Last night

I walked about my neighborhood with my bag of Busch Lights, just me and the rain and T-Town. A cop turned quickly into the alley I was walking through, he passed me with indifference. I gave a beer to Cici, a black gentleman from abouts 30th and Starr. He said I was alright. He told me to stay cool. He said there was nothing wrong with having a good time. Indeed.

I made my way to De'Leon's and walked through the drive-through. The couple in front of me ordered in perfect native tonged Spanish. The fellow behind me, he could have been annoyed or disgusted, drove over the sensor once and than again and than kindly let me stand in front of the box and order. Bearded fellow, I think he's a student, I think I've seen him or even talked to him before.

I ordered the Huevos Rancheros. My pronunciation was good but not quite perfect. (Way-vos Ranch-air-os) I got that down, but I forgot the little hint of an exhale before the "way." The woman at the window took my money without comment. I had been out in the rain for some time, and though it wasn't raining hard I was getting quite wet.

My food had been tossed about and mixed together by the time I got home. Beans and rice and eggs all together. This was fine, better that way in fact. What wasn't okay was that I had run out of my own Valantina's extra-hot sauce. De'Leon's sauce is nowhere near hot enough. It's clearly made for the casual fan, the unserious crush, and you would expect better from them, or maybe I shouldn't. There's no money to be made in being a beans and rice elitist. Let the elitists come begging at your window like the rest. Let them buy their own extra-hot sauce.

I sat on my porch and ate my meal with my last beer. The crickets were overwhelming. One couldn't here the unhappily married couple next door screaming over the sound of crickets. I ate my food, sopped up the remnants with warm tortillas, walked to the trash can in the alley to throw away plate, bag, and beer, and returned to the porch.

There was rain, crickets, and nothing else. I had been out on Thursday afternoon, the hottest day of the year, and it was brutal. Now it was room temperature outside, with rain and a light breeze. It was achingly beautiful. I never forget to feel angry when the weather is unpleasant. But I do forget to feel thankful when the weather is perfect. Thankful to God? Sure. why not? Am I too much of a cynical badass for that? Failing that, at least be thankful to nothing then. Nothing wrong with that either.

I drifted to sleep on the porch swing for a couple of hours. The love I felt for my neighborhood was overwhelming. {This is home, I spent a quarter, a third, who knows, maybe half or more of my life in the town where my parents and grandparents live. But this is home, Lincoln has always been home. Malone (You don't mind if I call you by your proper name dear? Of course not.) was always sitting there waiting for me. I love the Latinos and the Arabs and the Sudanese and the white tattooed Old Milwaukee drinkers and, though strangely enough, I love them least of all, my fellow jaded overgrown students.} There was nothing but rain and crickets, loud enough that I could still hear them as I dozed. This is enough. Whatever happened before and whatever will happen in the future, I was here for this. I know that it happened and that it was mine. And it is enough.