​“The Spanish boy is really cute,” all the girls in the village say.

“The Spanish boy is so athletic,” the Spanish boy’s soccer coach says.

“The Spanish boy’s eyes shine so bright, they blinded me. Now I can’t see. I need to get a promotion in order to pay these medical bills.” Lawrence Dincey said this. He didn’t know the Spanish boy very well, but he sure wished he did.

The Spanish boy’s name is Madrid, and he’s from Copenhagen. He’s called the Spanish boy because he looks Spanish and people are racist.

“You want an empanada?” People would say.

“I’m vegan, gluten free, and have a serious eating disorder,” Madrid would say. People laughed because they thought the Spanish boy was funny. He wasn’t funny at all. People are just jerks.

Madrid became sick of everyone misunderstanding him, so he went to the only person he knew he could talk to.

“Welcome to Taco Bell!” Shouted Clyde Wister. Clyde was the manager of this Taco Bell, and he could do it all. Make the tacos, restock the fridge, take phone calls, yell out the greeting. Everything.

“Hey, Clyde. We need to talk.” Madrid ordered a number three. It was prepared in four seconds. Clyde brought it out and sat down with Madrid.

“Are people still calling you Spanish boy?”

“Yes. Yes, they are, Clyde. My whole life. Why would that just change. Idiot.”

“Woah, buckaroo, ease up, pony boy. Get off your high horse, and have a conversation. I’m here to help but if you’re gonna throw slurs at me, I’m gonna go back to work.”

This Taco Bell was struggling to stay in business. The current promotion was “buy a side of cilantro, get seven tacos free.”

“Hey, Clyde. I want to apologize,” mumbled Madrid.

“What for?”

“Well. I shouldn’t have used a slur. You’re not an idiot.”

“Thank you for saying that, dawg. I appreciate you.” Clyde took a bite of Madrid’s taco without asking. He felt it was part of completing the apology. It was Madrid’s Penance. They were both extreme Catholics.

“You been to confession yet today?” Clyde continued.

“Yeah I went a couple times this morning, but now I definitely need to stop by this afternoon.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

There was a lull in the conversation. They stared at the ceiling. Someone had scribbled clyde sux ass. Madrid remembered he had a taco. He ate the whole thing, and Clyde watched, wishing he could have eaten the masterpiece himself. A man opened the door.

“Get down, I’m a school shooter!”

The door chimed.

“Get down I say. I say get down I say. Down you go I say get down.”

Madrid was starting to think this was a bad rapper or something. Clyde spoke up.

“Sir, this is a Taco Bell, not a school!”

“Don’t tell me who I am!” The Taco Bell shooter announced.

“You told us who you were,” Madrid contributed. The Taco Bell shooter stayed true to himself.

“This is a school. A school of food!”

“You’re thinking of a cafeteria!” Clyde was getting frustrated. Madrid was humming the rapper’s lines to himself.

“Prove to me this is not a cafeteria, and I won’t shoot.”

Clyde slowly stood up with his hands held above his head.

“Okay. Well, you have to be over the age of 26 to enter this establishment, so that is proof no students are allowed here.”

Clyde was always full of bullshit. It helped sometimes. This really made the Taco Bell Shooter Think.

“Oh. Oh, no. I’m only 19. I shouldn’t be here.” He made his way to the door.

“Wait,” said Clyde. “Stay. Everyone is welcome here.”

“Aw gee wiz, cowboy, that means a lot.”

Everyone smiled.

“But I’m still gonna have to shoot you.”

Smiles faded.

Madrid spoke up.

“Hold on one moment, I say. I say hold on I say. Where’s your gun?”

The Taco Bell shooter searched his pockets but came up empty.

​“Shoot.”

​Mr. and Mrs. Otto Bentwood drew out their chairs simultaneously. Mrs. B’s chair was nice and smooth, silky even. It had gems placed into the wood on the arm rests. It looked like it belonged to a queen. Mr. B’s chair just had a bunch of splinters. In any case, I was their son, and they often forgot about me.

With both chairs held high above their heads, it was clear this was a showdown. Not a normal showdown some might say, but for the Bentwood family, this was a pretty average day. They’d already consumed their steel cut oats while I ate the leftovers, which today was two blueberries. They were sour. I spit them out.

“Sign the divorce papers already!” Mrs. B yelled as she hurled her chair in Mr. B’s direction. She missed. It was a direct hit on Ernie, my pet hamster, killing him immediately. I should stop being home-schooled, I thought. Mr. B. carefully watched this action unfold. “No,” he said.

Now, there was only one person holding a chair in the air, and I sure wished it was me. I went to Ernie to clean up the scene, and I put him in the compost. His corpse fell on top of the banana peel Mrs. B had used that morning. I wish I had been able to eat that banana. 

“If we didn’t have a kid, this would never have happened!” Mr. B yelled. I have a good dad. He likes to get drunk and take naps. 

“I never wanted one in the first place!” Just when you think your mom is on your side, she can really turn it around. I’m twelve years old and they still haven’t named me.

“This is my house!” a new voice said as the front door was smashed open. My stomach grumbled.

“Oh, so this is the man who caused the affair!” Mr. B said.

“No, I’m not sure who this man is,” replied Mrs. B. I really didn’t care to find out who this new man was. I just wished they had left me some oatmeal.

“I’m Joe Trader!” he yelled too loudly. We live in a one-story home. “My company purchased this property, and now I’m moving in!”

Mr. and Mrs. B looked flustered. I was glad to meet Joe Trader. I wanted to ask him why he refused to sell Chobani Yogurt because if he did, then my parents would only do their shopping at one grocery store instead of two. But he was busy. He held an ax in his left hand. His right hand was missing.

“If you don’t evacuate this place in the next 60 seconds, I’m going to saw you in half!” yelled Trader Joe.

“I think you mean ax us in half,” said Mr. B.

“No, idiots, you mean cut us in half.” Mrs. B. was right. She was also a whore.

Joe Trader told them it didn’t matter what the phrase was but that his ax was going to be used if they didn’t get out of his new house/store. I was ready to leave this dump, but I wanted to keep watching.

“Okay. We’re leaving.”  Mrs. B was up to something.  "Just sign this,” she said.

She grabbed the divorce papers that had been sitting on my bedside table for three years and brought them to Joe Trader. She whispered something in his ear, and I think it may have been something about forging Mr. B.’s signature, but it also may have been asking for sex. After all, she’s a whore.

Mr. B. was getting upset. “I’m getting upset,” he stammered. He’s always upset. Especially when his oatmeal gets cold. God, I would kill for some oatmeal. Literally a piece of bread sounds amazing. Slice of cheese, anything.

Mr. B. sat down and started to pout. Sixty seconds was up.

“AARRRGGHHHHHHH!” mumbled Joe Trader. He dropped his ax, pulled out a grenade and hit my father square in the head.

​The house was burned to the ground. In any case it was no longer our house. 

Jacque was standing in line at Disney World, waiting to meet Minnie Mouse for the third time that week. He wished his wife gave hugs like Minnie.

“Hey, you in line for Minnie?”

Jacque turned around to face a man with a I❤️ NY tee shirt, looking at him with a big grin.

“I sure am!” Jacque replied. Somehow Jacque knew they were going to be best buds.

The new friend told Jacque about his dream of visiting Egypt and about why his mother named him Julius even though she despised that name. Julius was quite the talker.

“I’m from North Nebraska, but now I’m in South Nebraska.”

Jacque was beaming. “Right on, man. I’ve always wanted to visit Nebraska.”

When the line dwindled down, and it was their turn to meet Minnie, Jacque and Julius looked at each other and smiled.

“Let’s take this picture together!” they yelled in unison.

Disney World employees were confused. These men were both about 55, which is not at all too old to have fun, but it definitely was a strange duo for the Florida theme park. They shared many laughs with Minnie Mouse, and she pretended to kiss them both, which they found adorable.

“She’s really quite exquisite” Jacque said.  

Julius agreed. “That girl is a hoot!”

 
That evening, Jacque took Julius out to dinner. After they finished their fifth bread basket, Jacque leaned in close.

“You know, I told my wife I’d be back in France tomorrow, but I don’t think she’d mind if I stayed here just another month or two.”

Julius gargled some water.

“I have no agenda,” he said as he sifted around for some bread crumbs. They high-fived and ordered some lasagna. Jacque was spending money by mooching off his wife, and Julius’ financial situation remained unclear. Jacque booked a new hotel room for a 45-day stay. There were two queen beds, but occasionally the pair fell asleep together because they enjoyed cuddling while watching Fox News. On the 45th day, neither one of them wanted to get out of bed. They lay together in silence for a painful but cozy seven minutes. Finally, Julius opened his big mouth.

“I don’t want to say goodbye.”

Jacque aggressively rolled around in his sheets. He was stressed to say the least.

“I’m coming to South Nebraska!

They hugged so tight, Julius had an asthma attack.

While lying in the emergency room, Julius had a big grin on his face. A nurse popped her head in the door.

“Visiting hours are over now.”

Nobody acknowledged her.  And how could they? They were best buds hanging out in a hospital bed together. But the nurse persisted.

“Sir, you cannot be under the covers with a patient.”

Julius replied without hesitation. “A cuddle a day keeps the doctor away.”

The nurse supposed this was a sweet sentiment, but it was also incredibly false. She was not a big fan of her job though, so she decided to walk away and go on break.

 
Julius and Jacque ended up moving to West Nebraska and lived in a small home together. They never got married, mainly because Julius was asexual and Jacque’s wife had blocked him, so he was unsure of how to go about getting a divorce. In retrospect, Jacque believed she wouldn’t have blocked him had he not sent her every picture he took with Julius. But he didn’t care.  Now, Jacque’s wife lives alone but sleeps around often. “With my hectic work schedule, anonymous sex gives me great joy,” she told her therapist. But she still found herself drinking alone and googling facts about Disney most Thursday nights. Jacque had always truly adored his wife, but he had never loved anyone until Julius. He occasionally found himself sexually frustrated, but by punching walls he somehow managed to let it all out that way. Julius was also pleased with their situation, but became worried about memory loss. He told Jacque the story about how he sang at a jazz club in Cairo, and Jacque told him he had told that story nine times that week. I wonder if I ever even went to Egypt, he thought. But he probably should’ve been wondering why Jacque felt the need to listen to the full story all nine times. The nurse at the emergency room soon got fired for giving a patient the wrong medication on three separate occasions. There was a pamphlet for Omaha on the hallway floor when she left, so she ended up taking her talents to East Nebraska. Minnie Mouse continued working at Disney World and hated her life. 

During their four-month anniversary, Julius read Jacque a poem before bed.

“Jacky. It’s been a pleasure with you.

If I wasn’t asexual, I’d call you my boo.

You hog the sheets, you scream in your sleep, but when it comes down to it,

I love you.”


Three years later, they went to Cairo to see the grand opening of the first Disney World resort in the Middle East. Everyone at the resort spoke Arabic, so Jacque and Julius had some troubles. Jacque was stressed, but Julius didn't mind because he had always enjoyed stealing things and sneaking in places anyways. 

After stealing food from three different restaurants, they made their way into the resort before quickly being chased down by security. 

"I love to run!" shouted to Julius to nobody. "I feel so free!"

He felt free, but he was soon not a free man as he was locked up in prison. Jacque was in a nearby cell and diligently mastered the Arabic version of Duolingo after four months. Feeling proud of himself for this feat, once he explained his way out of prison, he bought a place in Cairo. He attended the Disney World resort seven days a week, and quickly started dating the woman inside the Minnie Mouse costume. Her name was Edrice Fadul, but he always called her Minnie. Friends and family would have told them this was strange, but unfortunately they didn't have any. 

Julius enjoyed his stay in the cell. He never even thought of downloading Duolingo because he had the Blackberry Bold. He enjoyed his meals and made sure to play with his food before he ate it because he remembered his therapist tell him about the importance of play even as you age. Playing with food kept him entertained. Seven months later he died after an allergic reaction to dust mites. 

Dear quaint French tourist,

I am writing to inform you the current whereabouts of myself on the day that is this.

This morning, I awoke at roughly ten of the clock. I formalized my thoughts and grievances into prose in a lined notebook. As my stomach grumbled within, I felt a wave of peacefulness and tranquility rush over me as my eyes met with my stale box of Kellogg’s All-Bran Fruit’n Fiber cereal. With each handful of stale crumbs, I selectively placed the kernels of delight into my quivering mouth, hoping to experience the tumultuous hunger come to a halt. I then had the temerity to sit in a park sin shirt and read an exquisite book of poems.

Anticipating your curiosity of what my rapid brain was ingesting, I will give you an example of the poetic words my eyes glossed over:

There’s no place like Paris
Its beauty is all around
Eat some crepes, gain some weight
And soon you’ll be nice and round

To be completely frank, this is merely me paraphrasing. I yearn for the day that you may read what I read before turning the page and making eye contact with an obese turtle. It may be an arduous task for you to imagine an obese turtle, but it is truly quite the sight.

Due to these unusual circumstances, I felt I had no other option than to turn away from the turtle and shun him. Or her. I am not a turtlogoist nor are you so do not judge me with a look of distaste.

I set forth one foot in front of the other and then put the previous foot in front of that foot. I was embarking on a journey anew without the turtle. If you should ever come in contact with this timid turtle fellow, please give him or her my warmest regards.

​I dream of turtle. I think of turtle. And sometimes, I am turtle.
 
Sincerely,
Yours truly,
Tracy from the bookstore