The Guac of Shame

In my limited time as a resident of Jackson Heights, I have come to the conclusion that the town features a completely self-sustaining and cyclical economy. Every aspect of Jackson Heights is perfectly placed to keep the system perpetuating, and the locals have become slaves to this system. Allow me to elaborate:

Believe it or not, this city's economy runs on taco stands. Yes, taco stands. Everybody either works at or owns a taco stand, and, moreover, everybody eats these tacos 24 hours per day. This isn't an exaggeration. When I walk to the gym at 5:00am, these stands are still running, and people are gorging their tacos and tortas in all their greasy goodness. You'd think they'd get sick of it after a while, but no. The stands give off too luscious of a scent to withstand. The patrons don't even take their orders home with them. They stand and eat it right on the counter of the taco stand itself.

It seems unrealistic to think that an entire city - a city that seems to be growing every day - can run merely on these Mexican food stands. Well, I used to think it wasn't possible, until I saw two more stands start business outside my subway stop, bringing the current total to three taco stands within the same fifteen feet. And they're ALL busy. Always!

Torta of DOOM!!!

With this empire of taco stands in place, the people of Jackson Heights need not ever leave their beloved picante-seasoned city. It's actually quite difficult to escape. On every street that leads away from Jackson Heights, there are stands strategically positioned to draw the attention of hungry locals. Once that rich aroma of pork and beans fills their nostrils, all hope is lost. Before they can escape the city, they give in to their desires and stuff their mouths with the savory tortas (in pork, chicken, and beef varieties). Immediately after the last bite, their bowels command them to walk home to their bathrooms and take care of business. And the vicious cycle perpetuates.

You must be thinking, "Now, Paul, it can't be impossible for these people to leave Jackson Heights." Alas, I wish you were right. It all comes down to one thing: "The Guac of Shame."

You may have heard of the term "The Walk of Shame." The Urban Dictionary defines it as:

"When you walk home shamefully, wearing the same clothes as the day before, usually after a booty call."

"The Guac of Shame" places a slightly different spin on this concept, though it still involves shameful self-indulgence. I have witnessed this event several times. Here's how it works:

Outside every subway stop in Jackson Heights, there are many taco stands, each of which is known for smothering their dishes with succulent, mouth-watering, and most importantly, delicious-smelling guacamole. In their attempts to use the subway to escape the confines of Jackson Heights, locals must cross this line of aromatic defense in order to get into the station. During my daily commute on the subway, some actually manage to break through the barricade, and even make it upstairs to the subway platform.

Now, here's the kicker. The 7-train is one of the few subway lines in New York that runs above ground. Clearly, this is intentional, as it allows the savory aroma from the taco stands to waft up through the bottom of the subway platform and infiltrate the nostrils of the fleeing residents. Once they inhale, the craving begins. You can see the hunger in their eyes. If they attempt to resist it, their legs become weak, and they start to perspire and look around nervously, their faces red with anxiety. Typically, they'll succumb, and walk down the stairs to feast. But every once in a while, a lucky passenger makes it to the platform just as the train arrives and sprints in quickly to make their escape. The doors close behind them, and the train drives away from the stop.

They think they've succeeded, but sadly, their liberation is short-lived. Once the subway reaches the next stop in Jackson Heights, the doors open and the entire car fills with that luscious, rich smell of avocado, cilantro, and tomato, complimented perfectly by the scent of greasy meat cooking on the grill. It's impossible to resist. During the ten seconds when the doors are open, the escapees endure an arduous experience. Their stomachs crave the satisfaction. Their taste buds lust for the heavenly flavor. Their hands yearn to hold that warm tortilla in their cold and empty palms.

It's no use. It takes about five seconds, and then they're out the door and headed down to the street level. They place their order, hand over two dollars, and proceed to chew on their guacamole-drenched bliss, each gulp filling their body with a warm sense of satisfaction. With the last bite, the bowel's command is not unexpected. They have accepted their purgatorial fate. They step back from the counter, lower their heads, and begin their shameful walk back home to their toilets, beneath the ominous shadow of the 7-train.



Jackson Heights....you can buy tacos at any time, but you can never leave....