Ernst Elwaize and the Transcendental Taco

Ernst was the friendly uncle type, and a real swell guy all ‘round. No kids, never married either, but he wasn’t the kind to dwell on things. Not that it’s a bad thing that he never got married, or had kids, you know, but nevertheless: no dwelling. Mostly his thing was his shop, well technically it was a truck, a taco truck, but he called it his shop primarily because the truck was inoperable, as in totally stationary, as in would never be capable of driving, like we’re talking it didn’t have wheels; and legally speaking even though he was in violation of countless city bylaws no one ever busted him or gave him a ticket or even a warning because they loved his food so much and plus he was always giving it out free, so much so that people occasionally wondered how he remained financially viable. Everyone assumed probably family money or maybe bingo winnings seeing as he was always at the Rotary Club playing bingo and laughing his big laugh. He always doodled with maths and little tacos which led some to believe he maybe invested wisely. His taco money. Not that there’d be much considering how he dolled out taco after taco at no cost to the consumer. Some saw this as fundamentally un-American. Those types tended to hang out and gather in areas far away from the park, though. But so his truck was a sort of permanent installation and attraction at Bluefeather park, which was about a five minute walk from the beach or something like that and really fit Ernst’s vibe. For his age, which no one was really sure of, Ernst was handsome and fit but still casual enough to maybe even seem, possibly, almost homeless, like a cool homeless wandering type and plus he didn’t have a car, which bolstered the case. He was tall, like really really tall and his hair was dark and peppered with grey which was usually hidden and or sticking out under his trademark bowler hat which was a very crisp navy blue and complimented his eyes that sometimes appeared greenish and other times more of a foggy-grey like an overcast day just before rain. He was always wearing linen clothes that blew gently around and accentuated his sort of humble athletic build, that sometimes homeless guys actually mysteriously had. Occasionally he’d be gone for weeks without a trace and no one knew how, considering he had no car, but then maybe he was in fact secretly rich or just one of those guys who walked everywhere even if the destination was absurdly far, more pilgrimesque than strictly homeless. Everyone knew he wasn’t from the area though, because he had a subtle and very hard to place, yet distinct accent that sounded southern mixed with maybe French or German, whatever it was it was pleasant as hell and very comforting and also disarming in a totally non-intentional and non-creepy way. But the truck, over the years, had become a sort of source of pride for the area and small beach community, partially because it was there in a time-immemorial way but also simply because Ernst was always smiling and seemed to bring joy to the entire neighbourhood. People would holler stuff at him like “Hey Ernst, looking good man!” or “Save me some for after these waves dude!” or “Ernst buddy, how’s it hangin’?! I could use a boost!” and he was gracious and did save them some and always provided a boost and never indulged in compliments given, of which he got many both from men and women. He was usually sitting in his chair by the truck, which was up on the actual grass and not on the road, on account of no wheels, though no one was sure how or at what point it got to be there, like up on the grass, and it had sunk deep into the earth and had really become part of the land; the trees seemed to intentionally bend over to shade it and birds had homes on top between the flowers Ernst had cultivated since nobody-knew-how-long: sunflowers, daisies, black eyed susans, lilies, lavender, jasmine, heaps of begonias, different varieties of trumpet flowers and about a dozen other unnamable species that seemed to be specially imported or something. Ernst was always working but also never working and was perpetually relaxed but also sharp and he always seemed high on something but never drank or smoked or did any other drugs, as far as anyone knew or saw. The shop had a big neon sign up on top, the flowers all growing around and between and through, some of the momma birds had nests nestled in various nooks and crannies provided by the letters, sometimes it was lit up and it’d flicker and pop, an obviously old sign and very fitting for Ernst’s whole vibe and plus it suited the food he sold. But and as nice a guy as Ernst was, whenever someone would ask “Ernst man you gotta gimme the recipe man, what is in these things?!” (the local pot-heads sometimes literally lost their minds over the flavour and texture) maybe the secret ingredient were the herbs he grew that were mixed in with all the flowers and had some sort of special shared soil or cross-pollination or something, or where he got his veggies from, maybe a special farm? but Ernst would always just laugh and sort of shrug and hem and haw and ultimately never reveal his secrets. The food itself was only the one item: tacos. That was all that was on the menu. But actually, more specifically, there was no menu, which should be obvious at this point, a guy like Ernst would never have a literal menu, but so only the tacos were sold, and mostly given away from a place of what seemed like genuine kind heartedness with absolutely no ulterior motive whatsoever except maybe it made him feel good to give stuff away? this was really just very hard to believe though for most people given the state of the world and capitalism and income and so on. The neon sign spelled out Transcendental Tacos, which was a fitting name and totally lived up to, people would often comment that they were out of this world and stuff like that. And practically anytime anyone saw Ernst, no matter what he was doing, he was eating one of his tacos and thoroughly enjoying it, making the idea of having a taco just totally irresistible because of the way he chewed. One afternoon Ernst was sitting in the bingo hall. He looked totally out of place sitting there eating a squash taco, wearing one of his favourite linen shirts that actually had a little taco stitched onto the breast pocket, given to him as a gift from a satisfied and regular customer who wanted to express their total appreciation and gratitude for his shop and general presence in the area. His blue bowler had was sitting on the table, his hair a perfect peppered mess. He crunched into the squash taco in the most satisfying possible way, a way that made mouths in his immediate area water and there as a way he chewed, like how his lips and mouth moved or something, that added to the satisfaction and intensified nearby mouth watering on both conscious and unconscious levels. His shirt had a drop of sauce on it right near the stitched taco, which had a cute little face and smile, and the stain looked like it would be gobbled up by the cute little personified taco. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Dab dab. On his card were little doodles of algebraic equations and polynomial divisions and also little tacos with smiles and lettuce and other veggies bursting out the top of their hard shells in pleasing and mouth watering ways. He was sitting between two bingo regulars whose mouths were practically dripping with saliva on account of Ernst’s perfectly delicious and intoxicating way of eating. Jamila Rose, on his left, wore glasses with thick rims that looked several decades old and a sort of washed turquoise dress with faded pink roses to match, her face was set back and almost hidden by the planet that was her afro and she had those breasts that some old Caribbean women have that are nothing less than watermelon in size, basically resting on the table. A number was called out and Ernst didn’t have it, but he added it into one of his polynomial expressions waiting to be divided, Jamila cackled and stamped her card and her breasts shook the table and Ernst dropped more sauce onto his shirt and tried to wipe it but only made it worse, into a nice long smear. To his right was a tiny old man, probably literally half of Ernst’s size in total but he made up for it in presence and sheer volume of speech, he was probably ninety but had the attitude and energy of someone much younger and even still played tennis, in fact he came to bingo straight from a match and was still wearing his head band and shorts and shirt and had his tennis bag beside him and a slightly sweat-stained polo shirt to prove it all. His feet didn’t quite touch the ground but again, his attitude made up for it, piss and vinegar and all that. Hubert Berg, Bert for short. He slammed his fist on the table when he nearly missed a bingo, “Watch it nah man!” Jamila yelled at him, to which he instantly retorted, “I don’t say squat about your melons rocking the whole table woman!” she sucked her teeth and sat back and Bert watched, his eyes enlarged behind his thick lenses, “I’m not complaining either!” he repeatedly raised his eyebrows. Ernst looked at him and Bert shrugged, “I’m old!” he said, “Too old not to talk about Jamila’s bingo bongos!” He leaned past Ernst and looked at her, raising his eyebrows again. She sucked her teeth again, “In ya dreams shortee!” She was hiding a grin. The image of the two of them in any sort of intimate scenario was at the very least, interesting, and at the very most, worthy of some calculating, for safety. The final number was called and silence descended over the hall while everyone waited for that triumphant holler of bingo! But none came. “A damn scam!” “Hush nah.” “I’ll hush when you shush!” Ernst popped the rest of his squash taco into his mouth and crunched satisfyingly as he solved his equation with the final number called. Bert was looking at the scribbles. “What on earth ya doin’ wit those numbas?” “New recipes! Plus some accounting and future interest calculations.” “Just put it in the S&P index Ernst good buddy. Now that I think about it, what if you…” Bert was looking at his equations, scrutinizing more like, he leaned over and pushed up his headband in concentration and after a minute pointed to the remainder from one of the equations and then to a few other variables that followed, “…eh?” “Bert, you’re an absolute genius my friend,” he slapped him on the back in congratulations. “Easy big fella!” Bert’s glasses slid down his nose, “if you ever need help with your accounting, they used to call me fast-hands Bert.” “Why’d they call you that?” “Legally I’m not allowed to actually say…” “Enough all dis. I could really go for some post-bingo tacos, whayasay?” “I am right there with you sugar!” Bert made kissing sounds. “Try out this new recipe shall we?” Ernst smiled and folded up his bingo card and tucked it into his breast pocket under the smiling taco. “You got the,” Bert leaned over to look at Jamila and pinched his fingers in a certain type of way that indicated a certain type of rolled substance. Jamila smiled and patted her big left boob where she tended to store certain items, “ooooooweeee ya know it! Some ah dis and some Elwaize tacos on the beach ya say?” Ernst clapped his hands and drew the attention of a number of surrounding seniors and immediately clapped again but more quietly and they all returned smiles of approval, “Let’s eat!” he whisper-yelled and adjusted his bowler hat. Later on, by the Transcendental Taco truck, in Bluefeather park, Bert Berg and Jamila Rose sat in two lawn chairs that leaned waaaaay back and had a perfect view of the beach and ocean through an artful gap in the trees. The water lapped at the shore and glistened in the warm evening sun and there were those magical sparkles on the peaks of certain waves and far off laughter echoed and birds chirped and scents wafted from Ernst’s truck that really and truly were out of this world, they wafted up and out and in disneyesque swirls and made their way over and down, wrapping around Bert and Jamila, going up and into their nostrils. They were both red-eyed, passing back and forth that certain rolled substance. Bert always called it grass because he smoked in the 60s when it was hip to call it grass, Jamila called it tampy, which Bert thought was just the weirdest and most unfitting name, though he did like when she referred to getting ‘blazed,’ a word he’d never used in association with the substance. Jamila always took her glasses off when she got blazed and stuffed them into her afro, Bert was still wearing his tennis gear and kept his glasses on which made him look all the more high. “Oooooooowweeee!! Sum smell good!” she said, sucking in on the spliff like an oxygen tank and holding it in for way too long. When she finally let it out she coughed and then howled with laughter, so much that tears were welling up in the corners of her eyes and slowly running down her cheeks. Bert was sniffing at the air, trying to ingest more of the smell swirling around from Ernst’s truck. He leaned around in front of Jamila, curving his body into an inquisitive shape. “What’s so funny?” Jamila was cackling and snorting, “All of eet,” she said between snorts, “lyfe, ya know?” “Don’t gotta tell me twice doll, my wife died not too long ago. Hey, by the way, can you pass that joint?” She stopped dead and looked at Bert, “So sorry honey. I didn’t know,” she was still holding the joint and it was smouldering in her hand. Its aroma intermingled with the taco scent in a bizarre and pleasing way. “Sorry?!” Bert said, leaning back, “just stop hogging that there spliffy-wiffy!” he put his old hand out with fingers spread, waiting for the joint, “Sorry she says!” he leaned back even further and laughed, howling at the blue-pink sky like a weathered coyote, “Sorry!! Aaahhahahahaha,” his hand was still out as he laughed at the sky, “that day was a simcha! Oi vey J.R., she was a nag, a kvetch, do you know what kvetch is J.R.? Bah!” he waved it off with his other hand. Bert sometimes called Jamila J.R. or sometimes even Junior, which she hated and would smack him for, even though technically he was senior to her, but not by much. When she got mad he’d tell her ‘you’re young! A hot young thing!’ It seemed that in Bert’s old age he’d cast off any notion of expectation, actually adamantly rejected it, he’d become a different version of himself entirely, yet another incarnation; possible wish fulfilment after a lifetime of buttoned-up hard work, psychological repression, pretending, being a husband and a father, and worst of all, getting to work on time; that took a real toll psychologically, spiritually, emotionally and physically, a seriously under-researched torment of modern life. Finally Jamila put the joint between Bert’s fingers and he inserted it into his mouth and inhaled like a vacuum. She’d been looking at Bert the entire time, thinking, assessing, staring off into space while he laughed at the death of his kvetch wife. “Lyfe!” she said again, “my husband died also, but long ago.” Bert stood up grinning, “Eeehhhhh? You don’t say???” he stood up with the joint, in front of Jamila now, “did you love him?” “Love? Whatcha mean, love?” He exhaled air in astonishment and looked up to the sky, “An eternal question Junior!” She reached out to smack him but didn’t want to get up. Bert laughed at her as he jumped back to avoid her swipe. “Well? Whatcha mean?” “You know,” Bert said, taking a drag, “in all my damned ninety years on this beautiful rock,” he gestured to the painted sky, “I still couldn’t tell ya,” he thought and smoked more, “you know this is damn good grass J.R. where do you procure such grass?” “Grow it myself!” Bert’s eyes bulged and he looked at the joint, “She’s a sorceress! In all seriousness J.R. I really don’t know. A pipe dream maybe? An unconscious desire for imprisonment based on like past karma or something? Jamila, I won’t play games with the sanctity of the institution of love. I won’t. I can’t!” he put his finger in the air as a sign of declaration and then realized the joint was finished, “We need another jointy-wointy!” “So love be a prison?” “You gonna roll another?” Jamila produced another paper and more flower from her breast. “What a night!” said Bert. “What else you got in there J.R.?” Jamila glared, but also she smiled subtly, in truth, she liked it, but not liking it was part of liking it, if she simply liked it, the feeling of liking it would, paradoxically, not be maximized. “In all seriousness though Junior–” Jamila really did glare at him now and made like she was going to get up to really smack him but he put his palms up like woah easy does it and she kept rolling. “Seriously though, in total and complete seriousness, love is a hole meant to be filled.” She looked at him deadpan, “A real poet. Beautiful.” Bert bowed, “I mean that both sincerely and poetically as well as sexually. Both are real! I’m old!!” She was looking at the joint she was rolling and lifted her eyebrows and sighed, “I could use some…love.” In a flash Bert was mere inches away from her, “Always here for ya doll.” She ignored and Bert stood back up at a reasonable distance. “Where dem tacos Ernst man!!” “Yeah we’re hungry Ernst!” The sun was slowly setting and the sky was like angel cake cut with a knife, revealing layers of colour and sweetness. “We need some music out here too!” she called. “Put on some Ele–” “–none ah dat! Gimme the Sonny’s Crib recard!” yelled Jamila, cutting Bert off and saving the entire area from his musical request. Ernst had a vinyl record player in the Transcendental Taco truck with a killer sound system and always blessed the area with sweet aural candy. The Sonny Clark album came on shortly after Jamila’s request, with soft vinyl pops and then instant movement and bittersweet melody that was more sweet than bitter and the rhythm commanded movement of the human body as if casting, quite literally, a spell, over those listening. The sounds poured out and mixed with the wafting taco scent, which was getting sweeter and more tantalizing by the minute, and marijuana smoke, it all mingled and drifted upwards to the sky as if trying to reach for the sun to get a taste of how it looked. Bert was moving his body in a spastic way that wasn’t totally disharmonious with the music, oddly enough. Jamila stood up, spliff in mouth, and though she was in her eighties, she looked spry and youthful and she was grooving to the S.C. tunes. Bert watched her with special attention to everything that shook as she moved. Jamila hollered again as she smelled the tacos, “Ernst bring dem tacos!” “You can’t rush art!” said Bert, talking and dancing. “We ain’t got time fa art!” she cried as she danced and tossed her head back, her glasses fell out of her afro unnoticed. “You know,” said Bert, going to get his water out of his tennis bag as a chill was descending from the heavens, “Ernst is a trained ballet dancer, least so I heard, now I’ve never personally, you know, seen him dance, but like, what’s he gonna do, stand up and put on a show at bingo? But I heard, can’t remember from who, that yeah he’s like a very good dancer, trained in ballet, that he moves gracefully and all that sort of thing.” Two young girls came walking past their lawn chairs, talking and sniffing, “No like totally actually and I fully like flipped out oh my god he was all…” said the one, to which a high pitched almost shrill reply overlapped, “…woah I am not surprised I mean can you freaking believe him? That? I mean like what the hell? Woah. Yeah. Totally…” and then they stopped, “Hey what’s that smell? Do you smell that? I thought I like smelled something weird before.” They both stopped and looked at Bert and Jamila from a slight distance, “I think old those old people are like smoking weed?” “Grass!” “Grass?” they said in unison looking down. “Want some?” Bert yelled over to them. “By the way, yeah! I am old!” “Hush nah! Kyant be speakin’ to little gyals offerin’ em’ this!” Bert shrugged, “I’m very old!” he said to Jamila. The girls stood there staring and looking at each other with disgust written all over their faces. “Gwan shoo!” Jamila ushered them away with her hands the way you’d get a squirrel to hopefully leave your front porch or open garage. “Ew,” said the one girl, “gross,” said the other and they shuffled off and returned to gossiping while simultaneously looking at their phones, disappearing down the beach. As they left, finally – because the munchies were right around the corner from total central nervous take over – as if on cue to the stomachs and souls of both Bert and Jamila, Ernst came floating out of the truck at the beginning of a new Sonny Clark song, carrying what looked like an assortment of delectable eats, varieties of what looked like new experimental creations of gourmet vegetarian Transcendental Tacos. “See?” said Bert, stopping and pointing at Ernst. “What?” “How he moves. So graceful. That’s a graceful man. Obvious training. Movement like that is painfully learned. Think Russian ballet school Jamila. Or maybe German. Actually Ernst kind of sounds vaguely Germanic, come to think of it, doesn’t he? Look at that movement, it’s like he’s floating.” Jamila looked over, “Kyant lie. That’s real good movement. Smoooooooth. And also those tacos smell like they was made by tha Lord!!” “J.R. Please. Let’s keep things secular around here okay? Let’s not make these tacos a religious thing. Okay?” Jamila sucked her teeth and Bert laughed. “Berty boy dem tacos worshippable what ya gonna do?” “So we’re making this like a ritualistic eating now. A sacrifice? That sounds wrong. But then again we are eating them. Honouring the tacos as a sort of unique and spiritually evolved entity?” Bert sniffed and watched Ernst. “If I ever smelled a spiritually evolved entity, that’d be it.” Ernst was now in their immediate vicinity and the taco smell was becoming almost offensively good. In the way that sometimes kids call something disgusting meaning what is in fact technically the opposite of disgusting, what’s even weirder is that that makes intuitive sense and you know it when you hear it. “How old do you think those girls were?” “Not old enough fa you Hubert!” “J.R. Understand that I….am old! I’m senior to you and I see the world very differently, you know, being the sort of wise old man type and with my old man wisdom I’ve lost all age objectivity. Plus, I don’t care.” “Tacos are ready!” declared Ernst, “Shall we eat by the water?” “If I can even wait another second!” said Bert, rubbing his hands together like a greedy businessman. “Follow me!” said Ernst as he floated through and past them and toward the beach. Bert and Jamila followed like drunken hounds on a scent. They were sort of waddling behind Ernst’s graceful gait, so graceful it actually did look like he was somehow floating. The music faded into the background as the crashing waves took over and became even more pleasing than any music, though it always took some time to realize that. Down by the water, they had front row seats for the sunset, unobstructed by trees. They each sat in those beach chairs that were angled back so you could easily fall asleep without noticing, which always makes one think: is the ideal angle for sleeping in fact something like twenty-five or thirty degrees and not fully supine? The sky was now lavender mixed with ocean blue dabbed with dollops of orange and soft, fading pink. Salt water misted the air and caught light. There were some couples on the beach holding hands and Bert yelled at them, for what he considered to be having a good time, ‘Save yourself!’ and “RUN!!!” and ‘I hear drowning is less painful than divorcing an even moderately good-looking woman!’ some people looked at him with genuine concern as one would look at a shouting homeless person thought to have some sort of psychiatric issue at play, some took videos and some ignored. In all fairness the ninety year old Bert Berg in tennis gear, large glasses, high-on-weed and shouting at hand-holding couples on the beach did have a concerning sort of vibe, or profitably hilarious depending on your perspective, plus he was stuffing tacos into his mouth at the same time and making noises of total enjoyment that tended to make people uncomfortable. It was all very Freudian. “Go easy Bert, the tacos need time to digest,” said Ernst with soothing hand motions on his own stomach. “I tell ya Ernst,” mouth full of taco, “these tacos,” chew chew, “they’re keeping me alive and I do mean that literally. I live for these things, what on earth is in them? Or what out of Earth, am I right buddy?” he proceeded to gorge. Jamila on the other hand, was taking tiny bite after tiny bite and chewing each one about a thousand times before swallowing. “How in the hell do you look like THAT, but you eat…like…that?” said Bert, chewing. “You complainin’?” she looked at him with a raised eyebrow and took a dainty bite. “Ernst, ya want some ah dis?” she put her hand out, holding what remained of the smouldering spliff. “No thanks,” he held the taco out, admiring it, and it did look beautiful, like a taco you might see in a comic book or a commercial but there it was in Ernst’s hand, backlit by sunset colours in full glory, “this is the only high I need!” he took a satisfying bite that crunched and smushed and juiced. “Not complaining AT ALL J.R. More like in awe.” “Aright then,” nibble nibble. “What IS in these?! I demand to know!” “You ain’t like one ah dem like monks are ya? Like who live up in the mountains and all? No drugs, no sex–” “No FUN! Is what you’re getting at there J.R., seriously – Ernst, buddy, what is in these tacos? Promise you tell me before I split for good. Swear!” “I promise. And no, not a monk, not per se anyway,” said Ernst. “Whatcha mean, ‘per se’?” “Well, I like to think of myself as a sort of ambassador for goodness, but caves seem highly inhospitable, plus, there’s nobody to serve tacos to way out there.” Just then two guys holding beers walked by and were drawn in by the aroma of Ernst’s tacos and maybe the lingering smell of burned cannabis. They wandered over, clearly slightly drunk, “Dude, what is that? Smells like freakin’ heaven on earth!” “Totally man garden of eden and shit!” They laughed. “You can say that again!” said Bert. “You know Transcendental Tacos? Best food joint in the hemisphere, nay, the galaxy! This side of the milky way! Right Jamila? Ernst?” “Whateva you say Berty,” nibble bite nibble nibble. “Nah man never heard of it,” stumbling back and kind of laughing. “Transcenda–wha?” “What are ya names?” asked Jamila. “People call me the Annihilator,” said the one guy, doing several aggressive pelvic thrusts in a row. “Jake,” said the other guy. Jamila and Bert laughed. “I knew an Annihilator once,” said Ernst. “No way man! We’ll have to fuckin’ battle!” “You knew an Annihilator?” asked Bert. “Indeed I did, a good guy, if you want to put it that way, terrible temper though.” “Makes sense,” said Jamila. “Why do they call you the Annihilator?” asked Bert. “Do I want to know?” “Well because I annihilate the–” Ernst finished eating and then piped up, cutting the Annihilator off, “You guys want some tacos?” “Bu–” As if from nowhere Ernst produced a whole tray of fresh tacos. “Bu–, yo–, ju–” Bert was looking around. “How the–” “Oh yeah, I’m starved man,” said the Annihilator, then, lowering his voice, “timeda eaaaaat. Destoryyyyyyy.” “Thanks,” said Jake. Ernst handed each of them a taco. The Annihilator at half in one bite. Jake sniffed and inspected before eating. “WOAH, my absolute GOD, WOW, what in the,” he stuffed the rest of the taco in his mouth, “another?” Ernst handed him another taco. “These are absolutely delicious, Ernest, was it?” asked Jake. “Some people are really quite different under the influence, aren’t they?” Bert remarked to Jamila. “Call me Ernst.” “And y’alls names?” asked the Annihilator with a full mouth looking at Jamila and Bert. “Jamila. By da way, anyone seen my glasses?” “Ern man these things are insane, I can like feel it in my brain and shit, you got some silly mushrooms in here or what? Pot?” “Bert,” he extended his hand and shook both of theirs. “She doesn’t shake hands,” he said looking at Jamila. She shrugged and nibbled. “Nothin’ personal boys,” she smoked the spliff between bites. “Hey no offence taken ma’am. I get it. I try to be a gentleman and all that. Absolutely no harm done in any way whatsoever, ma’am,” said Jake. “You smokin’ weed?” “Yes sir!” she said, taking a positively huge drag. “That’s dope. Don’t see too many old folks smokin’ up.” “Who ya callin’ old boy?!” Jake looked blank and pale, “Uhhhhhh…” “I’m kiddin’ ya!” Jamila cackled and coughed. “Hah!” the Annihilator laughed and chugged his beer, “Fuckin’ awesome.” “Very humorous Jamila.” “He okay?” asked Bert, “I’m starting to wonder if he’s okay. Is he like this sober or is it an alcohol thing?” “Who?” “Him,” Bert pointed to Jake. “Oh, yeah, he gets weird when he’s drunk, dunno why, just always been that way. Gets like reserved and almost British with his manners or something. So wait,” said the Annihilator, cocking his head and looking between Ernst and Bert, “you mean to tell me you guys are Bert and Ernie?” he burst out into a howl of laugher and chugged more beer. Jake chugged his too. “So like the more he drinks the more weirdly polite and reserved he gets?” asked Bert. “Something like that.” “Indeed, good sir.” Bert looked confused. “I neva noticed that!” Jamila said, looking between Bert and Ernst and she started laughing. “Bert and…Ernie,” Bert looked around. “Am I missing something here?” “Like that show Bert, Sesame Street, for kids,” said Ernst. “That’s the one!” laughed the Annihilator, “with the big yellow bird and that fuckin’ little cookie monster and the dude who lives in the garbage can…hey, you guys aren’t like, you know…” he paused, “not that theres anything wrong with that! I mean I even could find Jakey here a bit attractive, especially the more British his mannerisms get,” he put his arm around Jake’s shoulder and leaned in. Jake pushed him off aggressively. “Woah woah woah easy big guy! I wasn’t gonna kiss ya!…unless…” he leaned in again and then his phone beeped and he looked down for a while, his thumbs moved around quickly tap tap tapping. “Well, we gotta split y’all, big party down the other end of the beach tonight. Gonna be a total rager. Hey, y’all should come! And bring tacos!!” Bert looked like hey why not let’s party, but then sat back realizing he was too tired even to simply get up. Too tired and too stoned. The guys were walking off and the Annihilator hollered back, “Gotta get the recipe for those tacos Ernie! And Bert!” he started laughing saying Bert and Ernie over and over again and doing an impression of the cookie monster as the distance between them grew. “Dumbass kids,” said Jamila with a chuckle. “God help us.” Bert was watching after them and beginning to long. To become wistful and forlorn. His face changed. Typically after he smoked enough grass he plunged into a paranoid anxious and somewhat depressive despair and it was written on his face as he watched the Annihilator and Jake disappear down the beach on their way to what was apparently going to be a total rager. “A total rager…” said Bert, zipping up his sweater and pulling up the collar to protect his neck as the sun plunged into the ocean along with his high, into deep and unknown waters. “What would you give? Both of ya?” “Give for what Bert?” Ernst was still munching on a taco that happened to look totally fresh and pristine. “To be a young man again?” Jamila gave him eyes. “…or a young woman, of course. To be a,” he looked at Jamila, the valleys around his eyes filled in with the pastel reflections from the waters as he managed smile through a now stale high, “to be a dumbass kid?” “A damn fine question Bert,” said Ernst. “Damn fine indeed. Some may say an eternal one. One of those eternal questions maybe even the eternal question some ways it’s sort of a question that contains all other questions as far as meaning goes, a question that goes right along side God existing, did the universe have a beginning and what are UFOs really? What makes your question there more penetrating is it’s truly heart rending quality about time that’s eternally gone by.” Bert looked from Ernst and Jamila out to the ocean as the waves lapped. “Ernst you a philosopha back der wit those tacos or wha?” she paused in thought, and then, “I’d do a lot different if I could be, or was, you know, young again,” she paused again, “but also I’d change nothin’ ya know? Weird. Sad to think about too. Damn you Bert! Turnin’ this high to a low.” Jamila looked down the beach after the Annihilator and Jake, longing for a way out of her current thoughts, those deep and unknowable waters. “Can’t have it both ways J.R.” “Says who?” “Me! This is my hypothetical and I’m setting the terms and conditions. So far as this hypothetical is concerned I’m God. In this hypothetical Ernst,” Bert looked from Jamila to Ernst, “the question of God is answered,” Bert stuck is arm out far and turned bent and turned his wrist back to point at his own face. “Your question, my ansa! But…to be young wit none ah dem lessons, none of life lived…useless.” “Wisdom!” said Ernst. “Wisdom is more valuable. Youth longs for wisdom and gets its wish fulfilled in time, though maybe painfully earned, but to wish for youth…it’s just pleasure seeking, isn’t it Bert?” “What’s wrong with pleasure?” “You want to stay put forever looking for new and fun ways to get off?” Bert looked out to the ocean again, “I suppose you’d just be making tacos for eternity and scribbling your maths on bingo cards and be perfectly content?” Ernst sort of just shrugged and nodded. “But like what would you give?” asked Bert. “I’m talking you know Mephistopheles comes down in the form of a poodle or whatever and gives you the actual option for this. You do x you get to be young again.” “Isn’t that he signs an eternal contract giving up control of his soul in the afterlife? If I’m remembering correctly?” asked Ernst. He looked at his taco for a moment, as if remembering something related, “a terrible risk.” Bert mumbled an answer and also something about the total rager down the beach. “But then doesn’t he get out of it in the end? He signs the contract with his blood but still ends up in heaven?” “Redeemed by grace on account of his strivin’?” said Jamila. “Hmmm,” Bert was thinking, “bah! I can’t remember all of these blasted details. Heaven? Does he? But wait so he deals in the dark arts first and still gets redeemed? I’ll take that bargain. Seems like a good deal. But would you though? Give up your soul to have youth let’s say with wisdom?” “I think that doing that sort of deal knowing you’d be trying to play the system is a losing game Bert, it’s like a flat out negation, but if done with true naivety, then perhaps room for redemption remains.” “But would you?” asked Bert. “Would you?” he looked at Jamila. “So a moron can do a deal with the devil and win out? Is that what you’re telling me here Ernst? It pays to be dumb?” “No, I wouldn’t, you do not want to get caught up in that sort of thing. No bargain of that sort is worth entertaining, let me tell you. Imagine for a second Bert, that the soul, or in other words your essence, really is real and really is eternal, that there really are, lets call them forces of good and evil, which in that story are God and the Devil, are you going to sign up for service to evil in exchange for a few tiddlywinks or some carnal pleasures? To be young again, for a moment? Because let me tell you, these tacos are not served to the doers of eternal evil.” Just then Ernst crunched down on a juicy pineapple taco. “Not a moment, a lifetime Ernst! At least!” “I say again: a moment.” “I agree with Ernst, ya know Bert, life only a moment, it be a flash nah. All these years behind me, they be a second on the clock when ya lookin’ back.” Bert threw up his hands, “Okay you win. I will for no reason sign a blood pact with any poodles that may follow me home, no matter how tempting it may be, if only just because you’ve informed me and stolen my naivety and now precluded me from entering into such deals to reap the rewards and maintain my possible salvation. Damnitall!” “Ernst you think God himself is wise and also young? He’d have to be right? Eternally youthful!” “How could God be young and wise? God gotta be the oldest thing in da universe,” said Jamila. “Well assuming he exists,” said Bert, “then being young and wise is sort of the ultimate deal isn’t it?” Bert’s face looked pained and confused like he was still thinking about being young and various types of potential deals with poodles, “In all seriousness though, you two,” he looked at them both, and they remained silent as if to encourage a forth coming Bert monologue, “right. After some ninety years on this rock? I do want the youth. I want to be young again Ernst, I know I shouldn’t, can’t, and even if I could by the power of some dark force it would be unwise, I guess, but I long for it and mostly ignore it because I know it’s impossible outside of my own little imagination, and maybe I am eternal and my soul is really young forever and all that but I guess I still need to accept it, to keep striving. The truth though, I feel young still, inside, just like a boy who dressed up in a suit and went to the office and fooled everyone? That’s how I feel. I’m old but young and maybe not wise to boot? You think we get another shot at this Ernst? Do we like, know that’s real and on the table just like your most delicious tacos? Which by the way now that I think about it are so delicious it seems like you yourself have done some sort of deal with some kind of force out there, but also like what if experimenting with evil is part of my striving for ultimate growth or something, should it then be done? Or I’m I guess euchred because of my true deep down intention? God knows my heart? I’ve done stuff I’m not proud of Ernst. Maybe my desire to be young again is to undo those things like underneath my desire for pleasure there is a real and true desire to strive and evolve? Or maybe that’s just another excuse! I’m old buddy! But Ernst if we get another shot at all this maybe I can marry this gem and get wise and all and even be young again?” “Boy, that’s a whole hell of a lot to drop on a man at this time of night, after that many tacos,” which Ernst was still munching on, this whole time, “Bert buddy. First off, to me at least, and Jamila can tell me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you’ve got plenty of this wisdom stuff. Jamila? Miss Rose?” “I wanna know about this young wise God.” She thought as she looked at Bert, her face and afro were beginning to blend into the night, her face was hard as she looked at Bert but then it melted into a smile, “Ya got wisdom Berty, wise enough for me.” He smiled like a boy. “Youth really is wasted on the young isn’t it?” “Ya can say that again! And ya especially wise fah lovin’ these!” Jamila grabbed her breasts and jiggled them around, looking at Bert. Bert looked her over and was momentarily shocked from his post-high despair. “For that I’ll trade youth itself!!! I call that progress! Ernst, I’m getting the sense that after all this poodle talk, that maybe you’ve been involved in some sort of deal? I’m getting, as the kids say, vibes.” “I sense it too,” said Jamila, feeling around in her afro, “curse I kyant find my glasses, musta fallen out on the way down,” she was looking around. “No poodles Bert. But I must admit to some personal experience in the matter. After all, cooking is a sort of alchemy, isn’t it?” “You’re telling me these tacos are like blessed or something? Or are they the product of some shadowy deal or contract? Was blood involved? Ernst, was blood involved in this contract!?” Music could now be heard from the end of the beach, of a totally different register than what Ernst had put on earlier, this music was thud thud thudding in hypnotic repetition that was at first hated, then loved, then again hated. Bert was looking at the taco Ernst was eating, “They are damn good tacos Ernst. Suspiciously good. But look, I’m thinking we should go to that party down the beach there and give some of these tacos away, that should be of some aid to our bill for eternity right? Or is that null and void because of my way of thinking here?” Bert stood up, “Ernst would you say it’s like even cosmically legal to give these tacos to such youthful delinquents who’ll like squander and be totally unaware of their magic? They may treat them as simple and regular tacos while under the influence? Or would not doing it be the real cosmic error? As in if we don’t go take some of these Transcendental Tacos to the youngsters we’re like depriving them of crucial spiritual or food and sustenance?” The music down the beach got louder and more thudding. Jamila was rolling up another joint, holding it exceedingly close to her face because it was dark and also her glasses were back near the taco truck on the ground in the grass getting wet with evening dew, maybe it was because it was getting late, or the thudding hypnotic music playing at a youthful beach party, or just because of her lack of vision, but the joint she was rolling was so humongous it looked to be the size of a hotdog. “Bert, now that you mention it I think we have a duty to go to that party and hand out tacos.” “Rage with the youth!” said Bert pointing at the sky. “I think I’m getting a second wind too.” Jamila struggled up from her chair, “As we walk down there Ernst man, you got to tell us a story, ya?” “What kind of story?” “I must be knowin’ how that taco truck started.” Bert looked at Ernst and then at Jamila as her face lit up in a flashy glow as she sparked up the huge joint. She looked young, Bert thought. The three of them started walking down the beach and their voices trailed off, over taken by the crashing moonlit waves. “This story better not start with a poodle or a blood contract Ernst or I am turning around!” said Bert. “Hush!” said Jamila. “Gwan Ernst.” Ernst laughed and the waves crashed as they walked into the night, toward the youth and the thudding music.