The Quest for Nachos

At long last, the farmhydra is dead. It lies slain at my feet, a plow buried in its many-furrowed head. Entire corrals stand, built by my own two hands in the dead of day, though I am now nocturnal (blessed be the night shift). Soon the farm will rise again, and another two heads shall take its place, but for now I have bought myself a respite. Not a peaceful one.

Today was July the 4th, also known as America Day and National PTSD Inflammation Holiday. The local firework show was nothing if not impressive for once. The finale reverberated in my chest and deafened ears for miles around. The display reminded me of machine-gun tracer rounds cutting back and forth through a night sky bombarded with explosions, like some sort of gaily colored nighttime air raid gone awry. I was awed.

But I have a tradition on this, the Fourth of July(s). A tradition that has gone unbroken since time immemorial (estimates put it at six years, currently). Every Independence day, weather or no weather, heat or more heat, fireworks or no fireworks, I go looking for nachos. Until today, I never found them. But today... well, christ on a stick, I've already spoiled it, haven't I? Well, I'll cut to the chase. I found nachos. But it took several heart-breaking roadblacks before this glorious victory. First I had to stay up all day, despite being nocturnal as I've mentioned before, and then I had to ask my sister to bring my wallet once we reached the city park (if this small town could be described as a city, and if its square field of mowed grass could be called a park). In the meantime I napped and salivated dreamily of the hot, steaming goo-nachos of the ballpark. They called to me from their place in the greasy red-and-white checkered cardboard bowls. But by the time my sister arrived, it was too late. The concession employees were already folding up their tents and the nachos were gone.

Yet again I had been thwarted.

Well, only for a few minutes. It wasn't long before I espied the unmarked concession stand on the opposite side of the fenced baseball field. But was it being used as a drink bar? A gathering place to chew the proverbial fat? The adults gathered there (my god, I am an adult, why do I think of older adults as more adult-y than my adultness) seemed content to only stand around and gab. I spent the next ten minutes conducting field reconnaissance from a distance, in which I watched over the shoulder of my little brother so as to ascertain the building's nature, before my eyescouts reported back with visual confirmation that an elderly obese man had been spotted carrying two plates of nachos. My hunger-weakened legs kicked into gear, but before they could carry me far I was accosted by Gordon Freeman and his ill-tempered wife.

No I am not kidding, I ran into the [Free]man himself. He shook my hand, and seeing as he's the currently the father of one of my closest friends you'd think I would have a response prepared for his silent niceties. But, as if in sympathy for his silent ways, my words abandoned me and fled on down the track. So I shook his hand, we nodded at one another, and then his wife shot me the stink eye while she dragged him away into the crowd.

This delay allowed the last of the nachos to be sold right as I reached the counter. I was, of course, devastated... until the lovely cashier informed me that while all the nachos may be gone, there was one last plate of chili-cheese nachos sitting fresh in the oven. And for me, it came at the cost of but a dollar.

When the story behind our national anthem played over the loudspeakers (TIL that the flag was still there... because a pile of mutilated patriots propped it up), I shed a single lonely tear. Literally. And while it may partially have been out of inflamed national pride on this, the holiest of American days, the real reason for my solitary drop of liquid sorrow was the taste of goo-chili and goo-cheese melting in my mouth around a core of crunchy tortilla chip.

God bless America.