The man in this picture is named Carlos O'Connor. With a last name like that I am pretty sure Carlos is not his first name but rather one that was given or taken later on in his life. He owns a Mexican restaurant in Red Bank and the place is cluttered with souvenirs from his travels. It is a small establishment and when I make the statement that one can barely move it is not hyperbole. It is cramped with surfboards, paintings, Christmas lights, old doors and windows and probably just about any other type of junk he picked up in his travels through Mexico, Central and South America.
I spent a great deal of time in this place as a teenager and the first few years of my 20's, funny thing is I hate Mexican food. Nonetheless, in high school myself, Bobby, Clancy, and MJ used to take the twenty minute trek southbound for very long dinners after a stressful day of high school, (trying to keep a straight face typing that line). The main reason why we went was not for the great atmosphere (which was second) but rather it was BYOB and Carlos being the laid back man that he was would let us drink away our sixteen year old troubles whenever we felt the need.
And that need arose quite frequently. We'd stop at the liquor store that served us on the way and grab two cases: One of Corona and the second, New Castle. Walking through the door we were always greeted by the six foot four frame, encased in black with a black hat of Carlos, always with a smile and a few kind words asking us how the sports teams were doing and more importantly how were those teenage girls treating us. He would have two large tin buckets of ice brought out in which to stuff our beers and we'd sit down usually at the same table with the post card of Springsteen tacked to the wall (this was mere miles away from his home) next to a pinata glowing with the red, green and orange lights that permeated the air.
We'd bullshit and be politely loud, never causing trouble while the other patrons looked on with delight rather than disdain. We'd laugh at each other and rarely at anyone else. It was pure and wholesome regardless of what the drinking laws stated. It was beautiful in the summer when we would pile in through the hot kitchen in the back with sand on our bare feet and salt in our hair, the boards on the roof of Bobby's CRX still dripping from the surf. We'd bring chicks and laugh harder while eying their tan legs void of any veins or cellulite and wonder what lied beneath their short jean shorts and tight t shirts. All the while The Gipsy Kings serenaded us in the background under the watchful eye of Carlos who, when engaged with a glance would smile and then look back down at the table he was sitting at and reach for a nacho (Carlos never drank).
I remember our waitress was usually this jet black haired exotic woman who resembled Al Pacino's character's wife in "Heat". Yea that one that is not particularly beautiful but possessed something that made her so terribly sexy. It was usually her who brought us our check for $45 dollars no matter how long we stayed to which we usually tipped 300% for her troubles and taking up the table for so long. It got to a point where we didn't even pay for food anymore and they stopped bringing us checks but rather knew we'd lay enough cash on the table to cover the night.
A few months ago I went back to Carlo's. It didn't have the same feel and was disappointing. It took a while for to register what the problem was until I discovered it was twofold. Bobby I hadn't seen in years even though he lives five miles away, MJ has a wife and kid, while Clancy was just gone. They all had their fall outs with each other and when I left (as I was the only one who was friends with all of them still) it just fell apart. After contemplating the trials of growing up and the separation I also realized that there was no salt and sand in my hair because I was balding and while the woman I was with was only three years older than the ones we brought in high school I knew what was under her short skirt and under all the short skirts in the world. It wasn't a score to know just as it wasn't a score to walk into the liquor store and get served. I had an Amex now, two cars, a career, fought in two wars, countless lovers, an ex-wife, a niece, a brother in law, a close call with addiction and over fifty countries that I've set foot in. I am not sure that corrupted the evening as much as not seeing a group of four sixteen year olds there laughing and drinking with the promise of the world ahead of them. I am not sure if it was corrupted because I desperately wished the boys were here with me, or that girl I saw in high school who is now eight months pregnant and slept on my lap the whole drive home one summer afternoon before I left for college. I guess it was all of it and because of that every time the Gipsy Kings come on I am torn between a smile and a tear. Maybe I should give them all a call.
