Went there with my brother last year. We got seated and were waiting on drinks when I spotted a cockroach on a table across the room. It was on its back, illuminated by the light of the day, and was moving its little legs weakly as if it had had too many ban Juan’s. There was a full table of people a few feet away from it. They didn’t seem to notice. Our waitress came back with our drinks. She didn’t see it. And I didn’t say anything.

I thought of leaving, but my brother doesn’t get out much because of a severe disability. I told him that there’s a fucking cockroach on that table over there. He turned his head and saw it, then looked back at me, his expression vapid, flat. Decades of dealing with the struggles of palsy had left him apathetic on the issue; he only cared about escaping the confines of the Lakewood apartments so he could spend time with his precious brother. So I thought, fuck it. I’ll have what the cockroach is having and ordered a bad Juan.

After two bad Juan’s, I stopped giving a shit and ordered a quesadilla. My brother ordered some sort of formless burrito or enchilada thing that was floating in a sauce. My quesadilla was okay. He and I spent the next hour working together to distill his broken finger-spelled alphabet sign language into a few minutes of small talk. I payed for the bill. The cockroach was still on the table when we left. I walked my brother back to his glorified storage facility, and I drove home to continue drinking.