Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)
March 31, 2007
Tony O grabs Grig under the shoulders, hoists him upright on the couch. He’s sunk in the bow of the cushions, face lined from the upholstery pattern, fibrous mouth, his eyelids scraping over bone dry eyes.
Where’s your coffee? I smell coffee.
You smell downstairs. It’s the bakery.
Mexican.
Right. Those little angel-wing pastries. Fruity cream wedding cakes. The little white loaves of bread. The bolillos.
That’s a nickname.
No it ain’t. It the loaves of bread. That’s what they call them.
No, I mean, for me. Well, for any whiteboy.
What?
Inside. They called us that. The Aces and Cobras and those guys. Bolillos. Because we were white and soft.
Damn. That’s fuckin funny Grig. Bolillos.
Yeah. Funny. I never had one before.
Well, get happy kid. Today’s the day.
Great.
