My prehistoric grandmother, exemplar of Generation W (W for Waste), shamelessly threw away new, unopened packets of Tico’s Tacos “sizzlin’ hot” salsa.
Decades later I’m haggling with squatters to excavate Tico’s Tacos “sizzlin’ hot” salsa packets from garbage dumps. I showcase the packets alongside similarly excavated fast food detritus—styrofoam packaging, plastic cups and lids, faded wax-paper wrappers—all lovingly collected in a gallery behind glass. We’re rabidly nostalgic for these sorts of things because the Tico’s Tacos chain, like every fast food chain, no longer exists. Some of its architecture survives, such as dilapidated sombrero rooftops once neon-lit, and Tico the Cat statues waving hola from atop tumbledown signage. But mostly, reminders of the before times have vanished.
I curate Portals to the Past on Mission St, inside the protected Zone. The gallery is three blocks east of the checkpoint, a razor-wire interface between us and the hungry world. Lately the hungry have been trying to breach our razor-wire. My contact, Zook, the squatter who led the most recent excavation for me—he claims the hungry are planning to attack again in three nights, the same goddamned night as my Tico’s Tacos exhibition opening.
“You should delay your party,” old Zook says, smelling of urine. We’re just outside the checkpoint.
“Why are you telling me about this?”
“Telling you about what.”
“The attack.”
“Because, young lady, I like you. You give me work.” His toothless grin seems lecherous. I ignore it.
We finish our transaction: one box of ancient and interesting restaurant condiments in exchange for one box of jackets and boots. Then Zook’s limping off into the smoky urban wilds beyond the checkpoint.
It’ll be sundown soon. Portable flood lights flicker on. Security sentries inspect my ID, rush me back through the gate to safety, and I traipse down an empty Mission St sidewalk towards the gallery, eager to examine my box of treasure. But Zook’s claim about the attack irritates me. If he’s correct, my soirée will be a bust. People will be too afraid to come.
Dean phones as I pass the old California Shakes coffee shop. “Did Zook get anything good?” he says.
“We have a problem. He insisted there’s going to be….” I stop myself, realizing I’m likely the only one in the Zone who’s aware of this supposed attack. Saying nothing will guarantee that people can attend the soirée. “Actually, never mind.”
“Never mind what.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Um, okay, so about the Ranger Rick cups, I wasn’t able to fully clean them. There’s smoke damage….” Dean updates me on this and more, but I’m distracted, conflicted about whether I should alert Security. It’d be the right thing to do. However, I’ve been working on this exhibition for months, putting so much care into it. And I really need the business. And further, Zook could be mistaken; maybe the attack is mere rumor.
“Gotta go, Dean.” I disconnect the call.
The gallery is wedged between a dental clinic and a market. To the east loom unoccupied green-glass skyscrapers—stilled giants, generals without wars. As always there’s not much traffic on the once-busy thoroughfare; the absence of activity creates vacuous silence and loneliness, but I’m used to it. Earlier in the day I’d unlocked and raised the gallery’s steel shielding, hoping that rare passersby might pause and admire my window display. Presently I’m touched to see an attractive young man viewing the display, a menagerie of plastic rainbow straws, remnants of a Bloopee franchise. Above the straws hangs a neat hand-lettered sign advertising my Tico’s Tacos opening.
“You should come!” I place Zook’s box on the sidewalk, then gesture up at the sign.
The attractive young man smiles a gleaming smile, stares at my breasts, says, “Looks interesting,” which pisses me off, not because of his ogling but rather because I remember the supposed attack and its repercussions for my soirée. “Yes, it will be interesting,” I say, flirtatiously nibbling my lower lip, concluding that old Zook is full of shit, that the attack is indeed rumor and nothing more.
Three nights later the exhibition opens with a clink of champagne glasses. The attractive young man hasn’t arrived, but two dozen other patrons amble around with sentimental admiration. In addition to the Tico’s Tacos “sizzlin’ hot” salsa packages, a stack of single-use paper napkins proves popular, as does video footage of a drive-thru—grainy film-loop projecting against a wall. A violinist accompanies with popular 20th century melodies. Someone muses sadly about that distant life and its unlimited electricity. I can smell my shampooed hair, a special-occasion treat.
Dean congratulates me. “Another successful opening,” he says.
I revel in the moment, dreamy, until a ruckus at the front door causes a collective gasp. The violinist stops, and several cadaverous figures, redolent of sewage and wrapped in patchwork clothing—clearly from outside the Zone—shove their way into my gallery. But instead of killing us all, they inexplicably pause and gape at the exhibits. A scabby woman goes giddy and squeezes open a package of “sizzlin’ hot” salsa, then proceeds to slurp its contents. She gags. A man watches the film loop of the drive-thru, his cracked lips moving as though reciting a forgotten prayer. Another man, ribs visible beneath torn fabric, steps forward to examine my display of “kiddie meal” toys: three plastic Tico the Cat playthings.
A champagne-tipsy patron whispers to me, “I get it! What a wonderful performance! They represent our common humanity, abandoned by our common past.”
“Yeah…sure,” I reply. “It’s been difficult keeping them a secret.”
“Bravo!” says the champagne-tipsy patron.
Then a smash—screams, broken glass—and my soirée ends.
Ian Mahm writes in San Francisco, California, USA.
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