Huevos Rancheros

Huevos Rancheros, or, Fat Man Sings the Blues
by Michael Anson

He had his daddy's voice and his mother's grace. His mother, when it was fashionable, used to wear ostrich feather dresses, and his father had a deep booming baritone that sang out when he said hello. Alberto didn't have to imitate the voice. It just came naturally to him. For a big man he moved effortlessly, but he was Latino after all, and Hispanic men are born with salsa hips. Alberto Alvarez had everything: the lovely house on the hill, two gorgeous daughters, and a wife who married him for love and stayed true to her vow. Yet he was dissatisfied. A great sadness had taken hold of his soul and refused to let go. He didn't want to kill himself. He simply wanted to sleep for a thousand years so that he could wake up refreshed. Frankly, if Alberto were to admit it, he was depressed.

Alberto had a dream and made a startling discovery. The dead and the living, as a rule, don't correspond much. People still living may light votive candles, say novenas, and even hold seances, but truth be told, the dead don't give up their secrets easily. As the dream ended he woke up with a phrase in his head. "It's all Huevos Rancheros to me," he thought. "It's all mixed up and hard to sort out, like my life." His many varied responsibilities to the living had worn him down so he made a profound decision. He was going to check himself into the nearest funeral home and wait to die.

He was never a man who put faith in quacks so he didn't bother going to see a therapist or psychaitrist. He had, however, gone so far as to go to Saint Rita's to seek absolution for his sins before heading to the Eternal Healing Chapel. Father Victor Vicente didn't have a whole lot to say, except, "Alberto, I know you are a good man. You attend mass. You tithe. You give back to the community. Why would you want to go and do a fool-headed thing like check yourself into a funeral home? Do I need to call the hospital?"

How can someone explain that he's not suicidal? He simply didn't want to live anymore. "There is a difference between being suicidal and not wanting to live anymore," Alberto thought. But try explaining that to a priest. One thing about being depressed, he discovered, is that he had the mind of a sieve. He couldn't concentrate very well on his conversation with the priest. With a mumbled apology saying of course the good father was right, Alberto maneuvered his way out of the confessional booth with only the punishment of a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

He told his wife Esmerelda, "This is it. I'm done, finished, exhausted." He tended to repeat himself in threes. He was already fifty-five, and he had been a hard drinker all his life as well as a hard worker. He was more concerned about work killing him than his drinking. He had owned his own landscaping business for years and had put his daughters through schools of their choosing, and had taken his wife on vacation every year, whether the two of them needed it or not. Now he definitely needed a long siesta, but neither Disneyland nor the Bahamas were likely to fit the bill. It had to be something more dramatic.

So the next day he started walking to the Eternal Healing Chapel in downtown Bankside, and all he did was trudge for miles and miles. He was covering about two miles an hour, perhaps a bit slow, but he had a lot on his mind. He wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't want to fling himself toward it reclklessly. Watching Alberto, you would say that he was perhaps a bit suicidal, but you would be wrong. He simply felt that we are spiritual beings having a human experience, and he felt that the human part of his experience was drawing to a close. Alberto had a flair for the dramatic which was partly what prompted his walk into oblivion. But let's face it. Latinos could get away with being a little more colorful, if only in front of their wives.

He looked down and realized in his distraction that he had waltzed out the door wearing purple Bermuda shorts. He thought about his choice of white tank top and eggplant board shorts. He must be depressed. After all, he had paid no attention to what he was wearing to his own funeral. Esmerelda often told him he had no eye for the obvious. Clearly, he hadn't planned for his own death very carefully. Funny how mundane his thoughts were. "How could everything seem to be going so well, yet everything inside was going so wrong?"

Just then God spit on him. It didn't just tinkle from the sky, it rained like Noah was about to come sweeping down from the heavens and urge Alberto to hastily construct an ark. So he did the next best thing and he hailed a cab.