“Simplemente”
A Mort Laitner Short Story
My friend, Ricardo, has a favorite word. He does not even know it is his favorite. No one has ever told Ricardo that he loves this word way too much. Inches from his face, so-called friends titter, when the word rolls off his tongue, flies through his lips and pierces their inner ears. But behind his back, they forgot political correctness and call him, “Mr. Simplemente.”
Ricardo says “simplemente” at least once a day or whenever he faces a problem. As if he had read it in a book, Ricardo quotes his philosophy, “Life grants us mucho problemas but luckily there are always simple solutions to solve them.”
When he bought a beat-up, washed-out cobalt blue, 1999 Beetle, I ask, “Looks like it needs a lot of work?” Simplemente!” he replies and adds, “I have fixed Volkswagens all of my life. Did you see the awesome cobalt-blue paint job?”
A month later, as I drive by Ricardo’s apartment, I see the dead punch buggy, hood raised, rusting in his designated parking space. Later while in his apartment, I ask him, “What’s happening with your VW?
“I am working on it, but I might sell it. You know they sell like hot tamales. All I have to do is buy a “For Sale” sign, stick it in the window and it will sell in a matter of days. I’ll make a nice profit. You’ll see, it is Simplemente.”
A month later the dirty cobalt-blue VW shows no signs of life. I find no “For-Sale” sign in the window. I do not bother to inquire. But I hear Ricardo came upon a new venture. “Ricardo, are you planning to open up a restaurant?” I ask.
“Yup,” he replies.
“You do know that it’s a tough business to survive in? I hear that in Florida 91% of new restaurants fail.
“Buddy, no problemo, I’m renting an old restaurant. Everybody loves spicy food. I am planning on buying a few Spanish cook books and “Restaurant Ownership for Dummies.” Here is my business plan. You cook, you serve, they eat, they pay. Simplemente!”
That night, I had difficulty falling to sleep. My stomach felt like a hot tamale burned a hole in its lining. Something on the nightly news bothered me. But when I did fall asleep, Ricardo somehow crept into my dreams.
He stood in front of a multitude of cameramen and reporters. He wore a cobalt-blue suit. His arms rested on a podium covered with microphones.
Reporters screamed his name, hoping that he would take their question.
He pointed at a tall, stunning, lanky blonde.
“Mr. Ricardo, please tell us how you are going to build a wall, beat Isis and save the American economy?”
I awoke as he looked the reporter in the eyes and said, “Simplemente.”
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