Something Authentic by Justin Gold

I’m the only brown employee at the only Mexican supermarket in Bright Springs. Our customers are mostly Johns and Georges, Barbaras and Bethanys. I’m Jaime, pronounced Jay-mee, not High-may. My parents were inventive spellers. My manager says they did me a solid.

“I want something authentic for my dinner party,” a Barbara says, tapping my shoulder. “My husband John and I went to Bolivia for a fundraiser, and we had the most fabulous tinga sopes.” She smiles for no reason, the way old people do. There’s booze on her breath. “Our guests are Bolivian. We’re helping them,” she says. By her smile, I see she means it.

“For tinga sopes, adobo sauce is key,” I say. I heard a customer mention “adobo” once, figured I’d try it out.

Barbara says, “hmmm.” She likes the sound of “adobo.” It’s close to “adobe,” and that’s pretty Mexican. Or Bolivian.

“Let’s get you some sweet chipotles,” I say. “And some Spanish onions. Real authentic stuff.”

“We’re hosting the charity head for dinner,” Barbara says. She stumbles into me on our way to aisle 4. “You know…” Her eyes are half-closed. “John raised $17,165 for the children in Bolivia.”

“My parents were from Bolivia,” I say.

“I had a feeling you were the right one to ask.” Barbara says. “This means a lot to John.” We get to aisle 4, and Barbara waves to a man dangling a string of ghost chiles.

“Let’s just get these for the gardener, Barb!” John holds up the ghost chiles. “For Paco…Pablo!” John drops the ghost chiles. A Bethany squashes them under her stroller. “Aisle 4, cleanup! Andalѐ!” John yells. People don’t usually yell in the only Mexican supermarket in Bright Springs.

“He’s just nervous.” Barbara burps. “The Peruvian conquistador, it means a lot to him.”

John stumbles into the Bethany, who stumbles into a rack of yellow rice. A box falls, then another. The floor is ghost chiles and yellow rice.

“Isn’t he just a hoot?” Barbara says. She laughs, hands clasped. She leans into me. “I’m cheating on him,” she whispers.

“I’m actually Jewish,” I whisper.

Barbara picks up the only intact ghost chile. “Adobo!” she shouts. She purchases the ghost chile for $3.05 and, leaning on John, heads to her Bright Springs home, where she’ll put the chile into a sauce she’ll name adobo.

Justin Gold learned to read before any of his pre-school alumni, and then lost all literary momentum until his father read him Ray Bradbury’s ‘The Fog Horn’ in high school. In his little home on a little lake in New Jersey, Justin’s creativity is often survived by his wife, Carol.