The air above the hot concrete outside Ernesto’s studio apartment shimmered in the bright Southern California sun. Twitchy gangstas constantly adjusted their flat-brimmed baseball caps and pulled up their pants. A beefy, mustachioed Latino sold oranges on the corner of Ernesto’s block, staring down the heat. Pigeons cooed in the shade, while on tree-lined streets, flocks of Dorian Grays gallantly proudly displayed their colorful, expensive plumage under the pretense of enjoying a nice summer day in Orange County.
As always, a few surfers complained about the lack of swell in the summertime, and decided to get high instead, as always. A funny smell, followed by a funny cloud wafted into Ernesto’s kitchen, where he was eating cereal and reading the back of the cereal box.
“Whoa,” Ernesto said, channeling Keanu Reeves. The cannabinoids in the air had made a detour to his brain through his lungs and were dancing the merengue with his neuroreceptors. He had a sudden craving for orange juice and was dismayed there wasn’t any in his refrigerator. It became imperative that he go to a convenience store.
Suddenly, the dancing stopped and the lights came on in Ernesto's head, much like when the police invite themselves to your party, and you suddenly realize that you had had too much to drink and danced badly but passionately with a person who definitely looked better in dim lighting. It was time for a reality check. He had already put on some jeans and a Bart Simpson t-shirt and was standing at the door. He felt something stop him from going outside. He turned around and saw what he would come home to: another day in his underwear, surfing the Internet, looking at pictures of LOLcats while drinking orange juice. He sighed and shook his head in disappointment.
"Ay, Ernesto."
It was the ghost of his grandmother. She was shaking her head with him. Her disapproval had always hit him hard. Many years earlier, he had swept the kitchen in an effort to be helpful in her house, but he was surprised by her slowly shaking her head.
“Ay Ernesto. I don’t think you know how to sweep,” she sighed.
Indeed, Ernesto had been holding the broom the wrong way. He was crushed by her judgment, but only because he knew it was true. Even the family’s ever-present small poodle seemed to know the correct way to sweep. Everyone knew, of course, except for Ernesto, even with psychic powers and all.
And now, here he was, still gazing at the wreckage that he called his studio, his life littered with the consequences of his short-sighted decisions, which the Hollywood fast life had provided in abundance. His dead grandma was in the kitchen making quesadillas for him.
“Here you go, mijito” she said, “you need to eat. Just look at how skinny you are!”
Despite the remark, Ernesto ate the quesadillas. He was his grandma’s favorite grandchild, and she knew how he liked the quesadillas: slightly burned, with the occasional drop of hot Valentina sauce. There was no feasible way he could refuse without offending her because 1) she was his mother's mother, 2) she made him quesadillas just how he liked them out of the goodness of her heart, and 3) she was dead and could literally raise hell by talking to the right dead people.
“What about you, Yaya. Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked out of habit.
“No, mijito. I’ll just have some water.” She withheld a good-natured sarcastic remark about the cleanliness of Ernesto’s kitchen. He was sensitive, right now, contemplating his life, and just needed a little bit of support right now.
“So… what are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Yaya,” he said. “I was going to get some orange juice."
