A man passed out in the bathroom. Small empty bottles of tequila on a tile floor. Mariachi music plays through speakers. Some soccer games are on the televisions in the cantina. Men speaking in Spanish. Voices drowned out by blenders and cocktail shakers. Ice clanks in a glass.

The barstools are old, and the seats are torn. Tables wobble. Pictures on the menu are stuck together and stained. He looks it over. Red salsa and tortilla chips are served.

Tacos are cheap. Burritos are a little more expensive. He orders the caldo de res. It’s two o’clock in the morning. The old man can barely keep his head from falling onto the table. A bell rings. A fat waitress walks by with enchiladas and rice and beans. Her beautiful daughter is at the cash register reading books for school the next day. He looks at her for a moment and then turns away, having been caught.

College kids and drunk yuppies sing songs along with the jukebox; mocking Mexican singers and yelling out Marty Robbins songs. Sour cream and guacamole smeared on their white faces. The old man looks at them, says nothing, and rests his head on the ink scarred table. Drawings of stick figures, crowns, and the Mexican flag.

Caldo de res, the waitress says as she presents the bowl of broth, short ribs, oxtail, and vegetables. The smell wakes up the old man. Cilantro and other spices permeate his space. The Lincoln Park boys choir walks past on their way out.

What is that? One of the yuppies asks the old man.

Caldo de res, he replies.

Smells like shit, another one says.

The old man slurps the soup from his silver spoon and says, ahhhhhhh. Just what the doctor ordered. The group of boys laugh and walk on.

The old man pays his bill and leaves a five for a tip. He walks along Belmont to his rented room and hears music coming from a gay disco called Berlin. He sees lights on in the back of a Swedish restaurant named Ann Sather. Pizza slices sold to drunks towards the corner of Clark and Belmont. A liquor store closed for the night.

The old man crawls into bed and hears a couple fucking in the room next door. She yells out in Russian, and he breathes heavily. The old man turns to his side, resting his head on a sweaty pillow and whispers, I’m tired of being alone.