put it, "split the night."

The menu varied from fried chicked to spicy fried chicken. Everyone ordered the spicy fried chicken but I, being the weakest of stomach of the family, couldn't help but be weak and submissive so as to stand out and get the chicken that was lacking in the spicy area.

So the cashier, this plump Hispanic woman with a Jennifer Aniston haircut and too many rings to count, followed our commands. In a matter of seconds, the food was ready. We had drinks, the chicken of spicy and non-spicy variety, and a little container overflowing with ranch sauce.

I ever-so-cautiously clenched my teeth on the ever-so-salty chicken. I chewed slowly. Save for a few bones it wasn't bad. The feast had officially begun, as everyone was grabbing for a leg, or a nugget, or a wing, and chewing, and savoring, and swallowing, and gulping, and of course digesting.

We finished the meal, payed a surprisingly large bill, and got in the car to say, "This wasn't so bad."

My dad drove tmie, going 25mph under the speed limit. But even at that speed, I felt a pressure in the center of my torso, building up, slowly, but surely.

Then there was rumbling, and sweating, and the next thing I knew, my mouth was erupting white chunks of legs, nuggets, wings and other body parts of the fowl type.

And it was everywhere.

My shoes, my jeans, my Revolver shirt (which I had so carefully and lovingly preserved), and even my mother's dress (which she had carefully and lovingly preserved)... Not to mention two car seats, a bit of the window, and even some of the steering wheel.

Everyone gave me the stare they had previously given my uncle, but they bit their tongues, and kept driving, and driving and driving, and just ignoring the smell.