So my house blew up the other day, and I needed to make a claim on my homeowner's insurance, but the company didn't want to give me the 50k for which I was asking, because they said I lived in a hovel, and anyway that I was squatting. (They were right, BTW, but I hardly see what my bodily functions have to do with homeowner's insurance.)
I got mad, and I went over to the local strip mall to see what the insurance-selling office there had to offer. Right before I went in though, I happened to notice something. Jake Arrieta was sitting on a bench, in full Cubs uniform, right in front of the plate glass windows, contemplating the North Avenue traffic. Despite the smut and noise out there, he had a beatific smile on his face. I realized he was eating something that had been wrapped in a soggy hunk of newspaper.
I was going to ask for an autograph—or at least some memories—but before I could, he lifted his head and grinned real wide-like, right through his kinky, overgrown beard. He looked me in the eye, gestured with his meal, and said, "Jake… And State Farm."
I was dumbfounded. Jake the Snake was talking to me! But I didn't want to come across like some cloying rube, because I can just imagine what it must be like to be a famous athlete, so I made casual, and said. "''Sup Jake. Whatcha eating?"
He just kept smiling, and said, "Ass tacos. Want one?"
I wasn't sure what to make of this query, so I presented my own half volley: ""What's an ass taco, Jake?"
Not a word did he offer, but he was still holding out the taco. Before I looked at it, I scrutinized him. He was half-laughing, gently, to himself. And there appeared to be some crud stuck in his beard.
Now, there's nothing wrong with that. I had a beard once, in the heady days of the late 80s, when the free spirits of the freak culture in this country rode high, right up to the High Watermark or Septic Stain or Whatever… Getting crud stuck in my beard was half the fun. The other half was the itching, so you can kind of see why I lopped the thing off. Unless you're Amish, I can't why you’d do otherwise, but I'm not here to judge, especially not Jake!
Still, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that the crud in Jake's beard looked…special. It glinted in the sunlight, the way only wet, oily stuff can, and the reason that I hadn't noticed it before was that it was sort of brown, the same color as Jake's Brillo-ish beard. Of all the hodgepodge condiments you could put on a taco, I could not imagine someone using gravy. What's more it was particularly thick, viscous stuff. It would have to be very stiff gravy indeed, if that's what it was. So what was it?
"Say Jake," I ventured, "What er, um… well, uh…?”
He seemed to nod, maybe. He had the exact same glowing smile nestled down there in his bespattered beard, but it seemed encouraging now.
"See, the thing is you got something…welp…" He was nodding—in sort of a lightly palsied way, sure, but it was a nod! "Like, Jake? Just what is an ass taco anyway?"
I think Jake maybe giggled a little then, but maybe it was a burp. He said—and I remember this quite well: "They're asstastic is all I know. Hey don't you need insurance?"
I was thunderstruck. Jake is a badass and all, and probably a genuine genius in some sort of rarefied, regal way. It's beyond me, as are most forms of brilliance. But I do understand ESP and precognition and various other means by which Jake could have feasibly scried my purpose, because I've wasted far too much of my time on fantasy/sci-fi/superhero/whatevs. I guess that's probably sort of OK, because I am not a genius, and one of the great things about not being a genius—tho it may seem like a drag, given you're manifest irrelevance—is that nobody gives a shit what you do or think or say. So you might just as well watch second rate porn or eat stale chips, because even if you were going to waste your time, and you were a genius, you'd know about classy porn and hip, happening foods, like, say, ass tacos. Apparently.
So I guess there's no reason to be stunned by such brilliance. You should expect the spectacular when you're dealing with a demi-god! Why shouldn't Jake prognosticate my future or, uh, penetrate my innermost thoughts? Or know about something like ass tacos? It just goes with the territory of genius, doing amazing stuff! Still, it's one thing to recognize the obvious and another to experience it—however obviously amazing it is!
I stared at Jake, and my eyes were probably wide as whitewalls and that this point. "Uh, Jake?" My tone was appropriately cowed and deferential. "How'd ya know I need insurance? Did you see the cloud of fire when my house blew up?"
Now Jake was shaking his head. And this was no slight thing, like the nodding he'd been doing just a minute ago. This was real, head spinning stuff. And that's when it happened: a little bit of the gravy splattered outward from his taco and his beard simultaneously! The two separate splots merged in the air, and became one perfect brown blop that landed at my feet. I considered kneeling to scoop it up in sort of a worshipful way.
“It might be worth something on eBay!” I thought. But then it occurred to me that this little bit of loogie and gravy (or whatever) might not've been just dribbling around his beard! It might've actually been sliding around in Jake's mouth! And that would be sort of sacred—like a eucharist in reverse. Had it been transubstantiated when it sprang from Jake? That would make it sort of sacred. And was I really worthy of crouching down on the parking lot pavement to blot up something sacred?
I thought about asking Jake for his opinion, but he just looked so exalted that I couldn't bring myself to do it. However he was still holding that ass taco out at me. Boy, was he ever! Dripping and drooping and smelling kind of like—well, like ass.
Jake said, "Go on: take a bite."
I shrugged, finally acclimated to the whole hallowed hullabaloo. Jake says bite, I bite. And a rich meaty flavor spilt into my mouth. Jake was right. It was wonderful! It was like a first kiss from the Second Coming. It was really special.
I sat there chewing and chawing, so transfixed that I almost didn't notice when Jake got up and ambled off, grinning and giggling as he went.
"So long, Jake!" I remembered to yell. "I'll miss you and always be grateful to you for this ass taco you left me with!"
I don't really remember what else happened that day. I've looked for ass tacos all over the place since. I haven't found a single sign of one anywhere! And I have no idea how one might construct one in one's own home, though their tangy zest still lingers somewhere on my pallet till this day—a gastronomic itch that I just can't scratch.
I've also looked for Jake. Once I thought I saw him lying naked on a cloud, but it was just the sun glinting off the distant wing of a 747. Another time, I saw some guy lurking in the bushes outside my neighbor's house. He looked like Jake, and he was wearing that same grin, but when I asked him him if he had any ass tacos, he just ran away.
My own house is still in ruins, and it's getting colder out all the time, but my memories of that day should keep me warm till the insurance company finally gets off its ass and pays out. I feel warm now anyway, just thinking about it. After all, how many truly profound experiences have you had in your life? Not to mention: have you ever had an ass taco?
