Enchilada Ed

35

Ed woke the next morning uncertain whether he had dreamed the events of the previous night. Had he actually taken Audra to a Willie concert? Had they actually kissed? He rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the iPhone resting on the floor.

There was the snarky text from Gina, there was the video he took. Ed watched and re-watched it; the pink sunlight bouncing off Audra's hair, the trilling giggle, the throaty French imperative: Écoute. Ed closed his eyes and tried to conjure back every little detail of the night before-the trestle park, the safety rail, the ivy vines and moss growing on the strange parts of the old mill for which Ed had no official name. But when he tried to recall Audra's face, all he could see was the trouble weighing on her brows. I would be happy, Audra had said, if my dad could just see the sunset.

Ed opened his eyes. He was supposed to send the video to Audra so she could send it to her dad. He drafted a text message: Hey baby. Scratch that. Hey Audra. Safe is better than sorry. Here's the video I got of the Willie concert I forgot to send you last night. Before Ed added the video as an attachment, he watched it again, and tried to see it from the eyes of Audra's dad. Almost immediately, he decided it was no good. Ed had filmed the video for himself. He had lingered so long on Audra that he had neglected to get the context for where they actually stood- the trestle park, the blast furnaces, the sunset, the city. Yes, when he zoomed in on the venue, he could hear Willie Nelson sing, but the camera work was shaky and sloppy. Whatever magic that moment held -Audra's homesickness, or the love she felt for her dad- wasn't translated to the screen, at least not when Ed filmed it. He couldn't send a video like that. It wouldn't be fair. It might even misrepresent what Audra had been feeling. Ed certainly didn't want to misrepresent Audra's feelings. Typical, he thought. You talk a big game, but when it comes down to it, you can't do it. You suck at singing, you suck at filming, you suck at being artsy, you even suck at being a meme, Ed told himself, you should stay in your own, normie lane.

As Ed deleted the draft of his latest imaginary text message to Audra, an idea occurred to him. A grand romantic gesture. He would have to plan it, because if he didn't plan it, it probably wouldn't any good. Because good things took forethought.

He climbed out of bed and scrambled to his desk. He pulled his English notebook out his book bag, flipped to an empty page, and wrote out a plan. He spent so long on it, he forgot to eat breakfast. Then he texted Emily to ask for a favor.

She agreed.

***

"So your father says it's impossible," Piruz took a sip of his coffee.

"Yup," Ed set his feet onto the backroom's table, "He said he could understand why someone would want to, but it's still unconstitutional."

"It's just as well," Piruz sighed, "What this place needed was exposure. Food was decent, décor was good, but it was a hole-in-the-wall," he patted a finger against his temple, "Marketing."

"Your money senses were tingling," Ed smirked.

"They don't call me a money medium for nothing."

"There's just this thing I've been aching to know," Ed squinted at the Chipotle logo still taped on the green board, "Who, exactly, calls you a money medium?"

"Mostly my aunt Lida," Piruz laughed, "but it's true, eh? I'm thinking about writing a book. How to be a Money Medium. Help other people develop their own money senses."

Ed's eyes widened at the thought of Piruz on a book cover.

"There's been a three percent decrease in interest about you from PNCs and NCs," Piruz added, "But sales have actually increased eight percent in the last fortnight. You provided just the right exposure El Gringo's needed to create a loyal customer base."