Feeding The Hungry       

            Juan walked the city streets, wandering in the winter air. He had been in New York for a few weeks. It had taken a few months of work and effort to get there. His father had saved money. His uncle had arranged a construction job so he could get into the country. Juan had been forced to work long hours in Mexico running errands for extra cash, but here he was, slowly walking through New York City at about 8:00 A.M., lonely and still not used to seeing his own breath in the crisp New York air.

            Back home Juan imagined his father and his Uncle Pedro were drinking dark coffee with eggs and tortillas, getting ready for the day. They were probably talking about Juan as if he were a hero, out taking on America to make some money for his family. For sure his brothers thought Juan was a hero and his mother worried. Juan was working hard, getting fifty hours worth of work per week already. But Juan was not used to the city. He was unfamiliar with the streets, and got lost in the tall buildings. This was his day off and he was roaming around, nothing to do and no real friends other than a roommate from Venezuela who was busy working his own job. Raphael was his name. He was about thirty years older and was a nice enough sort but he liked to drink when he wasn’t working. Juan just wanted to make enough to send a hundred dollars a week back home. A few months’ cash would mean a fortune to his family. If this worked out, before long, Juan’s brothers would be able to join him.

 Juan was cold and hungry. It was early morning and Juan was not used to the cold, to the streets, to the hustle of the people in the city that raced around him. Back home near Oaxaca, Mexico the streets would be flooded with kids trying to sell goods this time of day. Juan would be finishing his own eggs and tortillas. He would not be

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afraid of big buildings or crazy people rushing around. He would know the dirt roads, the people, and what to do. Juan’s stomach growled like the subway that took him to work six days a week.

            Perhaps Juan’s family had big dreams for him, but now Juan only dreamed of a homemade fire cooked breakfast. Juan passed a small diner. He had never been in one. There were no diners in Oaxaca, Mexico. He saw people eating, drinking coffee, reading papers. If there were a big fire pit in the center of the floor cooking tortillas and eggs, this place might pass for home. Juan walked inside and stood at the door.

            A pretty girl in a light blue uniform motioned to him to sit down. He took the first seat at the bar by the cash register. The pretty girl handed him a plastic covered menu. Juan could not read it. He looked at the pictures of the eggs and the meats. He looked for pictures of tortillas but found none.

            “Coffee?” The girl asked. Juan nodded yes. He had trouble with English but was working on it. Coffee he understood. The pretty girl had dark eyes and wavy black hair. She asked him something he didn’t understand. He felt panicked. “It’s fine.” The girl said in fluent Spanish. Juan took a deep breath and felt the stress leave his body.

            “I am new here.” Juan said timidly.

            “Yes. I can see. Relax. My name is Rosita. Where are you from?” Juan took a big gulp of coffee. She poured more. The steam warmed Juan, reminding him of home again.

            “Oaxaca.” Juan replied, drinking more warmth.

            “San Juan.” Rosita said, blushing a bit as she smiled. It made her seem prettier.

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            “My name is Juan.” He said, his eyes dropping down.

            “Are you hungry, Juan, or do you just want coffee?”

            “Thank you, ma’am, I’m starving, but I really wanted tortillas and eggs. Are there any here?”

            Rosita nodded no and Juan shrugged. “Call me Rosita.” She said. Juan blushed.

“Do you like beef?”

            “Yes.” Juan replied. He loved beef when they could afford it.

            “There’s a steak and egg special. The biscuits are great.”

            “Beescits.” Juan tried. Rosita smiled. She went back and placed the order. Juan enjoyed the coffee. It had great flavor. Perhaps it was better than Oaxaca coffee, certainly as good. Rosita returned with more coffee.

            “Try this.” She said. She opened a small green container and poured milk into his coffee. Juan grimaced. “French Vanilla.” She told him as she stirred it. Juan was uncertain, but was raised with manners. He tried it. It was the best coffee Juan ever tasted. Again Rosita smiled, which made Juan feel even warmer.

            Rosita returned with a big plate of food. Steak, potatoes, and fluffy golden ‘beescits’ overflowed from the plate she sat before him. Juan dug in. The biscuits melted in his mouth. Juan had never tasted anything like them.

            “Told you.” Rosita said as she brought him an extra biscuit.

            “They are better than tortilla’s.” Juan agreed, leaning back on his stool, stuffed. Juan could sleep now. He hadn’t slept well since he’d entered the United States, but he

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could sleep now. First he had to find the post office and mail his family the $110.00 he’d already saved for them.

            Rosita gave him directions. “See you tomorrow?” She asked in English.

            “Toomahrow.” He tried, smiling. Rosita smiled back. Juan walked out onto the sunny street feeling good. ‘Tonight,’ He thought, ‘I will sleep, and I will dream!’

            Juan mailed the money to his family.