there is so much joy in going late at night to a little food truck in the hispanic neighborhood near work. ordering food when you don’t have any idea what it is. being the only two whiteys around and having the old guy cleaning tables point you in the right direction. sitting in the dark under the illumination of an old truck permanently moored to a forgotten parking lot behind a jack in the box.
we had just come from a hipster post-industrial bar that sold us six dollar cans of beer. look at me, the masses declare. so sterile and contrived. but here, generations of real people gather for two dollar tacos and laughter and coke in bottles and a little mutt and feeling of community you’ll never find on an elitist golf course in new jersey. happiness with hot sauce on the side.
america is already great. it lives at a taco stand on 16th and van buren.