The Adventures of Sly Danny
Volume One, Number Four

After I asserted myself over and over again to keep us all from getting fired, the car wash crew, even Lucky and Ramon, started to show me some respect. They didn't stop calling me "Goldilocks," though.

"Hey Goldilocks, Taco Trophy run!" yelled one of the guys on Thursday afternoon one week. Things slowed down after lunch, usually about 2:15. So that's usually when we took a lunch of our own. We always had to leave a couple guys behind to man the ship. Reminded me of the old whaling ships, how a 20-man crew would send out 3 whaling boats of six men each, and leave two onboard. Usually, it was the two most hapless individuals in the group. On that particular Thursday, I realized that could be a mistake.

Everyone assumed The Van was always at their service when it came time to head to Taco Trophy. Which it was -- these weren't exactly the kind of wheels you'd keep ready for a white glove test at all times, so I didn't mind everybody piling in after working the car wash all morning.

So everyone clambered aboard, ten guys and me. We left behind two guys who never quite fit in with the rest of us. Ronnie was a skinny white kid with glasses thick as the windows on a submarine, who cut his own hair every three weeks (this was obvious to all). He and Ert stayed behind. The only way I can describe Ert is to say that his comprehension of the world around him was directly proportional to distance at which Ronnie could read a sign without his glasses.

On our way to Taco Trophy, I heard Ramon and his little brother bickering in Spanish about something. "Cut it out, I'm trying to drive here," I said.

"Yo, we better head back. Now." Ramon wasn't usually so direct about things. "No way Ert's going to get the towels in the dryer."

This elicited a collective groan that rattled the Buddha hanging from my rear view mirror. I wasn't Buddhist, but I couldn't get the thing off when I bought The Van. No one (Buddha included) was happy about it, but we all acknowledged the need to turn around. Thursday was "No Tax Wax Day," when you could get a $14 car wash (wax included) tax-free after 4 p.m. People came out in droves for it. You would have thought the dollar you saved would feed your kid's hamsters for a month.

Rather than abandoning our taco quest altogether, I volunteered to place the order and wait for it, then walk back. So we continued to Taco Trophy, and I dropped myself off in the parking lot. Ramon took the wheel and everyone headed back to the car wash while I waited in line which, as usual, was out the door.

After I got inside the door, I spent the next ten minutes in line reading Champions From the First: The Story of Taco Trophy. It related the story of a Czech immigrant named Ivan who got lost on a bus in 1936, and ended up in this part of town, already largely Latino even then. He happened to find an apartment he liked at a price he couldn't refuse, so he stayed in the neighborhood.

He opened a Czech restaurant, but his Czech friends were afraid to come to the area as patrons, and the locals never made a return trip to Supperslovakia even if they were brave enough to try it.

On the brink of bankruptcy, Ivan conceived a plan. Knowing that tacos were a staple of the neighborhood, he announced he was hosting a contest: for the best taco in town, the winner received a giant taco-shaped trophy, and the entire pot of entry fee money.

Taco Trophy Day came, the three portly old ladies who were to be judges showed up ready to eat, the mariachi band was festive, and Ivan was all smiles as entrant after entrant came through his door and paid the dollar entry fee. The word had spread to other towns, and $2409 was collected throughout the day.

The judging panel was increased to twelve, and each judge consumed parts of at least two hundred tacos. After elimination rounds and what not, one bite of each of two tacos remained. Taco Day emcee Aurelio Rodriguez announced, "The Taco Day finalists for the Taco Trophy are (someone in the kitchen simulated a drumroll on a head of lettuce) Rosarita Rios, and (another drumroll) Ivan Milosz!"

One of the three original judges was selected for the championship. She took the last bite of Ivan's taco, nodding slowly. She took a drink of orchata, and brought Rosarita's taco to her mouth. "I don't need to taste this," she announced, dropping the taco piece in the trash. "Ivan's is the taco than which none greater can be conceived." Enraged, Rosarita grabbed the cash and escaped, never to be heard from again.

But Rosarita left behind what money could not buy: the Taco Trophy. Ivan said rather mournfully, "Perhaps now you will come to my restaurant, if only out of pity."

Aurelio Rodriguez said, "Mi amigo, you will become prosperous indeed if you do only one thing. Let Supperslovakia serve these most delicious tacos instead of the food of your homeland, and you will find your neighbors at your door forever." Everyone cheered. The mariachi band led a celebration. A ten-foot-tall relic of the trophy was constructed on the roof. Ivan dismissed the name "Supperslovakia" with a chuckle and could think of nothing better than simply "Taco Trophy" and it became thus known all over the region.

"Bro, your order?" asked the young man at the counter. He sounded a little annoyed. I was standing in line with eighteen feet between me and the counter, and the folks behind me were bristling. That story always brought tears to my eyes and swept me a few paces outside of reality. I came to my senses with a start, stepped forward and ordered our usual 99-Pak of regular tacos.

I finished my twelfth taco as I turned the corner towards the car wash. Much to my relief, I could see The Van safely parked on the street. But a line of cars longer than a Mafia funeral parade was jamming the parking lot. What was going on?

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