It was always green salsa for her. That was how Toni was raised. Her uncle would make both red and green for big parties and holidays, but for the most part on the dinner table each night was salsa verde. And the Valentina for heat. She kept a bottle of it in her desk now, to put on everything from ham and cheese sandwiches, to leftover chicken, to a spinach salad. She realized she probably should have eaten at her desk, then she would have her hot sauce with her.

Toni chewed her enchiladas and dipped her free chips into the guacamole as she daydreamed about home. About her mother and uncle, her younger brother, their dog, a Cocker Spaniel named Rico. It was peaceful there, once her dad left. It became a nice place to come home to after school every day, a place she didn’t even want to share with most of her friends. Because it had become a sanctuary that she did not want disrupted. She worried that if outsiders came over things would change. Like before.

Her dad was like an outsider, he never belonged there. He wanted Toni’s mother – and everyone else in the family – to be different. Even the dog. Like, so many rules around what Rico could and couldn’t do; all these little words, sounds, and gestures to train him just so. He was a dog, her mother would say, solamente un perro, leave him alone. That’s how she would talk to her husband in the beginning, to Steve. But after a while she would placate him more. The kids – and the dog – became victims of this placating. They knew when their didn’t agree with some mandate or another that Steve had handed down, but she thought it would bring peace to the household if she didn’t resist. But instead of peace it just stored up anger, in the hearts of her kids — and in her as well, it turned out.

The third phase of her parents’ relationship looked like fireworks. Her mother no longer placated, or gently challenged, she just yelled. Toni would find herself rooting for her mother, thinking, You go girl, tell that arrogant bastard just what you think! There never seemed to exist any risk of physical violence; Steve wasn’t macho enough for that. Whatever that meant. Like, a “real man” Latino would beat the shit out of her mother? Nope. Toni just really hated Steve, so any insults she could think of made sense in the moment.

It was almost time for class and Toni had eaten both enchiladas, all the guacamole and most of the tortilla chips. It was a combination of hunger — because she’d had no breakfast due to the questionable refrigerator — and just being lost in thought. It was one of the most peaceful moments she had enjoyed in a long time. She decided she would start class with a writing prompt: Choose a family member from your childhood (this can include a pet) and write your feelings about them. She would time the students, three, maybe even five minutes for writing. It would be hard for some of them. But if they didn’t want to do hard they could choose their pet. Unless the animal met with some horrible demise, which is possible. Really, it was so difficult to be a teacher these days, every topic was deemed sensitive, students were not supposed to be made to feel uncomfortable. Which of course was the problem with the world today as far as Toni was concerned. The citizenry had decided that a noble goal was to avoid discomfort at all costs. Nothing ventured, so nothing gained. That was something Steve would always say, “nothing ventured nothing gained.” Where he heard that phrase was a mystery because that is not the way he spoke usually. He probably didn’t even know what it meant. Plus he only used it to refer to things he thought were worth venturing. About things that only he could possibly gain from.

Toni gathered up her lunch wrappers and bags and threw them in the garbage can on the way back to her shared office. She realized she was extremely thirsty, having totally neglected to bring her water bottle with her. She hurried down the sidewalk to Rampart Hall where her office was, turning over the phrase, “nothing venture.”

Fall in Southern California was basically like summer anywhere else. So when winter came, the fall-like conditions finally arrived. Crunchy leaves fluttered to the sidewalks, colors changed in the mountains, and the light took on a softer look, dissipating instead of poking taser-like at the body. Those who didn’t like the searing heat of summer/fall (which was not everybody) came outside in the winter. The parks got fuller, in the daytime at least. SoCal people, no matter their season, were not great at the cold nights, the way the temperatures would dip so quickly the moment that melting sun sank behind the mountainous horizon.

Ronald liked the winter, in part because it wasn’t so hot inside his truck. In the summer it felt like you were sitting in your car with all the windows up and no air conditioning. The grilling onions and peppers emanated heat into the cramped space as he raced from cooler to cook top to service window, over and over and over again throughout the day. He had thought about hiring someone, he had made enough money to do that. But how would he fit two people in there? He didn’t have one of those big trucks. Not yet anyway. And if there was someone else there it would be even hotter, another sweaty body in close proximity. He preferred to go it alone for now, work his ass off and then be done with it. Plus, if there was ever some downtime, a lull in customers, he could enjoy some quiet and peace in his little world, even if for just a moment.

He was having such a moment on this day when he found himself thinking about Antoinette. Not so much because he liked her or anything but wondering why women didn’t come to his truck more often. Was it all those men encircling the place? Was that intimidating? Was there something Ronald could do to attract more women to the truck? Was that even important? Maybe offer some salads? Women seemed to like salads in America. And of course it was important: more customers was always a good thing, and the more diverse the customer base the more possibility for expansion. He learned that in his business class, the one he took at the community college up the street last spring. They were called extension courses. Edward had told him about them.

Edward learned a lot from the men he worked with, and then told Ronald whatever he knew. The men were definitely their own kind of networking group. A lot of them had been professionals back home, or at least had very different jobs than the ones they were working now. So many people assume that South and Central American and Mexican men are simply wired for construction, landscaping, or selling empanadas underneath a canopy on the street. Well guess what, a lot of these men held very important jobs at one time. Edward himself had been a sous chef after all, at a four-star restaurant. He worked construction with one man who had been a high-level administrator for his city government; another who was a licensed dentist; and yet another who was an author and professor. That man, Tomas, Edward reported to Ronald, was not cut out for construction work. The first day they met, standing in that group of day laborers, he noticed Tomas had on regular sneakers. Like he was going for a walk in the park or something. And no gloves. Turns out Tomas thought those sorts of things would be provided by the employer. But he learned.

Ronald liked Edward’s stories. His friend was a good storyteller. He did the voices, facial characteristics and everything. As they stood side by side cleaving the meat and stirring the sauces in Ronald’s kitchen on prep nights, Edward would act out the stories. Ronald was slightly envious of the closeness his friend had with his co-workers. Even though the group changed a bit each time, there seemed to be a central group of men. And even if they didn’t work a job together, they’d see each other in passing on another job, or sometimes in the parking lot first thing in the morning. Edward hadn’t had to go back to that parking lot for a while though.

Conversely, for Ronald, there was something about the physical barrier of the food truck that didn’t seem to allow anything too personal to go on. Which Ronald was okay with for the most part. He was up high, looking down at his customers, speaking from a small window, quickly repeating back an order, getting a name, then going to cook. There wasn’t time for chit-chat. Chit-chat. Such a funny term. He learned it when he passed by a café in West Los Angeles one time.

Ronald had decided to go to the beach that day– his day off, a Sunday. He had been thinking about yerba mate lately, feeling nostalgic for something from home. He decided to stop off at an Argentinian shop that carried it but, on the way, he saw a café advertising matcha which he initially misread as mate, which is what they all used to call it back home. The place was called Chitchat Coffee. He parked, went in and quickly realized there was no mate. But they were friendly there, and even though it was a little expensive, he ordered a matcha. And he asked what the store name meant. Because he was always looking for a good name for his business, his future company when he really got things going. Most of his customers now just called his truck “Tacos Burritos.” apparently, the first two words on his LED sign. Even though it said “Ronald’s,” in script, above the windshield. Not Ronaldo’s either, though that was his given name. The matcha was okay, but it wasn’t mate by any stretch.

It was raining one day as Ronald sat atop his milk crate just outside his truck, getting some fresh air during a break in business. People said it never really rained in Southern California, but it actually did. Someone must not have brought their umbrella, Ronald thought. He had his. Edward stopped by the truck because he had the day off due to the weather. Ronald was happy to see him, a friendly face, a friend. Edward ordered the cheese enchiladas, wanting something he didn’t have a hand in making. Ronald gave him everything free, chips, extra salsa, lemonade… Edward kept saying No más, cerote! But Ronald felt very grateful to Edward. Not only for his help, but for his friendship. He was a good man.

As Ronald was piling grilled onions into a separate paper dish for Edward, Antoinette came to stand in line. Ronald reached his hand through the window to hand Edward the onions, caught sight of Antoinette, and promptly dropped the dish onto the ground. “Bro!” laughed Edward. Other customers had arrived and sort of shuffled away from the mess, reforming the line to the side. One nice man – Ronald was pretty sure he worked at the nearby pharmacy – started picking up the onions with a bunch of napkins that he took from the window shelf.

“You don’t have to do that,” cried Ronald, embarrassed twice fold — for getting excited by the sight of a woman and then having a customer clean up his mess. But the man smiled and Ronald had a bunch of customers to serve, so he just let him keep going. When that customer finally got to the front of the line, Ronald gave him his Topo Chico for free.

Antoinette ordered the chicken tacos this time, with green salsa. Ronald didn’t add anything extra to her order this time. He felt too silly already. He watched her walk away, wearing grey trousers and a black jacket. Those clothes fit her better than the suit, he thought.

Edward hung around until the lunch crowd had left.

“Who was that woman, Ron? I thought you said no women came by?”

“Oh, her name is Antoinette. Yeah I was real surprised first time I saw her. But maybe she’ll be a regular, tell other women. I was thinking we – I mean I! – should offer a salad or something. What do you think?”

“I don’t know man, she looked like she was happy to have the enchiladas. But we could experiment, make something out of what you already have. Like the pizza places do. We’d need some crispy lettuce, something that wouldn’t die in this heat.”

The two men talked back and forth about the possibility of the salad, and then about maybe adding a few more things to the menu. After a while Edward said he was ready to get home so they did a one-arm hug and he was on his way. Ronald served a few more customers and then it was two-thirty and time to wrap up for the day.

Mexico felt so distant to Ronald at times, yet other moments he felt he was right back there, in his home, with his brother, sisters, parents and cousins all sitting around the living room, watching soccer or wrestling on television. They had a big house, even for Tijuana. But they had a lot of people to fit in there, too. His dad made decent money, working in San Diego all week, then coming back home on the weekends. But when his dad finally got a job at one of the local factories it was so much nicer for the family. He was a good dad. Next door to them lived Ronald’s abuela and a friend of hers. They both lost their husbands around the same time so the friend sold her house and moved in with his abuela. They were funny women, different than Ronald’s other female relatives. Very independent.

Ronald grew up happy, liking school, and learning English easily. So many people spoke English in Tijuana, whether American expats or simply Mexicans who spent so much time working on the other side of la línea. But things started to change when Colosio was murdered. The drug people had always been around, but not so much in Tijuana. Of course, some people didn’t think that the politician was killed by dealers, that it was probably more political. But either way it kind of stirred something up and life felt more tenuous to Ronald than before. He had been thinking about trying to live in the United States. So many of his friends were doing it. Even though it was much more expensive than Tijuana, you could also make more money there and live your own kind of life. Ronald was tired of working for the medical devices company, assembling items on a conveyor belt. He wanted to be creative, he wanted to cook food for people, show off his skills. And make money. So he left.

            It was hard for a while, of course. He lived in a house with four other Mexican men. They would pile into their one car, a 1984 Oldsmobile, and drive over to the Home Depot lot to wait for work. Ronald thought about going back a few times, thinking he wasn’t really doing any better in America. But after he met Edward, realized there were other men there going for the same thing — not just trying to get by but to succeed — he decided to stay. It was a good decision. But it still was not easy. The documentation process was so slow and he was worried if he didn’t get things in order before the new year that he might get deported. What would happen to his truck? His customers? He tried not to think of it all the time yet everything he did was about getting his papers in order — and not being noticed by the authorities along the way.

            Toni liked her life. She had a lovely apartment with lots of natural light. She had a very pretty dog, in her opinion anyway, named LuLu, and a few friends, most of whom she liked. But that proverbial something was missing and she wanted to find out what that something was. At some point, anyway. Because right now she needed to grade eighty essays by the following Monday. Her students were struggling, for myriad reasons. Of course, some still hadn’t recovered from the pandemic home-school situation. They could not integrate information the same way and had problems speaking up in class. Plus they saw deadlines and due dates as much softer than Toni ever intended.

And then there were the kids whose parents were undocumented, or even just immigrants who had all the papers needed. One girl told Toni she was getting in the car with her dad to go pick up her graduation regalia and some sort of cop stepped out of nowhere and demanded he provide his identification The student had her “know your rights” card on her – she had given one to her father but he refused to carry it. She shoved it in her dad’s face, the Spanish-language side, and said, Papa, leen! Reluctantly, he began to read from the card to the cop while Toni’s student jumped in the car and locked all the doors. Yo tengo el derecho a guardar silencio… According to the student, the cop kicked the car door, slammed his fist against the window and yelled something as he walked away. Toni ended up walking the student over to the bookstore that day, to pick up her graduation supplies.

EDWARD MET RONALD IN A HOME DEPOT parking lot in Burbank, standing with a group of men waiting for day’s work. The two started talking about their home countries, about cooking, about soccer…and they hit it off. Edward was still doing construction a year later, after landing a union job that kept him busy building residences he would never be able to afford to live in. The job paid well, and his papers were very close to being in order. As soon as they were finalized he would bring his family over to live with him. This plan kept him working, even when he did not especially feel like it, when what he really wanted to do was make food. So he was glad to help Ronald out.

Edward would drive over to Ronald’s house a few nights a week. They would do some cooking, any kind of food prep that could be done ahead of time, and then sit in the living room watching soccer matches, especially if Guatemala or Mexico was playing. Ronald was renting a small bungalow on the east side. He got lucky, finding a fellow-Mexican who actually owned a home and had a place in the back. As long as the rent was paid, no questions were asked. Ronald did not even confide in his landlord, a man who certainly seemed chido. You just never knew.

It was nice for Edward to have a friend in California, a man who was also trying to do the right thing, stay quiet, head down. Edward had a lot of practice doing that back home. But even that was not enough to stay safe there. He hoped his good behavior would count for more in America. He was doing well at work; the boss liked him, the other guys – the regular core group – they all got along with each other. It seemed like most of them had similar situations. There wasn’t much talk of family, home, or the past in general. Once in a while one of the men would mention a mother, a sister, a girlfriend. But it was brief, and often seemed like a slip of the tongue more than anything.

Edward was living in a world of men at the moment and that was alright. He wasn’t interested in complicating things by getting involved with a woman. In time he would, but he came to learn that things took a lot of time in America. It may have been a land of opportunity, but there were no shortcuts in this country,not for people like him anyway. At some point he did hope he would meet a woman and get married. It was too late for him to have children. But that was okay. He felt he didn’t have that much to give them anyway. Let his friend Ronald have some kids for the both of them – he was really going places.

The first time Antoinette showed up at the food truck, Ronald was surprised. He probably looked surprised, too, because he had never had a woman step up to that window. At most, one would walk down the sidewalk past the men in the red chairs – often get whistled at, called out or something. Ronald didn’t think that was nice but he was not about to make a fuss with the men. Antoinette – that was the name she gave so he could call it out when her food was ready — ordered two cheese enchiladas with green salsa and a side of guacamole. Ronald found himself wondering if she was sharing that with someone before he could even catch himself. He smiled too big as he handed her the food, “I threw some chips in just in case,” he said. Just in case of what, he thought to himself. How stupid. In case there’s an earthquake, or she gets lost and has to survive for days on her order from the Mexican food truck? Ronald had not spoken to a woman for so long he had apparently forgotten how to.

Antoinette thanked him generically, grabbing the white paper sacks off the window ledge. Turning around she practically ran into one of the customers who had moved his chair way up, far from the concrete wall. “Can you please move your chair back, sir,” Ronald asked with the quietest and kindest of voices he could muster. That man should have known better, there was a lady there. No manners. The man moved his chair back, not registering what had just happened. Antoinette seemed unfazed, walking away in her modest navy-blue suit that looked just a little too big for her frame. Nobody whistled.

Toni, as some people called her, was fifty-seven, but was often mistaken for forty-something. This could be a benefit, but also a detriment. Not like a woman in her forties is a kid, but her department chair and other college administrators seemed to speak to her like one. She had been in the business of academia for decades, had three grown children and two divorces. She had been around the proverbial block and yet was forced to suffer colleagues who knew nothing but graduate school, compatible partners, and aspirations of academic administration.

That day, back on campus with her lunch, she sought out the most isolated table at the outside seating area. She was looking forward to digging into her enchiladas and guacamole in silence. Only students hung out in that area and they would have no interest in speaking to some professor hunched over her meal. One upside of the pandemic was less interruption in daily life; social skills had gone out the window and half the people were scared of their own shadow.

The enchiladas were good. Definitely more than one kind of queso in those things. She had been eyeing the food truck for months, but Toni typically brought her own lunch to work. This was partly because she was frugal – necessarily so – and partly because it meant less social contact during her brief break between classes. But the power at her apartment had gone out the day before and she had no time to vet the refrigerator for what food was still good and what needed to be tossed. So no lunch from home, and an excuse to head over to the red and green truck. Thankfully the guy in the truck wasn’t especially talkative either, so Toni didn’t have to expend that extra energy. She taught four undergraduate classes a week – two history and two writing. She did a lot of communicating, navigating, explaining, and bargaining. So all communications had to stop when she stepped out of the classroom.

Twenty years ago, when she had started teaching, there had been less bargaining with students. And it wasn’t just during the pandemic that things changed. Somehow, in the last few years, students had come to believe that advocating for themselves meant that they should not accept any circumstance they didn’t like — no matter that they may well have earned them. Just that morning Toni’s office hours had consisted of a number of bargaining sessions, plus a student coming in to ask about the final essay, expressing that she didn’t really understand the assignment. While one might suggest a positive spin, that said student had enough motivation to come speak to their professor, Toni couldn’t help wondering to herself, what is there not to understand!? Not only were the guidelines explicitly laid out, each step enumerated for the whole brainstorming/proposal/rough draft/final draft essay process, but each day in class they went over one step together. But many of these students wanted a shortcut to reading directions, to thinking things through on their own.

Now it could be that this particular student who visited her office that day, Shawna, was confused because she came in excessively late most every day, sat at the back of the room, and texted during the majority of class. Toni used to stay on top of the texting, laptop surfing, etc. But she didn’t have it in her anymore. And maybe that was better pedagogy anyway, she wasn’t sure. She just knew she couldn’t expend her limited resources on repeating the syllabus statement which equated texting to interrupting someone in class. Whatever Shawna, go ahead and text, she found herself thinking when she would look up to see the student smiling into her phone.