I don’t mind too much when it rains on Saturdays. At least I get to enjoy a running joke with the counter guys at Piccolo’s. Though the cast of characters has changed over the years, they’re always from Mexico. And this has allowed me yet another opportunity to practice my rudimentary Spanish.
From 7th through 12th grades, I took Spanish class: From Señora Taylor’s impassioned plea for us to “¡Eschuchen!” to Señor Shuey showing us It’s a Wonderful Life just because it was important, to delivering a how-to speech on playing the harmonica with your nose for Señor Gil’s class (“Cómo Tocar La Armónica con su Nariz”).
There weren’t many chances to speak Spanish in college, so the nuances of the language quickly began to fade. Specifically, any verb tense other than present. But when I moved to north Jersey and started working in New York City, Spanish was everywhere: On subway ads, TV stations, and oh those service jobs.
So I’d test out my rusty Spanish on Estela and Angela, the after-hours cleaning women at work. And with Lazero and Alejandro, the after-hours staff at my local diner. And with Luis and Xochitl, the sandwich guy and cashier at the office cafeteria. I tried to speak only Spanish with these friends, and though my grasp of the language didn’t improve, it didn’t get markedly worse.
Lazero co-owned (I think he did—again, my Spanish is not very strong) a record store in Spanish Harlem. We bonded over this, as I am obsessed with music. I visited the store and couldn’t remember if the band I’d heard and liked in the diner was Los Baby’s or Los Bybys, so I bought CDs by them both. Ultimately, I didn’t care for either one, but the whole experience led to perhaps my proudest moment in the language: an original joke. As I would leave the diner, Lazero would often call out, “Vaya con Díos.” And on this one day, I replied, “Vaya con Discos,” the Spanish word for records. I was pretty pleased with myself.
I never get too cocky, though, as I am never far from a miscue. Which brings us back to Piccolo’s, my regular Saturday lunch place. It was a weekend several years ago, and it was raining, and I felt a need to point out that obvious fact. So on that fateful day, I intended to say, “El cielo… llover,” a clumsy infinitive-form of “the sky is raining.” But what I actually uttered was, “El cielo… llorar,” or “the sky is crying.” Now, maybe Elmore James is cool enough to get away with that sort of metaphorical locution, but not so for a cheesesteak-ordering Jersey boy. So many a laugh was had.
And, years later, the laughs continue. I think they’re laughing with me, not at me, though I’m never 100% sure. Each week we gaze out the large window next to the cash register, and comment on the weather’s mood. A little sad? Very sad? Happy now, sad tomorrow? On overcast days I have often been handed a paper towel, for later, to wipe my tears. And on a few occasions I’ve been given a scrap of paper:
Once, I made a preemptive strike by drawing a sunny day—but it was quickly edited:
The rain eventually lets up… but the joke never will. Es para siempre.
Jack Silbert, curator