El Centro

The restaurant El Centro was now in a new neighborhood. It was no longer, as its name implied, centrally located. The events of the past horrific year had forced it to relocate to a new building on the far southwest side of town. It was now in a cramped storefront that had previously housed a Hungry Head sandwich shop. 

Business, at first, had been slow, but was now slowly picking up. Every Tuesday morning around ten o’clock, a large group of elderly women took over two large tables, pushed together. There were usually about ten people in the group, and the average age hovered around ninety.

They entered in twos and threes, shuffling in with canes and walkers, talking loudly so that those in the group who were hard of hearing could hear (most wore hearing aids, but they didn’t always work). The old women requested the tables nearest the washrooms, since several in the group could not make it through an entire meal without using the facilities, particularly if they drank a lot of coffee.

Their usual waitress was Maria. Maria adored the elderly ladies. They made her think of her Abuela, back in Mexico. Her favorite customer was a tiny spitfire of a woman named Lorraine, who always came with her slightly younger and taller friend Darlene. 

Lorraine stood barely five feet tall and had a puff of white hair on her head and twinkling blue eyes. She had few teeth left in her mouth, and Maria often wondered how she gummed her food, but she somehow seemed to manage. Maria suspected Lorraine had some form of dementia since she always ordered the same thing – two eggs over easy, a slice of ham, and whole wheat toast with strawberry jam.

Although El Centro specialized in Mexican cuisine, they also carried American staples, like bacon and eggs or hamburgers and fries. The American food was popular with the older folks, but they also had their Spanish speaking clientele who ordered the Mexican style tacos and huevos rancheros. They also carried American style tacos, however, slightly less hot and complete with all of the traditional American fixings.

Lorraine would always eat only one of her eggs and cut the ham down the middle, saving the leftovers in a styrofoam container for her dinner later that night. Once in a while, she would forget what to order. She would momentarily have a confused look on her face and turn to her friend Darlene.

“What do I always order?” she asked her friend.

Maria always remembered full well what Lorraine’s order was, but she waited patiently for Darlene to speak. As Maria stood waiting, she held her order pad in hand and pencil poised, giving both ladies her full, professional attention.

Darlene mechanically recited her friend’s order, and Lorraine smiled gratefully, showing her few teeth.

“Thank you. It’s so good to get out with friends!”

Maria grinned also. If only all of her customers could be like Lorraine, the world would be a much better place. Lorraine was a person who always saw the glass as being half full. Although she was in her mid nineties, lived alone, didn’t get out much, and suffered the usual aches and pains of old age, not to mention her ever worsening dementia, she never complained. She was happy to be out with her dear friends, ordering her usual simple meal.

Time passed, and the group got smaller. Several in the group passed away, including Lorraine. Maria read her obituary in the newspaper and made an effort to go to the funeral to pay her last respects. After that, Maria's eyes always misted over every time someone ordered eggs over easy. 

There had been some advantages to being in the new location. Maria doubted whether she would have met the lovely group of older ladies had El Centro still been downtown. She suspected that most of the old ladies were from the immediate neighborhood, and at their advanced ages, didn’t drive far. The old El Centro would have seemed to them to be in a distant land. 

The events of the past year in the downtown part of the city, those tragic events that had necessitated El Centro’s eventual move, still seemed like a distant nightmare. Maria still couldn’t believe everything that had happened in town. She vividly remembered the day it had all begun. It was during the time of Covid. El Centro, like many restaurants, had been suffering financially. They had been forced to close during the pandemic and shift to take out orders only. They had not been equipped for delivery and business had declined sharply. Not too many of their customers wanted to order takeout. And then just when things started to turn around, and takeout orders had begun to pick up, the racial tensions and riots had erupted.

It had all started with a black man being shot by a white cop. Maria didn’t know all of the particulars of who was right and who was wrong. Being a person of color herself, i.e. Hispanic, she suspected that the cop had been trigger happy and quick to use excessive force. However, she had not been there at the initial incident and didn’t want to be the one to make that call. She respected those in life enforcement who risked their lives everyday to keep the community safe. But there simply had to be a better way to go about policing. Jacob Blake, while still alive, was now paralyzed, never to walk again. It seemed that all too often shootings by police of unarmed black men, often leading to death, were occuring.

The next thing she knew, an angry mob of protestors had swarmed the city. They marched in the streets, holding signs and shouting angrily. 

“Say his name. Jacob Blake!”

“Say his name, Jacob Blake!”

She had been out one night walking from home to the corner drugstore when she witnessed the protesting crowd. While she agreed that Jacob Blake should be remembered, the mob seemed to her to border on manic. Their strident calls had frightened her. She hurried home that day.

From that day forward, throngs of angry protestors swelled the downtown streets at night. It was the summer months, and the weather was warm. As the masses marched, signs in hand, the police stood in a line, riot gear on, with white helmets and imposing, bulletproof shields held in front of them. They carried batons and had large black guns, upholstered at their sides.

A curfew was soon enacted. Maria and her family, who lived nearby the protests in the downtown area, were not allowed to venture out of their house in the evening. This was America and their fundamental freedom of movement had now been restricted. Maria couldn’t believe it. She felt as if she were living in a militarized zone or at least in a state of suspended animation where nothing seemed real. Others in town seemed to agree with her. Everyone was on edge. Neighbors locked their doors tightly and didn’t venture outside once darkness fell. Instead, they remained glued to their TVS, laptops, and cellphones, waiting for news, occasionally pulling the curtains apart to peek outside into the darkness, where they occasionally saw the flickering light of fires. 

Since Maria’s aunt and uncle were the owners of El Centro, all of the men in her family including her uncle, father, and teenage brother, were talking about standing guard in front of the restaurant at night. The crowd had become unruly, and they were afraid that the restaurant’s windows would be broken or the building would be defaced, or worse yet, burned. 

“It’s not the daytime protesters,” her father said. “They’re peaceful. I would even march with that group,” he said. “It’s the nighttime group that are the troublemakers. I think they come from out of town, and they’re real instigators.”

“Yeah,” her brother Marcos added. “There’s already been a fire in front of the courthouse.”

“What happened exactly? The news doesn’t show everything,” Maria complained. Although she was frightened, she really wanted to know what was going on. More than wanted to know, she needed to know.

“Well, on the first night, they declared a state of emergency around ten o’clock. They parked garbage trucks to block the streets and stop the crowds from entering. When that didn’t work, the police started using tear gas and rubber bullets to get the crowd to scatter,” her father said.

“It didn’t really work,” her brother added. “Around midnight was when the protestors lit the fire in front of the courthouse. And then they later burned at least three garbage trucks and one of the trolley cars. After that, it was like Pandora’s box of evil was opened. Fires everywhere, burning up used car lots, businesses, even a school . . . ”

“That’s terrible,” Maria shuddered.

“Yeah. Is nobody going to say it?” her father asked bitterly. “It’s like we’re living in a war zone. And I’m not even sure whose side we should be on.”

“I do agree that police shootings happen disproportionately more for colored people, and something needs to be done about it,” Maria said. “But is burning down buildings really the answer?”

“And the fireworks aren’t aimed just at the buildings. The protestors are also launching them at the cops,” her brother added. “And innocent bystanders too…”

“That’s why the governor called in the National Guard, and why we’re not allowed outside” her dad added. “Now we got armored tanks patrolling the streets. It’s World War III out there.”

“That’s why we need to protect El Centro,” her brother said. “At least, we should stand in front of the building and show our brown faces to the world. If they want to burn something, don’t let it be a Mexican restaurant!”

Maria’s mother who had previously been quiet up to now, just listening to their words, suddenly cried out, “No way! You all need to stay home. It’s not safe out there! Let the police do their job!”

“Yes,” Maria agreed. “The worst thing that could happen is that the building would get damaged, but that’s why we have insurance. Buildings can be replaced. People can not.”

Marcos was staring intently at his phone.

“Breaking news! There’s now some kind of organized militia, or vigilantes, who are grouping together to protect the city. They’re armed with guns.”

“Good Lord,” her mother exclaimed. “What is this world coming to? It's gone loco! That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen! Can’t the police and the National Guard do their jobs? Why do we need crazed vigilantes roaming the streets? Someone is going to get hurt. Mark my words!”

In hindsight, Maria felt that her mother’s, and everyone else’s, words that night had been prophetic. El Centro, like many other buildings in town, was later destroyed by fire. She still remembered her uncle’s voice breaking when he told them that his beloved restaurant El Centro, the one that he had poured all of his money, blood, sweat, and tears into, was now nothing more than a smoldering pile of ashes.

The worst part of the riots, however, had been the loss of human life. One vigilante by the name of Kyle Rittenhouse had fatally shot two protestors and injured another, claiming self defense. Maria shuddered to think how close her father and brother had come to being out on the streets that fatal night. Whatever side one was on in this dispute, no building or business was worth human life. 

Now a year later, she stood in El Centro’s new building, well new to her and their staff and customers anyways. The building was small and cramped, and not ideal for their needs. It didn’t have the same cheerful ambiance of their former establishment, which had been brightly painted in traditional Mexican colors. However, they were making it work. Buildings were replaceable, she reminded herself.

They now had new customers and were rapidly again becoming the center of the neighborhood. Or at least the center for an elderly group of gringo ladies on Tuesday mornings, she smiled. She looked over at the table of women.

Darlene, Lorraine’s friend, now sat quietly with the others. In Maria’s eyes, however, the elderly woman seemed to have lost some of her spark since the death of her good friend. The two women had been like small, elderly bookends, propping each other up through all their ailments. Now Darlene had no one to order eggs for, Maria thought sadly.

“Happy birthday, Darlene!” She suddenly heard a woman say.

Darlene smiled shyly, “Thank you!”

“We really need to order you a dessert!” the woman said.

“Yeah, and we should sing happy birthday!” A third voice chimed in.

“No, that’s okay,” Darlene protested laughing.

Maria looked over at the cash register. A small flowering plant in a sepia pot stood brightly off to the side. She suddenly had an idea. She walked over and picked up the plant.

“This is for you,” she presented it to Darlene. “Happy birthday!”

Darlene looked up in surprise. Maria’s eyes were suspiciously bright. Lorraine would have loved this day. 

“Thank you!” Darlene said, touching the young waitress’s hand.

“You are welcome.”

It wasn’t much, but Darlene’s birthday plant seemed to Maria to be a cheerful, hopefully symbol that life goes on. Diminished sometimes, and in a chipped pot, or a small, cramped restaurant, but still blooming nonetheless.

Bloom where you are planted, little flower, Maria thought, even if you are no longer in the center of town. 

Author’s note: This story is loosely based on the real life events that happened in my hometown of Kenosha, Wisconsin from August 23 - September 1, 2020. The name of the restaurant and the characters have been changed to protect the innocent, however. Any factual errors in the events related are the fault of the author.

This story is dedicated to my mother and her friends, the restaurant patrons (Tuesday morning brunch group) who inspired me to write this story. Their restaurant reopened after its original building was destroyed in the race riots. A kind waitress there gave my mother a plant on her birthday.