I grab a clear plastic plate from a counter in the clubhouse and work my way through the line. Francisco is still behind the spatula. He recognizes me, I think. He slaps my plate full with both courses and then urges me on with a jerk of his head. There’s an older woman serving water in small paper cups. She’s much kinder. Much more inviting. The, sit down and stay awhile, type. “Would you like an ice cube, dear?” She’s missing most of her front teeth on the top and the bottom, but she smiles none the less, big and genuine. “No ma’am, I’ll take it as is.” She holds the cup out shakily. “Such a well-mannered young man.” “Blame my momma,” I say, accepting the cup from her. She makes a noise that sounds like approval and then turns her attention to the gal behind me. Outside, members of the community surround the pool. They sit in circles on the pavement, spread out across the lounge chairs and beneath the shroud of the picnic tables outfitted with folding umbrellas.
