Taco!?!?!

“Meeeooow” Foobie quietly announced. Blink. Santé was awake, as he always was in this manner every morning at 5:00 am. The room was bright daylight. Foobie was standing on his chest looking directly into his brown eyes with her yellow eyes four inches away, drooling. Their “apartment” was actually just a large bedroom inside of a barn, built over a utility room that had the water system for the property, a toilet, sink, and shower, a heater, hot water heater, and a washer and dryer. The barn was very large, and enclosed on three sides, the east side was open. The only window to the bedroom was also on the east wall, so the sun only shone in at sunrise. Any other time of day and they had to use the lights. This “apartment” was Santé and Vicki’s home June, July, and August. The rest of the year it was just storage for the patron’s. They had weird items there that “were too good to throw away” but were not good enough to display inside their house, which was just down the stairs and 50 feet away. There was a collection of “state” plates that his grandmother had, hanging on one wall. There was a limited print, matted and framed, of a P-51 model D mustang fighter plane, which was pretty, but what do you do with that? There were old photos of his racing career days, some 30 years ago. There was a variety of hunting rifles and shotguns that he no longer used. Santé and Vicki didn’t mind. They enjoyed living here because neither “their social class” nor their personal problems mattered. They could just be themselves. The problem was that this patron was not wealthy, and this work held no future for Santé. The pay was low, but it did give him the opportunity to sell some horses. Foobie was a scraggly ass old cat that the patron’s daughter-in-law had dumped on them. She was black, and old, and had been rescued as a kitten from the streets of Seattle, with a broken jaw. She was long haired. The patron had four barn cats. In general, Santé was not a cat person. But everybody made a big deal out of Foobie, like she was some fine Persian high-bred, so Santé went along with the fantasy. She had a cheap cat collar that was blingy, so everyone pretended it was a diamond bracelet off of a queen’s wrist. Foobie slept with them every night. She stayed out of the way while they had sex, and she snuggled in to either’s belly when they were asleep. She could walk around very lightly without waking either, and she crawled up on Santés chest every morning when she wanted out. This little apartment had no kitchen. It was large for a bedroom, with a small table and chairs next to the bed. The other side of the bed had a pole lamp and an end table. There was a writing table that was nothing fancy, just an old family heirloom full of collectable junk. Nobody actually used it for writing. The one window was between the writing desk and the table, and was also a fire escape with a ladder mounted to the barn wall outside of the sliding window. This barn was used for storing hay. Their bathroom was down the stairs, and they took most of their meals with the patrons; often barbeque that Santé or Vicki prepared, eaten at a picnic table on their porch. Santé got out of bed, walked to the door, and opened it. Foobie ran out. He started the hot water, grabbed his pack of American cigarettes, and his lighter, and walked back to his side of the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, and shook a cigarette out of the pack. He threw the pack on the end table next to his ash tray, and tore the filter off of the American pre-rolled. This always amused him. Why do these Americans put a filter on a cigarette? Is it supposed to make smoking safe? If you’re going to smoke, then smoke. All of his smoking in Argentina was cigarettes that you rolled yourself with a paper and a pouch of tobacco. There were no filters. Santé then placed the “clean” end of the cigarette in his mouth, and lit the “torn” end with the lighter. As he exhaled he felt Vicki’s fingers tap his right shoulder, as every morning. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth with his right hand, held it over his right shoulder with his index finger and thumb, and waited. He felt her wiggle up to a seated position with her back on the headboard. She grabbed the cigarette from his fingers and he heard her deep drag on the cigarette, she held her breath for a moment, and exhaled slowly, just like she was smoking a joint, and handed it back. Santé took a few more puffs and then put the cigarette out in the ash tray. Every day that they were “home” started like this. They did not need to get up this early. The only reason that they were awake was because Foobie wanted out, and the window had no shade. Neither one really smoked. This was Vicki’s only cigarette, one drag each morning, but she treated it just like smoking a joint, which she did enjoy a couple of times a week. She actually grew her own marijuana in a couple of ceramic pots from seeds that some Argentines playing in Calgary had given her. Their patrons didn’t mind, and just asked that they keep the plants out of sight when the grandchildren were around. Pot was legal for recreational use in Washington State.