The Fantasy Years

BING! WENT JENNY’S LAST CALL and with that bright magical sound the idea of what to have for dinner came to her: King Ranch Chicken. King Ranch Chicken with extra cheese. King Ranch Chicken with extra cheddar melting in pools on the layers of spiced chicken and tortillas. Flour. Not corn.

Jenny listened to the curt, coarse words of the customer almost cheerfully with the knowledge that this man was her last call of the night. The man himself seemed too worn down to mount much of an attack. It was Friday. He’d been on hold for probably half an hour.

Jenny couldn’t wait to get home. She would put pimento peppers in it too. Her calorie booklet said the extra cheddar was the fattest part but if she didn’t deserve a little extra cheese once and a while, who did?

The main thing was she was cooking it at home. And cooking at home was always healthier. That’s what her doctor said. Jakob and Joshua loved it. Those two had the appetites of wild animals. The appetites of little cubs. Of mountain lions. Everyone loved it. King Ranch Chicken with extra cheddar.

A giant, steaming casserole dish of melted cheese and chicken and tortillas and tomatoes. There was something warm and substantial about it. Like Rick’s back on a cold night. But something more than that too.

She got home that night from the grocery store, the boys leapt to the door when she walked in. Joshua hopped up and down to look inside the bag she carried. “Did you get ice cream?”

Jakob followed. “Did you get ice cream?”

They pogoed around her yelling, “Did you get ice cream?” Rick was helping to bring in the groceries too, one of the few tasks she never had to ask him to help with. If there was food involved, Rick was ready.
“Did you get ice cream?”
“Did you get ice cream?”
“Did you get ice cream?”

“Yes, I got ice cream now get out of my way before I trip!”

Then, Joshua clunked his head into the edge of a drawer and fell to the floor, grasping its forehead. Crying.

“I told you not to jump around like that!”

Tears welled up in his eyes.
She rushed to the kitchen counter, put down the groceries and ran for Joshua.
Because Joshua began crying, Jakob did too.

“What the hell happened?” Rick asked when he came inside, carrying four bags.

“What more proof do you need that America is a racist nation than to see what happened to Rodney King?” Don asked.

Anthony said nothing but instead worked the controller of the Nintendo. Anthony’s team, the Philadelphia Eagles, were at Don’s 20 yard line, 3rd and 3 to go.

“You hear Rush Limbaugh saying Jesse Jackson looks like a criminal and you’re mad for a week.”

Anthony hiked the ball, he faked to his running back and passed to a wide receiver. Don’s team, the Falcons, swatted the ball away.

“Why do you listen to that shit?” Anthony asked.

“Ahhh!” Anthony said, letting up on the console’s button. He paused the game and looked at Don. “No one has to tell me there is racism in this country.

“But you can either go through life looking for it and getting all pissed off when find it or you can go on with your life.

“Now you got a job, Don. You got a degree and you’re not in debt. You’re earning money. You should just concentrate on your own business instead of trying to fight battles from the past.”

“You should have heard this guy. Fat. White.”

“You can’t let their racism, like, paralyze you, Don.”

“Who says it’s paralyzing me? I gotta worry about it killing me in a society where cops beat you and jail you just for being black.”

“I’m not doubting you. That shit’s true. I’m just saying, you can’t be held hostage by that shit, man. It’ll stop you from getting ahead. Trust me.”

“You know there was a time, not so long ago, when young men like us, they took matters into they own hands…”

Anthony raised a concerned eyebrow and looked at Don. Then he turned back to the game and unpaused it. On the screen he got his team into position to try for a field goal.

“…Do you know my uncle Ken out in California? He was a Black Panther.”

“So?”

“Those guys stood up for themselves.”

“That was the Sixties. Back when people wore flowers in their hair,” Anthony sang the words, a smirk twisting up the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah? And?”

“So it’s history, Don. Get over it. We’re living in 1995. And I’m about to tie up the game.” Anthony’s kicker put the ball right between the goal posts. “You got to live in the here and now,” he said, gesturing to the goal posts.

Hours later, after everyone had settled down, had their wounds attended to, Jenny, stood alone in the kitchen, absorbed in the preparation of food. She hummed with purpose as she opened the oven and peeled off the aluminum foil. Sure enough, pools of melted cheese.

Jakob watched her. “Mom, it looks like Mars.”
“Now, watch out. I don’t want you to get burnt.”
“Can I have some more water?”
“Go into the living room. I’ll bring you some in a second.”

The edges of the casserole had turned a sort of wooden crispiness. Perfect. She turned off the oven, put on her oven mitts and placed it on the stovetop. The pan must have been fifteen pounds. Steam rose from its surface.

Rick hooted with approval as the smell wafted into the living room.

She cut out slices and served them and then called the men to eat.

They sat down and ate joyously, they ate with abandon, with gusto, with the kind of hurried sense of purpose you’d expect out of professional movers. She could tell the boys enjoyed it because they didn’t play with their food. They worked away at it. Dad took it down in great heaping bites. And Jenny was pleased. Her taste buds recalled what was so wonderful, so satisfying about it.
Jenny’s fork – not her knife – easily cut through the chicken and tortillas. So warm. The spices offering just enough heat. But not too much.

Everyone had seconds, including Jenny.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
Rick looked at Jenny and gave a nod that coincided with his chew. He smiled. “Wonderful, honey.” And Jakob smiled, his mouth full of food.

Dennis drove his usual pointless drive from work to his apartment and on his way, he saw someone who needed help with their flat. Dennis drove right by the black guy, standing there. He must have been about forty. A few years older than Dennis. He was waving to cars passing by.

Dennis drove past, then almost without a thought, turned a right. Then he turned another right. Then turned another right until he was back on the same stretch of the road. He eased his car behind him the black man’s.

“Hey, do you have a jack?” the man said, breathlessly rushing toward Dennis. “I got an iron and the tire. My brother must have taken the jack out of my trunk.”

“Sure,” Dennis said, getting slowly out of his car.

The guy drove a Caprice with small patches of rust over the wheelwells.

Dennis went to his trunk and got the jack. He didn’t even need to get dirty, like he did helping the lady. The guy did all the work. He just needed the jack. Dennis watched him, making little offers.
“Is that ground flat enough?” “You got the emergency break on?”

When his tire was back on, the man almost forgot to thank Dennis. He just seemed to be in a hurry to get on down the road.
Dennis put the jack back in his trunk, watching him pull out.

Dennis didn’t know what to think exactly.

He’d driven by other people with car troubles before. There was just a look on his face. He had a look like he’d been passed by before. Dennis knew the feeling. The feeling of being passed by.