The exterior of Waco Sam’s BBQ Taqueria looked nauseous. Green. Like the face of a kid ready to blow chunks. A fat assortment of docile strays lounged in the shaded alley next to the restaurant hoping for scraps from the kitchen. Pink light pulsed from the cursive neon sign bolted at the apex of that poor, plaster husk. I knew from one look, the transplants were going to love this place. 
 

Conditioned air and caulk hit me on the way in. Someone was drilling into dry wall. Someone else was hanging an angular chandelier. Painters slapped unfortunate pink and that same nauseous green on every vertical surface. A group of curated, but burly men lugged cases of Shiner through the dining room and behind the bar dominating the right side of the space. In Los Angeles, even the delivery guys are manicured. 
 

Looking around the once-and-future-hip-place-to-be, it was my turn to throw up. The awful green and pink pairing felt like psychological warfare–colors weaponized to induce projectile vomiting. Almost everything not green and not pink was gilded. There was a gilded mirror behind the host stand. The sharp chandelier was gilded. The chairs were gilded as were the tables. There was an array of gilded lawn ornaments strewn through out the room. Here, a gilded garden gnome. There, a gilded flamingo. In the corner, a pair of gilded frogs kissing on a bench, also gilded. 

 

Two elements broke the torture. The bar top, which was thankfully natural wood, and the graffiti. Thick black letters applied in a swooping and violent hand stood out against the neon covering the walls. The whole room was tagged. Same artist, too. All clearly the work of a master. Not that I could read it. 

 

“We’re not open yet.” She was sitting at a table on the other end of the room, head bent, back hunched, one hand shoved in her blonde hair and the other scraping an angry note out of an almost dead pen. 

 

“Sorry, to interrupt–” I started, weaving through the tables. 

 

She cut me off without a glance. “If you’re sorry, then leave.” She was young–baby fat still clinging to her round, dimpled cheeks. But she sounded seasoned. Too seasoned. The black sport coat, the high-collared blouse, the glasses that sat on top of her head while she scanned a series of spreadsheets. She was laying it on just a bit too thick. Maybe she was even younger than I thought. 

 

I cranked my lips up into a smile and settled in. “I’m Hunt Johnson. Writing a story about the opening? Here to see Russ Redlin.”
 

She finally looked up. I could see in her eyes that she was not impressed. “Hunter Johnson. Finally. Russ won’t shut up about you.” 

 

“You should make him.” I offered. She groaned as she stood. I followed her toward the back. She took the gauntlet like she was after an olympic record. We dodged the second Shiner haul, ducked under some paint cans, and split a shaking ladder that barely held up a man applying tiny sheets of gold leaf to a mirror on the ceiling. 

 

“Trust me, I’ve tried. This is all he’s talked about for weeks.”

 

“I thought he’d be focused on the opening.” 

 

“Oh no, apparently that’s what he has me for.” Apparently, she had already tried to have this conversation with the man himself. 

 

“I’m sure everything’ll be fine.”

 

“Right.” She swung through the kitchen doors. “Everything will be fine.” Construction workers knelt, leaned, crouched, and stomped around the room. A technician was testing the deep fryers. A chef was teaching the prep cook how to chop peppers. 

 

I ducked under a chair heading back out into the dining room. “That didn’t sound convincing. Trouble in paradise?”

 

Her heels clicked on the industrial flooring as she turned and fixed me with a look that, for a moment, made me question whether I should ever open my mouth again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

“Just seems like you’re a little stressed.”

 

“A little stressed?” Her office door hit the wall with a smack. The whole place was covered in paper–delivery receipts, paystubs, accounting books. It was an anxiety attack unfolding in slow motion. “Why? Why would I be stressed? Everything will be fine.” She crumpled into a rolling chair. Her breathing was heavy, like there was a restaurant on her chest. 

 

“So, you’re in charge around here?” 

 

“What?” She asked, shaking herself back to the conversation.
 

“What’s you’re job here?” I asked. “I mean, holding things together obviously, but officially you are..?”

 

“I was hired as a hostess.”

 

“Its the hostess’ job to open the restaurant?” I asked.

 

“No, I was promoted. I’m the now GM.” 

 

“Moving up in the world.” I took out a small note pad. “General Manager…?”

 

“Shiloh.” She said. “Okada.”

 

“Shiloh Okada.” I wrote it down. “Interesting name combo.”

 

She shrugged. “My mom was a hippie and my dad came over to study Redwoods. So, I guess they were both hippies.”

 

“And now you run a restaurant.”

 

“I’m an actor.”

 

I nodded. “Would I have seen you in anything?”

 

“If you have to ask then the answer’s no.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing?” 

 

“Interviewing you.” I held up my notepad. “For the story.”

 

“Isn’t this supposed to be about Russ?”

 

“Sure, but you’re his right hand woman. He trusts you, or he wouldn’t leave you in charge.” I pretended to write something down. “I mean, he promoted you from hostess to GM, right? I bet there’s something there. Something my readers would find interesting.” 

 

“Hmm.” She said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. 

 

“I’m just curious how someone who looks so young moved up so quickly. ” I said, innocent as a nun. “You must have a knack for this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, sure. A knack.” She chuckled, staring at her overflowing desk. “I’ve got a knack for this like you’ve got a knack for writing.”

 

“If you got promoted that fast, you’re a much better GM than I am a writer.” 

 

“That tracks with what I’ve head about you.” She said like a stone.

 

“Well, taste is subjective.” I smiled. “And I do have a certain style.”

 

“And about two-hundred Substack subscribers, right?” She used her pinky to dig a piece of food from her teeth. “I couldn’t really find any thing else you’d written in like, how long was it? Five years?” 

 

“I’ve had plenty of ups and downs.” I said.

 

“That sucks.” She stopped picking her teeth and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, I’m glad we could give you this big opportunity. Could help get things back on track for you.” She said. “You know, the LA Times is sending someone to the soft opening, tomorrow? You got in even before him.”

 

My laughter came out like a flurry of punches.“Are you sure they’ve got more than two-hundred subscribers?” 

 

“I know that they’re opinion still matters. I’ve never heard anyone mention you.”

 

“But does any of this really matter? We’re on a giant rock hurtling through space at a million miles an hour. There’s no reason to be concerned about a couple of articles, right?” 

 

“Listen,” she leaned forward, her eyes drilling through me, “That bitch ex-wife already dragged him through the mud. I’m not going to let that happen again. Understood?”

 

I was right, there was something interesting here. “Understood.” I nodded. 

 

“Good.” She leaned back. A clatter of plates and a cursing chef overwhelmed the silence between us. Shiloh rubbed her eyes. “So, did you read her book?” 

 

I shook my head. “Couldn’t get past the first page. That woman writes like a house plant.”

 

She snorted. “You’re right about that.” 

“Her editor probably encouraged her to throw all the shit in there because they knew it’d be a snoozefest without it.” 

 

“Maybe.” She said. “She’s still a bitch.”

 

“They’re both bitches.” I said.

 

“There he is!” I peered around the corner. Russ Redlin strowed into the restaurant as the side door closed behind him. Through the last crack, I watched an obese mutt swat several other street dogs away from a fresh plate of trimmings. 

 

“The man of the hour.” Russ had a real swagger in his step that made him hard to like. He was pure salt and pepper. Caesar cut on his head. Stubbly beard. Open shirt and chest hair paired with two thin gold chains. He was a silver fox and, despite being at least fifty-five, he didn’t look a day over forty. What an asshole. “My god, look at you.” 

 

We shook hands. “Look at me.” I said, desperately cranking up the charm to match his.

 

“You met Shiloh?” He asked, leaning on the desk between us. “Shy, this is Hunter. His family lived next door to the house I lived in when I got my first job at Lockheed.” He looked at me. Was that a tear? “You were what? Ten the last time we played basketball in the coldesac?” 

 

“Did you tell her about all the times I beat you?”

 

He laughed. “I don’t think you want that action. Doctor says I’m as healthy as a twenty year old.” He did two squats to prove it. “Use it or lose it, am I right?” He elbowed me the ribs.

 

I grunted. “You tell me.”

 

“Are you two leaving yet?” She asked.

 

“Leaving?” I asked. “You don’t want to do the interview here?” 

 

Russ waved me off. “Later, later. I’ve got something I want to show you, but first the grand tour.” He pointed at Shiloh and clicked his teeth. “Keep up the good work, Hotstuff.” 

 

We started in the kitchen. “This…” Russ stood feet planted, arms out, like a magician or Jesus. “Is the kitchen.”

 

“You really know your way around.” I said.  
 

Russ laughed. “The deep fryers give it away?” He leaned on the prep table and crossed his arms. “You know, I’ve always though that if there are no stupid questions then, via the transitive property, there are also no stupid statements.”

 

“...That’s a novel way to think about it.” I said. “You think about everything like that?”

 

“Sure do.” He nodded, seemingly growing a few inches as he did. “ Coloring outside the lines, thinking outside the box–took me a long time to learn that that’s where my true talent lies. Come on.” 

 

We wound our way through the kitchen as Russ pointed out each station and shmoozed with the staff, laying it on thick. Everyone had a nickname. The sibling Venezuelan cooks were Beazis and Butthead. The expo, a foot taller than everyone else, was, of course, Shortstack. The dishwasher was Big Boss and the busboy was Roadrunner. His charisma worked on none of them. The expo sighed and slumped as we approached. Beazis and Butthead called him dirty names in Spanish. The dishwasher kept his headphones on. “He always does that.” Russ explained. “Sensory difficulties.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Takes all kinds, right?” 

 

We finally arrived back at the prep table where a short man with a long beard contained in a fraying hair net waited for us. In front of him, a leaky taco on a metal tray. “And this,” Russ said, “is Nico. My right hand man.”

 

I glanced over my shoulder. Shiloh sat in the office staring into a stack of invoices. “How’s it going?” I asked Nico, extending a hand. He kept his own clasped behind him. “Alright, then.” 

 

Russ laughed and slapped me on the back again. “That’s Nico. Total focus. Total dedication. Remember, geniuses rarely have time for pleasantries.” 

 

“What’s he a genius at?” 

 

“Butchering.” Russ said. “When we first started talking about this place, I said that I wanted to butcher all the meat fresh, in house. Like a real taqueria. This is the crazy bastard that made my insane idea a reality. Get this, I caught him stealing a package from my porch. Turns out it was divorce papers. Can you believe it? I said, ‘This guy has got exactly what I need.’ We’ve been together ever since.” 

 

“Where the butcher’s station?” I asked

 

Russ’ eyes flicked to Nico, without acknowledgment, and back. “In the back over there.” Russ said, waving a casual hand at an alcove in the back corner of the restaurant we had avoided on the tour. “Can’t show you all the secrets, now can I?” 

 

“So you can’t tell me anything about the meat?”

 

“It’s all local to California. We’re very proud of that.” Russ said. “The specifics are a trade secret. Once we open, everyone’s going to by fighting to get at my supplier, but I want him all to myself.” He could see that I wasn’t convinced. “Once you taste the forbidden fruits of Nico’s labor, you’ll understand why I’m so protective.”

 

“So this is Nico’s creation?” I asked, referring to the sloppy thing on the table before me. “Born from your imagination, of course.”

 

Russ smiled. “Of course. This is our magnum opus.” I looked from Russ, to the taco, to Nico (no reaction), to Russ, and back to the taco. It was upsetting. A flour tortilla supporting sauce smothered, pulled protein, covered in dripping white coleslaw, pickles, topped by a thick layer of melted cheese. “Let me introduce, the SoCal Style Pulled Pork BBQ Taco. A creation of my own invention.”

 

A creation of his own invention? Really? “What makes it SoCal style?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer. 

 

“The vibes, man.” He said, completely serious. “It’s shorts and flip-flops. Surfing in the morning, skiing at night. Work in the front, party in the back. The energy that makes California amazing, combined with the food that makes Texas a destination. Go ahead, try it. Tell me what you think.”

 

I picked up the taco, dread drying out my taste buds. I hate fusion. Fusion sucks across the board, for ever and always, amen, peace be with you. Most good food is already some kind of organic fusion, anyway. When you see “fusion”  on a menu, it is always (always) a cheap advertising ploy used to replace quality with hype. In another life, I wouldn’t have even taken this job.

 

I took a bite. It was wet. And mushy. Bland and stringy. The meat was downright unpleasant, like no pulled pork I had ever tasted before. There was something almost sour about it and as soon as it touched my tongue I had a strong feeling that I shouldn’t be eating it–that it was wrong somehow. The cheese covered any other flavors in a sopping, gooey quilt of processed dairy.  The pickles vanished and the coleslaw slid out the back, dripping and slopping all over the counter. Why was it taking so long to chew? Each collision of teeth prompted more salivating and more chewing as though my body was trying to fight off the foreign invader. It was like chewing pool water littered with floating garbage. And Russ was staring at me, waiting for his praise. I mustered everything I could, all the meager resolve stored deep down, swallowed and smiled.

“Well,” he asked, gripping the edge of the table, “how is it?”

 

I swallowed again, the dampness in my mouth wouldn’t go away. “It’s a revelation.” I said. 

 

“Ha!” He clapped his hands. “I knew you’d like it. I told Shiloh the other night, ‘That boys eaten food all over the world, he’s got taste. He’ll understand what we’re doing here.”

 

“The meat really makes it.” I said, wrestling my grimace into a smile. 

 

Russ put a hand on my shoulder. “Alright, you’re ready.” 

 

I followed him out of the kitchen and into the dining room. “Ready for what?”

 

He charged toward the host stand, stopped and spread his arms wide. “This.” 

 

It was a wall, painted pink, adorned in the center with graffiti. I could tell somehow that there were three distinct words, but could not read them. The letters flowed together in ways unexpected, ignoring any notion of traditional penmanship in exchange for raw, visual impact. It was intense. It was in your face. It read like nonsense, but felt like meaning. Individuality coursed through the lines. And still, they meant almost nothing to me.

 

“I can’t read it.” I said “What’s it say?” 

 

He slapped me on the back. “See, no stupid questions.” It was hardly stupid considering no one could read it. “This is a piece by the artist DEVO. His art inspired me to open Waco Sam’s.”

 

“...It did?” I asked. 

 

“Yes and because seeing is believing, I’m going to take you to where I first encountered DEVO’s art. The place where lightning struck and I started my second act of life. ” 

 

I wasn’t sure what I was working with anymore. “Alright, how about you just tell me what it means first?” 

 

He pointed at each word as he read. “Break the rules.”

 

“Break the rules?” I repeated.

 

“Break the rules.” He said. 

 

That was it? “Wow.” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

 

“It’s more than that, much more. It’s a mantra. It’s the gospel. It was a revelation.” There was a strange reverence in his eyes like the graffiti had him hooked. 

 

“What did it reveal?” I asked. 

 

He spoke without moving his eye from the wall. “My entire life, I followed the rules. Went to college, sensible business degree. Met a nice girl, got married. Went to work, always first in and last out. Got a new certification every few years, learned every single new piece of software. Moved up the ranks. Sometimes a two percent pay bump, sometimes seven. Had kids. Got the wife an SUV. Got myself a Tesla–loved that car. Then, two years ago, I got laid off.” He turned back to me, hands in pockets, head low, almost embarrassed. “The place that let me go actually poached me from another job I had for ten years. I followed all the rules and still got screwed. Pretty cliched story, actually.” 

 

“Only because its true.” I said. “And having things in common with other people isn’t a bad thing.”

 

He snapped and pointed at me. “But that is exactly what I realized. I’m not like everyone else. I failed because I followed the rules. See, everyone says they can’t read it.” He placed his palm against the black paint. “But I can. I’ve been able to read DEVO’s writing from the first time I saw it. I showed it to a friend and when they couldn’t read it, that’s when I knew. I was different. I couldn’t follow the rules anymore. I had to break the rules.”  

 

“So, you opened a restaurant?” I asked. 

 

He nodded. “Something the old me, the rule follower, never would have done. And to go even further, I opened a fusion restaurant. A restaurant all about breaking the rules.” He was flowing now. “See, I know you elitist types don’t like fusion, you think it’s in authentic or wrong. I’m here to break all that. I’m here to break right and wrong because what has right every gotten me? A fucking divorce? I’m here to break authenticity. And to truly understand why I need to break the rules, I have to take you to ground zero of my reawakening.”

 

This was better than I could’ve possibly imagined. “You want me to drive?”

______
 

So, I don’t really know Russ. He lived next door to my parents for a few years when I was a kid. We played basketball on his hoop a few times. I use to hang on the fence and try to peak over the top to get a look at the pool parties he and his roomates threw. But we were never close. He was cool because he was older than me, but I never got to know him. Eventually, he moved away and we never connected in mutual adulthood.

 

Until I got my first and last cover story with Bon Appetite. Then, the messages wouldn’t stop. Every post. Every story. “Hey, nice one! We should connect!” or “Let’s do something together next time you’re in L.A.” or “Can’t believe that kid I knew grew up to be a world famous writer!” I never took him seriously until mutual circumstance forced a reunion. 

 

We crossed the street to my 1992 FJ60 Toyota Landcruiser, sagging low on her shocks under the weight of my entire life in the back. “This you?” Russ asked. I jimmied the lock until it clicked. “Wow. Retro.” He said, sliding into my passenger seat and trying to close the door behind him. 

 

“You got to slam it.” I said. 

 

“Yeah?” He opened the door again and slammed it shut. The car shook on its ancient suspension. “I like that. Tactile.”

 

“It’s broken.” I said. He pointed me toward Chatsworth. I turned onto Ventura and headed for the four-o-five

 

“Man, it’s been forever since I was in a car that didn’t have a giant screen right there in the middle.” He pointed to my console which, I had to admit, was very last century. 

 

I changed the topic. “Shiloh seems like she’s putting the whole team on her back.”

 

“What?” He said, as if coming out of a dream.

 

“Shiloh.” I said. “She’s really holding things together.”

 

He smiled and nodded. “She was a great find. Had no experience when I found her.” 

 

“No experience and you promoted her?” I asked.

 

“What can I say?” He shrugged, luxuriating in the self congratulation. “I’ve got an eye for talent.”

 

“Still, that’s really fast.” He didn’t bite. “She seemed pretty protective of you.”

 

His shoulders jumped to his ears. “Protective?”

 

“Defensive.” I clarified. “Wanted a guarantee that I wouldn’t do you like your ex did.”

 

He sighed, aging years at the mention of his ex-wife. “Shiloh’s seen me at my lowest. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but divorce is not fun.” He looked out the window. “I wish she hadn’t said anything.”

 

“It’s all good.” I said, trying to smooth things over. “Everyone needs someone in their corner.”

 

“Truer words were never spoken.” He didn’t lift his forehead from the window.

 

I let it go. “You used to drive a Tesla?”

 

“Yep. Loved that car. Great car.”

 

“Where is it?”
 

“My wife got it in the divorce.” He said, matter-of-fact. “Which is perfect for the kids. They’ve got great crash safety ratings you know. I basically gave it to her, so the kids would have something safe to ride in. It worked out well.” In the reflection, I watched a toothless smile stretch across his cheeks as if they were being pulled by a torture rack. “Hey, how about the radio?” He asked. “I used to love the radio. Haven’t listened to it in years.”

 

“Radio’s busted.” 

 

“Wow, really?” He laughed and punched my shoulder. “That is so old school. I love it.” 
______

 

The horses kicked up dust as they mosied under the Ronald Reagan Freeway and down the dirt sidewalk south toward the Valley proper. The lead rider, the only real cowboy in the group, tipped his hat as they passed. Sweat slipped from my forehead down my temples. The sun smothered Santa Susana Pass Historic Park in scorching waves. We hiked from the road, down into a shallow gully and then up into the dry hills. It was one-hundred-and-five in the valley and I was struggling. My lungs burned on the sandpaper air. My insides were frying. “Can we stop for a second?”

 

Russ was out in front. He jogged back, sucking on the straw connected to his water pack. He had brought a change of clothes and just enough water for one. 

 

“You going to be ok?” He asked between slurps. 

 

“I’ll be fine.” I said through sharp, stabbing gulps of breath. “The air out here’s just really dry.” I lit a cigarette.

 

“The cigarette probably isn’t helping.” The rubber straw was still in his mouth. It squeaked as he chewed on it. 

 

“Where are we going?” I asked. 

 

He pointed down hill to our destination hidden behind layers of  yellow dirt hills and desert grass. Dust devils swirled in the dips between ridges and I could hear the distant sound of the highway coming from around the hill further up our path. “Down there. It’s in an old train tunnel.” 

 

I nodded and shielded my eyes with my cigarette free hand. Downtown Los Angeles shimmered to the south, a small stand of skyscrapers jutting from the flat, parched coast. The beaches–Venice, Malibu, Santa Monica–cut a rough path along the Pacific Ocean’s deep indigo. 

 

“Down there,” Russ said, pointing past the houses that rimmed the far end of the pass, “is the real railroad. Walk up this hill behind a park and there’s a hole in the fence that leads to the tracks.”

 

“Any graffiti there?” I asked.

 

“No, they’ve got cameras. Soon as you come out of the hole, someone’s yelling at you from the speakers about trespassing and police. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.” A circling bird cast a shadow over our conference. “Ready to go?” 

 

The highway loomed above us as we hiked down. Graffiti decorated the retaining walls. The word “UNHOLY” was sprayed in alternating black and white lettering. A smiling donkey with a gold tooth and massive butt cheeks stood next door. 

 

“How’d you find this in the first place?” I asked. Russ was ahead of me, almost skipping. The pep in his step was the opposite of infectious. 

 

“I used to hike a lot after the divorce. Clear my head, you know?” 

 

“How soon after your ex released the memoir was that?” 

 

He stopped. “Most people didn’t put it together that was about me.” 

 

I doubted that. “It’s my job. Background.” I said with a shrug.

 

“I think…” He kept chewing and sucking. The rubber kept squeaking. Then, he smiled. “Ha, yeah. It was the same week, actually.”

 

His ex-wife’s book was a massive smash hit. Divorce Tech: A Marriage Breakdown in Silicon Beach was a New York Times and London Times best seller. She self-published the memoir under her maiden name–Griffin. The book was so successful that A.S. Griffin had already announced a follow up: Motherhood Tech: Single Parenthood in the Digital Age. Word was the announcement kicked off the biggest bidding war the publishing industry had seen in years. And Griffin was even taking phone calls. She didn’t need to.

 

“Rough week.” I offered. 

 

“Honestly, I don’t remember much of it.”

 

“Really? Wasn’t that long ago.” 

 

“Something I learned as a product manager.” He turned to bestow his wisdom upon me. “The past is not important. Always be about looking forward.”

 

“What if you need to figure out where you went wrong?”

 

“I already know where I went wrong. I chose the wrong career.” He said, picking up the pace. “I was following the rules instead of living my truth.”

 

“So, then why’d you get divorced?” I asked. In the distance to our right, twin boulders rose from the scrub landscape. A few climbers lay in the shade beneath while another scrambled to the top.

 

“I think she got there before I did.” 

 

“Got where?”

 

“Got to the truth. She realized I was living a lie before I did. Women, they’re very perceptive like that. They read between the lines of life. I’ll bet she could feel that something was wrong for years. Me getting laid off was probably just the confirmation she needed.”

 

“So you’re not mad?”

 

“Mad?” He laughed a big, full belly laugh. “Why would I be mad? I’m about the future remember? No, I won’t ever let the past control me. And how could I be mad at her? She helped reveal the truth. If we hadn’t gotten divorced, I wouldn’t have started the restaurant, wouldn’t have met Shiloh, and wouldn’t be here right now getting interviewed by a hotshot food journalist.”

 

“That’s an impressive outlook.” I offered. “Shiloh really means that much to you?”

 

“After the restaurant, she’s everything.” He said, turning away. “Anyway, we’re here.” Russ slowly pulled a bush aside as if preparing to reveal El Dorado. Instead, he revealed a fence. For the first time all day, Russ looked unsure. “This isn’t supposed to be here.” He grabbed the fence and shook it. “Sounds long.”

 

“This use to be open?” I asked.

 

Russ nodded. “Just last week. Look, you can see the old one right there.” Just on the other side, a rusted piece of fence was bent down into the dirt. 

 

“We could just hop it.” Stretching, I could just reach the top bar with my fingertips. 

 

“Yeah, that’s…” He kept staring at the fence like he couldn’t understand it. 

 

“Russ?” 

 

He turned to me grinning. “Good idea. Let’s scan for cameras first.” We walked in opposite directions. I didn’t see any signs of surveillance in the stretch of empty dustland between us and the brush on the other side of the fence. When he returned, Russ agreed. 

 

“Still.” He said, reaching into his bag. “No reason not to be cautious.” He handed me a black bandana and tied his own around his face. I did the same and nodded. 

 

Russ took the fence first. Started five steps back, leapt off one leg, grabbed the top against his chest, turned as he went over, and landed on the other side facing me as if he had simply materialized through the metal. I gave myself a few extra steps to build up momentum. I was not an experienced fence hopper and it was not the time for delusion. Confidence, and the first sliver of luck I’d managed in months, got me over. I landed on my ass. 

 

“You okay?” Russ asked, reaching for my arm.

 

I got up on my own. “Just happy I didn’t land on my face.”

 

“Alright.” He was whispering. “Let’s take a look.” Crouched, we moved quickly to the shadow of the brush.

 

“You think the railroad put that up?” I asked.

 

“I’m not sure.” He said. “But if they did, we need to be careful. I’ve been told their security is intense.” He slapped my shoulder. “Adventures choose the adventurer, don’t they?”

 

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.” I pulled the bushes apart, careful not to make too much noise. A wide, stone flat, covered in graffiti, cut through the dust hills. Beer cans, cigarette butts, broken glass bottles, and all the other assorted detritus of bored, suburban escape littered the open area. 

 

“We’re going down there.” Russ whispered. The flat sat atop an abandoned railroad tunnel. “Look.” Russ pointed. I followed his gaze. There was a pole, planted on the far side of the tunnel’s mouth, loaded with cameras and a circular speaker at the top.

 

“It looks like they won’t be able to see us until we get down to the tunnel.” I said. 

 

“If we go around the top,” Russ pointed out the route as he talked, “we can use the outside of the tunnel for cover.” 

 

“Works for me.”

 

He took a deep breath. “Ready?” I nodded. 

 

We stayed low, scurrying over ollie scrapes and past a dirty mattress and bong planted at the base of a tree. Somehow, the secret stoner shrine had survived unharmed amongst all the other petty carnage.

 

A left turn. I ducked behind a chest high wall and did my best to hide while scrambling down to the tracks below. The embankment was slick–easy to slide down and easier still to scrape your shins on. My chest was pounding. I felt good. Wired. Like I was seventeen again, breaking curfew for the first time. 

 

Russ didn’t stop when he hit the bottom. He spun on his foot and turned the corner quick, agile for his age. I tried to follow, stumbling as I hit the gravel. A second later, the cameras caught us and a voice jumped from the speakers. 

 

“STOP. YOU ARE TRESPASSING. LEAVE THE AREA OR WE WILL CALL THE POLICE. SECURITY IS ON THE WAY.”

 

But we were already in the tunnel and not turning back. Gravel crunched under foot as we jogged deeper into the dark and the synthetic voice faded. I kept one eye trained on the empty tracks behind us. Russ kept the pace up, putting distance between us and the cameras. 

 

He slowed. “I think we’re out of sight.”

 

“I think we should do this quick.” I said. 

 

The tunnel was short. As soon as the darkness reached its deepest, a hole of light appeared ahead. A few hundred more yards and the hole had grown into a mouth. There was the exit and with it, the sun, painting a long shadow along the tracks. A shadow of a man in a hoodie with a bucket of white paint and a brush. 

 

“Hey.” Russ shouted. The painter slapped the wide brush against the wall leaving behind thick, dripping streaks of paint. Russ ran toward him. From underneath the painter’s hood, a piercing blue eye caught mine. The rest of his face was hidden behind a black surgical mask–his hair pulled back under a black baseball hat. 

 

“Sorry.” He stepped back, out of the tunnel, and disappeared around the corner. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Russ slid to a stop. A single black line escaped the cover up. The rest was gone. 

 

“He got the whole thing.” Russ said, dejected.

 

“He covered it?” I asked when I caught up with him.

 

“All of it.” Russ punched the tunnel wall. “Dammit.” He put his hands on his hips. “Sonofabitch.” And paced back and forth in the early evening light flooding the exit. “Why would someone-” Barking from outside the tunnel cut him off. Then, a man’s voice.

 

“Who’s down there?” He growled. “Show yourself.”

 

We did the opposite. Gravel spat from under our shoes. Russ passed me as soon as we let out. My ragged panting echoed off the tunnel’s walls as I tried to keep up. The darkness swallowed us again and then the eastern light of the tunnel entrance appeared, growing as I pushed my screaming ligaments to the limit. Behind us, the scrape of paws and rhythmic thud of heavy boots was getting louder.
 

Get back here.” The gruff voice shouted. It felt as close as when we left. Russ flew out of the tunnel, grabbed the wall and turned to scramble up the slope the way we came. I exploded from the darkness behind him, missed the wall, and tumbled into a thorny bush next to the tracks. The guard galloped toward me. He was a giant. Eight feet tall and built like a rock slide. He wore grease stained coveralls and leather boots made for stomping heads. The dog was at his side, rabid, angry and slobbering, tugging with all it’s sinewy strength to break the giant’s grip on the leather leash. “Stop! Or I’ll let him go.” 

 

The thorns ripped thin strips of skin from my arms as I tore from the bush and up the slope. It was obvious that neither the dog nor the monstrosity were going to be good for my health. Russ was already halfway across the cement flat and not looking back. 

 

I was making good time. Somehow, adrenalin and a meager sense of self preservation had gotten the breath back in my lungs. I powered up the embankment, every step landing exactly where it needed to. Behind me, my pursuers struggled. The dog slipped and slid, unable to find purchase on the smooth rock. The giant stumbled and gulped at the sizzling air like a fish. I recognized the look on his face. A flash of terror as his lungs betrayed him. A body like that needs a lot of oxygen and the chase already had the big man on the ropes. Maybe a challenge could trick him into beating himself.

 

“Give it up, Fezzik.” I shouted down to him. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

 

“You little shit.” It worked. He took half the embankment in three massive lunges, then stopped, swaying on the steep incline. His dog whined and with a desperate cough, the giant fell to one knee and collapsed. Then, his palm opened and the leash fell from his hand. 

 

Neither of us–me or the dog–moved. We looked at the leash. Then each other. And then, I swear, the dog smiled at me. 

 

Paws scraped. I made for the fence, looking over my shoulder, more worried now that speed was not on my side. The dog jumped up on the wall and used the rough surface to make it to the top. It sprinted for me, a frenzy of wiry power. Its limbs were a vortex. Its tongue flapped like a flag of war. It was gaining. 

 

Russ landed on the other side of the fence. “Come on!” He yelled. There were fewer than ten yards left. My lungs were dying. My whole body was about to collapse into one big cramp. Blood from my cuts was soaking into my watch strap. And still, the dog was coming. 

 

With a shout, I threw myself at the fence and caught the top under my arms. Something sharp stabbed me and took a chunk of flesh out as I pulled myself over. The same sharp bit caught my leg and sliced down my shin, ripping my jeans and splitting the skin open. The dog jumped and reached the fence a second too late. It took my sleeve as a consolation prize, catching the end in its jaw and tearing it off as the mad thing fell back to the ground. 

 

We both landed with a thud and a yelp on opposite sides of the fence. I lay there groaning and panting. My leg and arm throbbed and I could feel blood pumping to and through my wounds. The dog dragged itself to its feet and, with my shirt still between its teeth, walked back toward its master without a glance. 

 

Russ was putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re alive, right?”

 

“Unfortunately for everyone else.” I said into the sand.

 

Russ jumped up and laughed. “Shit. Shit. That was… Wow. What an adventure, huh?” 

 

I rolled over onto my back and pulled down the bandana. “Yeah, adventure. Great.” 

 

“This is going to make a great story. No other restaurant on the strip has a story this cool.”

 

“I don’t know if I’d call it cool.”

 

“You kidding?” He asked. “Almost getting eaten by a railroad guard dog? That’s awesome.”

 

I struggled to sit up. “I almost got eaten.” Stabs of pain from my side. “You watched from the safe side.”

 

“Consistent exercise is the best defense against danger.” He said. 

 

“So is a fat restaurant critic.” I made it to my feet. A cigarette made it to my mouth. Russ took a few selfies in front of the repaired fence while I let the nicotine go to work on my tangled nerves. “Why do you think the railroad closed this place up again?”

 

“I’m sure they’ve been meaning to for a while now. I always assumed they would, but just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.” 

 

“No, they wouldn’t let a bunch of teens party down here. If they wanted it stopped, they would’ve put the fence back a long time ago.”

 

He scratched his stomach. “So they were clueless.”

 

“Or they didn’t care.” 

 

“But why would they suddenly care?”

 

I took a few short puffs and wondered the same thing. How had the giant found us so fast? We were in the tunnel for less than ten minutes. There was no car. Or golf cart. The guard was too big to run and it didn’t look like there was an office or outpost anywhere nearby. Still, we were caught almost before we arrived. 

 

“The guard was with the mask man.” I said. “The one painting over the graffiti.”

 

Russ thought for a second. “He showed up, what? Ten minutes after the camera caught us?”

 

“Less.”

 

“Less.” He repeated, playing through the scenarios in his head.

 

“Where was he coming from?” I asked. “Nowhere close by and I didn’t hear a car.”

 

“Or a fourwheeler.” He agreed. 

 

“He must have been out here already.” 

 

“But with that guy?”

 

“What, so he just happened to be in the exact same place at the exact same time by pure chance?” I shook my head.

 

He nodded, fully on board. “Court ordered community service maybe?”

 

“I don’t know.” I said. It was possible, obvious even, but it felt too easy. I know one thing about the world and one thing only: it is far stranger than it appears. 

 

I heard nothing beyond the trees. No dog, no lumbering footsteps. No skateboards scraping, no bottles breaking or bongs bubbling. No spray paint sputtering out of an almost empty can. The life of the place was already withering, the energy shriveling up in the sun. A fence killed a place like this. “The timing is just too coincidental.”

 

“Coincidence is the providence of the fortunate.” He said.

 

I tossed my cigarette into the dirt and spat. “That all you got?”

 

He smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s futile to look for messages in alphabet soup.”

 

“Do you focus group these?”
______

 

Ventura was a crazy constellation of headlights by the time we made it back to Waco Sam’s. The sun fell out of sight behind the ocean, the temperature dropped, and the Angelinos came out to play. A car full socialites down from the hills gawked as I limped across the street, dusty and bleeding. 

 

Russ swung the door open. “Shiloh.” He called. “Shiloh?” He waited. “Where is the mistress of the castle? The king and his squire have returned injured and require the care of her and her ladies in waiting.”

 

“Who’s the squire?” I asked, pulling myself into a chair. “Me?”

 

“We all have our roll to play.”

 

I rolled my eyes. “You aren’t injured at all.”

 

“What’s all the yelling about?” Shiloh shouted across the dining room as she came out of the kitchen. She gasped when she saw me. “Ohmygod, what happened?” 

 

“My queen,” he strutted up to her, legs wide, a fist on each hip, “we have explored parts unknown, slain a giant and his beast, and come home in search of healing and refreshment. Call upon the ladies in waiting.” He clapped twice. “Chop, chop.”

 

Shiloh cocked a hip and blinked twice. “You want to try that again, your highness?”

 

Russ coughed. “I think Hunt could use a first aid kit and a beer. M’lady.” He swept a hand wide and bowed low.

 

“I will grant your humble request.” Shiloh snorted. “But the first aid kit is in your car even though I keep asking you to bring it in.”

 

“You help him to the kitchen.” Russ commanded. “I will retrieve my first aid kit from the chariot.” He kicked open the front doors. “I’m so fucking amped!”

 

“Are you ok?” She asked, crossing to where I lay on a row of pink cushioned dining chairs.

 

“Sure, sure.” I said, waving her off. “How about this, you let me smoke inside, I’ll forget our little tension from earlier and we call it even, huh?”

 

Shiloh started to help me up. “Not a chance.” 

 

“Seriously, I’m fine.” 

 

She ignored me. “I haven’t seen him like this in forever.” Russ jogged around the corner, out of view. “He’s never this excited.”

 

“It beats Tech Bro Confucius, that’s for sure.” I said.

 

“I don’t know.” She giggled. “I kind of like the sayings.”

 

I sat down on a step stool when we made it to the kitchen. Shiloh grabbed a case of Shiner from the walk-in. She ripped the box open, popped a cap against the prep table and handed me a bottle. I took a long drink, grabbed the hip flask from my pocket and slid it to her. She flicked her eyes between me and the flask, twisted the cap and tilted it back with barely a grimace. 

 

“Where are the ladies in waiting?” I asked.

 

She clicked her tongue. “There are no ladies in waiting.” 

 

I sighed. “There never are.” 

 

“So, you guys slayed a giant?” She said, taking another sip from the flask and sliding it back across the table. 

 

“Not slayed. More like escaped.” 

 

She held the sweating beer bottle to her lip. “Come on.” 

 

“I’m serious.” 

 

The bottle hit the table. “Bullshit.”

 

I shrugged. “Believe what you want.” 

 

“Fine.” She held out her hand. “Tell me the whole thing.”

 

I handed her the flask and told her a story. The unexpected fence. The cameras at the tunnel’s mouth. The scramble down to the gravel. The warning. The short darkness. The mystery painter. The dog, the giant and our escape.

 

“Russ came out of the tunnel first.” I said, wiping foam from my lips onto the back of my hand. “I was on his heels, but when I tried to turn and follow him back up the embankment, I lost my footing a fell into a thorn bush next to the tracks.” I glanced at Shiloh. She was waiting, chin in her hands, elbows on the table. “When I looked up, the giant was almost on me. He yelled, ‘This is your last chance.’ And right before he got to me, Russ showed up to drag me out of the bush and up the slope.” 

 

“...Russ saved you?” She asked. 

 

I nodded. “I thought he left me, but nope. He pulled me out of the bush, dragged me up the slope and pushed me over the fence.” I took another drink. “If he hadn’t pulled me out, might’ve been dog food.”

 

Shiloh didn’t say anything for a moment. “Wow.” A smiled skipped across her cheeks, slight, pink blush followed. She hugged her elbows. 

 

“So,” I started, making an exaggerated show of stretching out my injured leg, “you don’t have to worry about me writing a bad story about Russ, anymore.” 

 

“I don’t?”

 

“Of course, not.” I laughed. “What kind of guy writes a hit piece about a man who saved him?”
 

“I-” She stopped herself. “You’re sure he saved you? Like, was it really that serious?” 

 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw that dog.” 

 

“No, I know, It’s just-” She was staring at the table. “No, of course. Thanks.”

 

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad or anything.” I offered. “I’m just saying.”

 

“No, I know you’re not. It’s just like…” 

 

I nodded. “I get it.” She didn’t respond. “Can I just offer a piece of advice? I mean, since we’re like totally best friends now.”

 

She let out a small chuckle that sounded more like a release valve than a laugh. “Sure.”

 

“I know that nothing is just what it appears to be, but recently divorced, middle aged dads with new nineteen-year-old girlfriends aren’t very sympathetic, you know?”

 

She sighed. “I’m twenty-three.”

 

Success. “But you see my point?” I asked.

 

“I do. I-” She wiped an eye. “I know I sound stupid, but Russ is… He’s…” She couldn’t get it out, but in her frustration, she finally noticed. “Where’s Russ?” 

 

I glanced around. “I don’t know.” Shiloh stood quickly, looked through one of the windows in the kitchen door. “Is he out there?” I asked, standing up.

 

“He’s just staring at the mural.” She said. “He’s not moving.”

 

“He’s not doing anything?” I asked, joining her. Russ stood near the host stand, unmoving–dead to the world. He was a statue. Not a single twitch or sway. A car’s passing headlights splashed through the glass door. Russ’s face was blank. His eyes, two giant pupils, no whites. His mouth slack, a dribble of saliva oozing from his lip to his chin. The first aid kit lay open next to his foot, gauze and bandages strewn nearby. 

 

Shiloh turned to put her beer down. “Something’s wrong.” 

 

Glass shattered in the dining room. Shiloh’s bottle fell from the lip of the counter as we sprinted through the kitchen doors. Still, Russ did not rewaken to the world. He didn’t notice any of the destruction around him. Not the shattered window. Not the brick laying next to his foot. He didn’t notice the man in the hoodie and mask raise the bucket of white paint. He didn’t hear Shiloh’s scream or our footsteps. He didn’t react to anything until the white paint hit the wall and splashed over the black graffiti, covering it almost completely. 

 

When the paint hit, Russ crumpled. His legs turned to jelly in an instant and he met the ground hard. The man stopped and stared down at Russ’ limp body and I could see in his shoulders a sorrow reflected in the piercing blues eyes they flashed to Shiloh first and then me. 

 

“Devo?” She whispered. 

 

The situation crashed in on the man and he turned to flee, leaving us a final, croaked apology. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Hey.” I shouted as he disappeared out the window and into the night. A curious group had gathered on the sidewalk and across the street. He tackled a young girl as he fled and was gone by the time I made it outside. A few men were calling off the pursuit. Others helped the girl up. I stared after him, the same blue eyed phantom that had cursed our expedition that afternoon. That Shiloh thought was the artist himself. He was gone and still I couldn’t tear myself away. I was waiting for something. It didn’t make sense. There had to be something else. A cause. And just as I was ready to give up, I saw in the glare of a utility light leaking onto the street from an obscure alley, a massive shadow slink away into the dark. 

______

 

A middle finger screamed past me as I careened into a parking spot across the street from Waco Sam’s. “Hold on, Pat.” I said into my phone. “Hold on.”

 

“Hunt.” His tone told me he was done. I didn’t care.

 

“Do you know how much it cost me to get out here?” I didn’t give him a chance. “I was in Miami when you called.”

 

“In response to your pitch.” 

 

“That’s the other side of the fucking country.” 

 

“I know its the other side of the country I’m staring at a twenty foot map of the fucking country right now.” One wall in Patrick Rojas’ office in the new World Trade Center was dominated by a massive map of the United States covered in red pins. “Do you want to quit cursing at me and listen?” 

 

“Pat, this is the one. This is everything.”

 

I could hear him rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”

 

“Listen, man, this guy is an idiot. He’s like the tech bro poster child for failing upward. He’s turning a mid-life crisis into a fucking fusion restaurant. Its perfect.” 

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Come on. This guy is everything wrong with the restaurant industry. He failed his way into middle management and because of that believes he’s some kind of genius for “inventing” a barbeque taco. Can you believe that? He actually thinks he invented a barbeque taco.”

 

“Ok, he’s an idiot.” 

 

“And you should here this guy talk. He’s got a saying for everything. Just constant bullshit, all the time. Seriously, he talks like he’s got a marketing department living in his head.” 

 

“Hunt.” 

 

“Wait, wait, this is the best part. He hired a twenty-three-year old as a hostess, started dating her, and then promoted her to General Manager. She’s in charge of the opening, never worked a day in her life in a restaurant before.” I waited. Pat didn’t say anything. “Pat, this is a microcosm of so many things wrong with restaurants. Arrogant owners with no experience preying on girls.”

 

“I hear you.” Pat said. 

 

“So, what then? Let me write this. Let’s take this asshole down.”

 

“Sorry, Hunt. I can’t.” 

 

My jaw was a vice. “Sure, you can. You’re the editor.” 

 

“I’ve got to bump you. We had a big-”

 

“You’re cutting me?”

 

“There’s just not enough room this month. We’ll circle back later in the year and-”

 

“Circle back?” I almost ate my phone. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

 

“It’s hard all over.” He said, ice cold. 

 

“What’s this really about?”

 

“Nothing, Hunt. Just budgets.”

 

“Bullshit. You told me a month ago that the check was basically already in my pocket. That’s what you said, Pat.”

 

“Hunt.”

 

“No, don’t do that. Don’t act like you didn’t put me on the shelf three years ago. Don’t act like you’re not screwing me as soon as I’m getting back in it.”

 

“Don’t do this, man.” He said. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

 

“Spell what out?”

 

“Fujimora?”

 

My jaw hung open. “Still?” 

 

“Yeah, Hunt.” Pat was finished with the pleasantries. “Still.”

 

“You guys act like I cooked the food.” I said. 

 

“I know.” He actually sounded a little remorseful. Not remorseful enough, but still. “You caught a bad one and…shit happens. I don’t know.”

 

“Fine.” I said.

 

“Fine.” And he hung up. I sat there, drowning in the silence of the cellphone and watched a teen in a Mercedes speed toward me in my cracked mirror. 

 

Shiloh was at the host stand, hunched over, pulling her hair like the day before. She wore a professional black turtleneck and the dark circles of a sleepless night. She actually smiled when she saw me. 

 

“Hey.” She said, too tired to keep up her general manager performance for someone who already knew the truth. 

 

“Hi.” I said. “How is he?” 

 

She hesitated. At that moment, I bet he was a lot of things. “He’s…good.” 
 

“See, when you pause for that long before saying ‘good,’ it makes me think he’s not actually good.” After losing DEVO, I found Shiloh on her knees, holding Russ’ head in her lap, begging him to wake up. The tears plopped onto his nose as she rubbed his cheek and demanded he open his eyes. That he wake up to open the goddamn restaurant he’d tricked her into starting. 

 

With a light sigh, Russ opened his eyes. A sharp inhale and a smile and they were kissing, her mascara running and smearing from her cheeks onto his. 

 

“At the hospital, he was… I don’t know. Different?”

 

“Different how?”

 

She shrugged. “Just different from how he normally is.” She glanced around. “Like, sweaty.” She whispered.

 

“Sweaty?” 

 

“Yeah and jittery. Pale, sort of.”

 

“Did he have a fever?” I asked.

 

“The doctors didn’t say anything.” She stood for a minute with her head down, eyes distant. “He was on the phone the whole time whispering to someone. He seemed scared.”

 

“Scared?”

 

“Like anxious.”  She stretched her back and laughed. “I had to threaten to leave him to get him to give up the phone for the CT scan.” Her laughter didn’t reach her eyes. 

 

“So no brain damage then?” I asked. 

 

“That’s what they said, but I’m not so sure.” She tried to play it off like a joke, without much success, but said nothing else.  

 

“Well, I just got off the phone with my editor.” I said, changing the subject. “Reneged on me.”

 

“What?” She asked.

 

“No room this month. They bumped us.” She blinked at me, sighed and collapsed back onto the hosts stand. 

 

“Let me tell him.” She said through her hair. “I don’t want him to know right away.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

She pulled her head up and looked at me. “This is going to be my life? Isn’t it? Managing his mood.” 

 

“I think that’s up to you.” I said.

 

She smiled. “It doesn’t always feel like it.”  

 

“Shiloh.” Russ barked, pushing through a crowd of septum piercings sipping Topo Chico. He looked better than I anticipated given Shiloh’s obvious fears. His shirt was still unbuttoned. He wore the same chains. Had the same scruff, the same hair. But he was covered in sweat. And his walk had changed. He looked smaller, avoided bumping into anyone, avoided looking at anyone. His eyes bounced around the room, manic and desperate. “Have you seen my phone?”

 

“Your phone?” She asked. “No, I-”

 

“Can you find it?” The anxiety in his voice was odd–misplaced. 

 

“You want me to find your phone? Are you-” She rubbed her forehead. “I’ve got a million other things to do right now. Is this really important?”

 

“Of course it’s important. Everything I tell you is important.” He spat.

 

“Well, that can’t possibly be true.” I said.

 

“Do you mind?” Russ was practically yelling. 

 

“Why is it important? It looks like everyone’s already here.” She put her hand on his arm. “Why don’t you just relax? Enjoy the night, leave everything to me.”

 

“No.” He tore his arm away. “I need to call Amy. She said she might bring the kids And- And other people might need to contact me, too.”

 

“Honey,” she said, soft as silk, “Your ex isn’t coming. We talked about this. She already said no.”

 

“...She did?” 

 

“Yes, remember? Her email?” 

 

“Right. Right, right.” Russ looked relieved. “And the kids are with her in Arizona.”

 

“Yes. They’re coming up in two weeks.” 

 

“Two weeks.” He took several deep breaths. “Right, ok good. I don’t want them- Yeah, you’re right. I- I should relax.” He turned to me. “Hey, how’s it going?” And offered his hand. I took it, glancing at Shiloh over his shoulder while I did. “Thanks for being here tonight.” 

 

“Russ,” Shiloh said, “why don’t you go to the office and sit down. You’re sweating.” 

 

He waved her off. “No, no. I’m okay. Just letting the stress get to me too much.” He turned to her and smiled. “You’re right, I need to relax. Mingle, do the glad handing and baby kissing…” He didn’t move. 

 

“Russ?” He sprang into motion at the sound of her voice. 

 

“Alright, no time to loose. Crucial night for us.” And was gone, disappearing into the crowd, shaking hands, clapping men on the back, complimenting ladies’ hats and jackets as he did. 

 

“Wow, he’s batshit tonight.” I said with a chuckle. 

 

“Yeah.” Shiloh did not look amused. “Excuse me.” 

 

“Sure.” I said, but she was already gone. 

 

At the bar, the bartender–Catfish, a long man with a swirly mustache who seemed incomplete without fellow goons–poured me a beer. I declined a massive brisket taco. 

 

Besides Russ’ mania, the soft opening wasn’t much worse than I expected. Restaurants covered in gold usually aren’t my thing, but, looking around, it did seem like everyone else was having a good time. An unwashed model strutted past me pelvis first, wearing her showerless week like Chanel. A flock of business casual vests chatted by the window. Next to me, a middle-aged woman with a bowl cut was discussing a gallery opening. 

 

“I think it’s an inspired choice.” She said. 

 

Her sharp-nosed partner couldn’t disagree more. “But Italian Renaissance.” She hacked up the word like a hairball. I sat up straight. “Does it really get anymore gauche, darling?”

 

“I’m sorry.” I said, leaning in. “Are you talking about Cassandra Rose?”

 

“Yes.” The bowl cut said. “Are you an admirer?”

 

“You could say that. Did she start painting again?” I asked.

 

“I didn’t know she had officially stopped.” The woman thought for a moment. “Although it has been some years since she’s exhibited anything new. Do you know something we don’t?”

 

“I’m an old friend.”

 

“And you don’t know if she’s painting again?” 

 

“Very old friend.” 

 

“Mmm.” She looked me up and down, thoroughly unimpressed and almost positive I was lying. “I’m sure.” 

 

A fork tapped a champagne flute.  

 

The wall where the graffiti had been was now totally pink. Russ stood against it, the crowd forming a semi circle around him. He looked at them like they were a firing squad. Shiloh appeared at his side and whispered in his ear. He nodded and smiled, the thought returning to his face with a red flush. They kissed. A polite, ‘aw’ rose from the crowd of fine line tattoos and creative directors. 

 

“Yeah, we’re in love.” Shiloh sneered. “Deal with it.” Laughter and some scattered applause. She tugged on Russ’ arm.

 

He took a small step forward. “Hi everyone.” Someone whooped in the back. “Thanks. Who is that? Jared? Jared, man. Long time, no see. What’s up?” Shiloh coughed. “Yeah.Yeah. Sorry. So…” He noticed the crowd again. “I-” A cough to clear his throat. “My-” Thirds times the charm. “The last few years have been rough. For me and for a lot of us.” A few listeners nodded. “For some people it was politics or money troubles. For me, it was, well everything. I realized, at the bottom, not the top, you don’t realize this kind of thing at the top, that I have never lived an authentic life. I thought I did. I thought a wife and kids and a good tech job were what I wanted. I thought that’s what I was supposed to be doing. And I gave it everything. I’m sure I did. I-” His hand was shaking. Someone coughed. A man in a suit without a tie checked his watch. A woman with microbangs yawned. “Well, this has turned into a bummer, huh?” Some scattered chuckles. “Catfish.”

 

“Yeah, boss.” The long bartender leaned over the bar. 

 

“Start pouring shots. It’s time to get this party started.” The crowd cheered. “And while you do, I am going to stick to the cards.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Propper preparation prevents poor performance.” He sighed. “As I always say.” 

 

He cleared his throat again and held the card out in front of his face. “I am not a Texan. I am not Mexican. And yet, I opened a BBQ taqueria. In Los Angeles of all places. Many of you are probably asking yourself, why? Why would a successful product manager leave his career to open a restaurant when he has no restaurant experience? Why would he choose cuisine that is foreign to him? The answer is simple. I wanted to break the rules. I wanted to show people what was possible when you’re not confined by what you’re “supposed” to do. I know now, in my heart of hearts, that what I need to do, not what I’m supposed to do, but what I need to do is cook BBQ tacos. I also know that I am supposed to share that joy with you. So that is why Waco Sam’s exists because sharing a BBQ taco with friends and loved ones provides a cornucopia of blessings.”

 

He waited for applause. It rose slowly, scattered. Some were already shuffling toward the bar. Shiloh jumped in. “Whose ready for a taco?” A cheer from the crowd. “Alright team, bring them out.” A fleet of servers appeared from the swinging kitchen doors carrying trays loaded with tacos. Russ watched his team serve the guests. Shiloh watched Russ.  

 

He was pale. Each breathe scraped out between his teeth–tense and shallow. His eyes darted around the room like in REM sleep. They landed on Ms. Bowl Cut, who was tearing a tiny bite of taco teeth first so she didn’t smudge her lipstick. He watched her chew, swallow and nod turning green as he did. All around us, the sounds of approval rose and yet, with each bite he watched, Russ sunk further and further into mania. 

 

Until he exploded. “No!” He yelled, pushing through the diners, knocking over several trays of tacos, and disappearing into the silver doors at the back of the restaurant. The room was silent.

 

Shiloh took over. “We, the whole staff, really want to thank you all for coming. Russ is uh overwhelmed by all of you being here. Enjoy the food and…Catfish? Those shots ready, yet?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am. Get ‘em while they’re cold.” 

 

“Alright.” She clapped her hands together and started walking toward the kitchen. “Anyone who doesn’t leave here drunk as a skunk, isn’t welcomed back.” That seemed to loosen the crowd up (free alcohol always does) and before she had slipped into the kitchen, the party was back in full swing. 

 

Shiloh ducked into the maze of activity with me right on her tail. We blazed past fry cooks and dishwashers. We heard yelling from the back and turned the corner to see a small group of cooks watching the unfolding chaos. 

 

A spasm of legs and arms grappling, grabbing, and scraping on the vinyl floor. Russ had Nico by the hair. Nico was shoving Russ’ face has hard as he could. Russ managed to get on top of him. His forearm pinned Nico by the throat. “How could you do this?” He screamed as Nico gasped for breath.

 

“What the fuck is going on?” The spectators spun around. Shiloh was seething. “Do something you fucking shits. Don’t just watch.” The staff pulled the screaming and spitting men off of each other. 

 

“This was your idea.” Nico screamed, trying to lung at Russ. Beavis and Butthead held him back by the arms. Shortstack got Russ to his feet. He shoved the expo away and leaned on the prep counter. Nico was out of his mind with rage. “I’m not going down for this. You did this. I’m not taking the blame for this.”

 

“The blame for what?” Shiloh asked. Russ kept his back to her. “Russ, the blame for-” She spun around. “Don’t any of you have any fucking work to do?” She shouted at the men still gathered and gawking at the spectacle of their boss going completely out of his mind. They dispersed and Shiloh returned her withering gaze to Russ. “Russ, what is he talking about?”

 

“Shiloh.” His voice was barely a sound. 

 

“Russ, what’s going on?” She waited. Nothing. “Russ. Tell me. Goddammit, say something.” 

 

That was when I realized that I had not seen that part of the kitchen before. We were in the back alcove. next to a second walk-in fridge. It was the butcher station. The prep table was covered in bits of viscera, meat, and fur. There was more fur in the trashcan next to the butcher block, mixed in with guts and small, sharp teeth. They weren’t getting side of beef and pork delivered, the were butchering animals wholesale. Animals with more fur than pigs and teeth sharper than a cow’s. That’s when it clicked. The secret butcher area, the vague explanation of their meat supplier, the stray dogs swarming the restaurant’s alley. The nausea crashed in on me. Not again, this couldn’t be happening to me again.

 

“You sonofabitch.” I said. Shiloh spun around. “You sick piece of shit.” 

 

“What?” She asked. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Is this what you meant by “breaking the rules” you sick fuck? Is it?” Russ didn’t respond. “Huh?” 

 

“Hunt, what’re you talking about?” Shiloh begged. 

 

“Ask Nico.” I glared at him. “You know, right? You’re the genius behind this?” 

 

“I didn’t do shit, man. This is all him. I was just doing what my boss told me to do.”

 

“Got to hell.”

 

Shiloh was crying. “Please! Someone please tell me what’s going on.”

 

“Go ahead, Nico. Tell her. Tell her what you’ve been serving. What you’ve been butchering back here.”

 

“Fuck you.” He tore off his apron. “I’m not taking the fall for this. I don’t have to take any of this.” He shoulder checked me on his way toward the door. 

 

“Yeah, just like a coward.” I yelled after him. “And you,” I said to Russ, “you’re just going to stand there? Silent? No more cliches, no more stupid-ass sayings, huh?”

 

“Russ,” Shiloh’s voice was barely a whisper, “what did you do?” 

 

“...I’m sorry.”

 

“Sorry for what?” 

 

“Why don’t you find out when everyone out there does?” I said.

 

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” I yelled as I crossed into the dining room. “I have an important announcement to make.” Some diners turned to listen, others ignored me. “If you are eating a taco right now, you better stop and listen to what I have to say.” I watched a man raise a taco to his mouth. Fine. No easing them in. “The taco meat is dog!” I shouted and the restaurant froze. The man–mouth open, mid-bite, looked at the taco and then at me and then at the taco again and slowly set the uneaten food back on his plate. “A man named Nico is butchering stray dogs in the back and the restaurant is passing the meat off as pulled pork and brisket."

 

“How can we believe you?” The sharp-nosed woman asked.

 

“I don’t know, maybe because there’s dog teeth and fur in the trash next to the butcher block. Or maybe the horde of the surprisingly fat stray dogs in the alley next door. That’s enough for me, but if you don’t believe me, please take another bite.” The woman squirmed in her chair, but her food remained firmly on her plate. “I was just back there.” I said, turning and pointing to kitchen. Shiloh stood in the doorway–eyes wide, hand over her mouth. “I saw it myself. The butcher’s already fled to avoid…” The rest of my words were drowned out by the sudden chaos. A man flipped a table. Women stormed for the exit, phones already out to disseminate the news across social media. Someone vomited. A few people were crying. Shiloh had disappeared into the kitchen and Catfish was trying to hold back a rapidly forming mob forcing their way in. I slipped behind him. 

 

Shiloh was in the office, shoving things into her bag. She turned to see me, paused for a moment and then pushed past and toward the side door. She flung it open and saw, waiting to be fattened, the herd of strays, pressing against the door. She stopped in her tracks, gagging and doubling over. The dogs jumped all over her, searching for the treats they were sure she carried. 

 

I started toward Shiloh until I saw Russ out of the corner of my eye. He stood, gripping the edge of the prep table until his knuckles turned white, mumbling to himself. “How could he do this to me? The sonofabitch. How could he leave me like this?” The cleaver lay on the stainless steel in front of him.

 

“Russ.” I said, approaching him like a wounded animal. “Russ.” 

 

“Don’t look at me!” He screamed. “This is what you wanted. You made this happen!” 

 

The mob breached the kitchen door. They were rabid, virtually frothing at the mouth. Desperate for blood. A broad man at the front saw me first. “Where is he?” The man barked. I locked eyes with Russ and then pointed toward the secret butcher’s table. By the time the riot rounded the corner, Russ was already gone. He made a loop of the kitchen and burst through the side door behind the mad crowd. The dogs swarmed him. He stumbled, trying to maneuver through the roiling mass of hungry fur. The dogs blocked every step he took, jumping on his legs, licking at his bare arms, forever worshipful of their benevolent butcher. But Russ had had enough. He launched a savage kick at a poodle mutt. The dog yelped and jumped. Russ tried to shove his way through the animals, lashing out with his legs as he did. The crowd had stopped at the door, dumbfounded by the mangy menagerie in front of them. A few men went back in and around the front to catch Russ once he reached the road. The rest watched his increasingly wild and uncontrolled swings. He swung a kick at a boxy head. The dog jumped back, slobbery tongue hanging from his mouth with glee at the chance to finally play with his distant master. Russ leaned back, off balance from the missed kick. At the same time, the dog jumped and tackled him. Russ stumbled backward, tripped over the crowd of dogs behind and landed head first against the brick wall with a crack like a broken bat echoing down the alley. Shiloh screamed. The mob froze. Blood pooled and the dogs began to lap it up, attracted by the scent of salt and iron. 
______
 

“...and by the time the ambulance arrived, he had lost too much blood. His brain had been without oxygen for too long. Inducing a coma was our only option. I want to be clear, we are not talking about saving him. We are talking about triage. The odds of him ever breathing without a machine again are slim to none and that’s only if his brain recovers enough to bring him out of the coma. I won’t mince words with you, you should prepare for the worst. Nonverbal for the rest of his life. Twenty-four seven, live-in home care. Administration will lay out options-”

 

“Doc, doc.” I watched the white, bearded face, reflected in the hospital room window, rise from the clipboard. Beyond, a heart monitor, EKG and all other manner of inscrutable, artificial, life sustaining machinery, double exposed behind the doctor’s tired reflection, beeped quietly as it would for years to come. “I’m not the guy for this.” 

 

“What do you mean?” The doctor asked. 

 

“I don’t know him.”

 

“Then why are you here?” 

 

“I was writing a story about his restaurant opening.”

 

“Well, somebody’s going to have to take care of him.”

 

“Yeah, well… I don’t know what to tell you.” I said. “I barely know the man. Doesn’t he have an emergency contact? Some power of attorney?” 

 

“His emergency contact did not pick up the phone.” Was it still his ex-wife or was Shiloh finally done? 

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.”

 

I wandered down the hall and away from Russ’ hospital room, heard the elevator ding and the doors creak open. Shiloh stepped out. Her youth was gone. He face weathered and aged years in the forty-eight hours I’d known her. Her relationship, her job, her lot, had stolen from her what they always steal. And now, at age twenty-three, she would have to make the decision that would determine the rest of her life. She was walking toward the moment upon which her remaining years turned and I could see the weight of two lifetimes sitting on her shoulders. 

 

She looked up at me. Blank. Exhausted. “What’re you doing here?” She asked.

 

“I had to see the ending.” She nodded. Tiny. Curt. “What’re you doing here?”

 

Her eyes sparkled with terror. “I don’t know.” She tightened the grip on the bag on her shoulder. “How is he?” 

 

“You should talk to the doctor.” I pointed back toward Russ’ room. “Old guy, white beard. He’s pretty blunt.”

 

“Thanks for the warning.” Her eyes were welling. Squeeks from her black, no-slip sneakers dribbled down the hall as she passed me. She stopped before heading down the hall.

 

“Shiloh.” I said. I regretted calling out to her as soon as I did. There were no platitudes I could conjure that would mean anything. No insight to lighten the load. “Keep the faith.”  

 

She said nothing. The elevator doors closed leaving her stranded there in the middle of desperate indecision. 

 

The elevator opened onto the main lobby. Out the window, the darkened Kaiser Permanente campus. Flashing lights from a newly arrived ambulance lit up the parking garage across the street in a hellish red bath. A man in a hoodie stood at the entrance. Even from that distance, I could see his piercing blue eyes. 

 

When I made it downstairs, panting and struggling not to vomit, DEVO was gone. I spun around searching for him. Not a single soul on the ground floor. I backed out into the road and found him above, leaning against the railing on the third. Watching me. 

 

“What did you do?” I shouted up at him. A flash from his icy eyes. Then, nothing. “Listen. I think you and me are similar. I think maybe we can help each other out.” 

 

DEVO shook his head and faded into the darkness, a final echoed apology fading with him.