by Barry Parham

Created on: December 20, 2010

Frijoles con Androgyny

(Indignation, indigestion, invisible women: could this be love?)

Every day, thousands of people walk up to me and ask, "How d..."

Okay, that's not entirely true.

Often, people will walk up to me and a...

Okay, that's not true, either.

Once, a guy I know asked me, "How do you find stuff to write about every week?"

True story. And it's a fair question, too, because people who know me know that I don't do anything. I don't like crowds. I hate flying. I like a book, an album, a warm fire, some Mexican food. If I could get Mexican food delivered, I'd never leave my house.

But occasionally, I'll put on the minimally-acceptable number of socially-required pieces of clothing necessary to go to a store, or to a concert, or to get some Mexican food. Or I'll pop out to visit with friends, who will inevitably ask me, "How do you find stuff to write about every week?" Or I'll motor away to spend some quality time with my parents, who will inevitably ask me to "please take some of this fruit home."

At my parents' home, in the town where I (more or less) grew up, there are always boxes and crates and cartons of fresh fruit. I don't know why that is, but they seem quite comfortable constantly navigating between pallets of grapefruit and tangelos, so I don't ask. Plus, there's practically zero chance of my parents ever getting scurvy.

Anyway, during a recent trip to visit them, I went out to eat with my parents. It was a mild mid-December early evening, a lovely occasion to visit a nice restaurant, and the three of us were to be joined by my cousin, Amber.

Amber, my cousin, is a good man and a good friend, and his name is not Amber. Calling a normal, healthy man "Amber" is, I've discovered, one of the singular advantages to writing fiction, though it carries the unfortunate side-effect that relatives may block your incoming phone calls. It may also explain why I don't get out much.

Maybe that's what's up with all the fruit. Perhaps my parents have convinced themselves that my condition could be cured, if conscientiously attacked by enough citrus.

But back here in our story about dinner, let's peek forward in time a bit, to the shank of the evening. It will surprise no one to hear that, for dinner on this evening, I angled toward anything at all that was Mexican, or Tex-Mex, or just simply hot. A blackened tuna steak, a mango and pepper salsa, garlic potatoes, a brimming bowl of black beans and onions. Ticket stamped. Barry happy.

And what happened after

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