La Especial on 25th and Imperial

It’s Sunday, 2 a.m. A dark balmy night. Imperial Avenue is quiet, almost deserted, but there’s action up ahead, across from the old welfare office on 25th Street — now fenced in and vacant. A crowd of blacks and Latinos mill in front of a brightly lit restaurant. Orange and white lettering on the side of the building proclaims

• La Especial
• Open 24 Hours
• Mexican Cuisine

La Especial offers light and color — a haven from the desolation outside, the dense darkness, the glower from huge swirling faces dominating the mural across the street. In front of the restaurant an elderly black man presides over a small swap meet; hubcaps lie propped up against the wall, and an array of baby clothes and knick-knacks are spread out neatly across a beige blanket. La Especial is the only illuminated building on the street, next door to a bakery, a yellow “Checks Cashed” outfit, and Tony’s Liquor on the corner.

An unfamiliar car slips into the line of vehicles parked at the curb. Immediately, two black guys converge on the newcomer, friendly yet tentative, sizing him up for a possible drug deal. Instead, the salesmen are invited into the restaurant, for coffee — just to talk.

Inside, La Especial is small yet comfortable, despite the ceiling lights’ severity. The place is thick with people. A row of orange plasticized tables and benches sits across from the grill and serving counter. Next to the door, a juice bar. Oranges, bananas, pineapples, and other fruit are piled high, contribute to the brightness yet soften the harshness of the fluorescent bulbs.

A diligent old man, his face obscured beneath a blue-and-white baseball cap, keeps unobtrusive watch over the tables, artfully slipping in to wipe up spills, prop up a sleeping drunk, distribute platters of food when they appear on the counter. He appears vigilant and kind. Behind him, tending the stove and grill, two tireless cooks maintain a steady beat.

The two salesmen, Gary and Harold, sit down for the promised conversation at an empty table in the center of the row, next to a family eating big, crisp tacos and drinking smuggled-in cans of beer from damp paper sacks. With determination, Gary explains how he had been shot twice, once in the finger, once in the back.

“But I’m not stupid,” he says. “I worked for eight years at Hewlett-Packard. Electrical engineer. And I’ve done my share of writing too.”

Gary sweeps his arms in wide arcs, initiating a discussion of brotherhood, soliciting confirmation from a Latino man at the counter who nods just to nod.

“You know why I get along so well with them?” Gary asks. “Because I’m not a thief.”

During the conversation, Harold jumps up and ducks outside. He returns a few moments later, his eyes bulging. As he turns his head from side to side, he reveals a mustache two-inches too long on one side, peppered with gray. With eyes bugged out, slightly agitated, congenial yet persistent, Harold repeats an endless request: “Will somebody buy me a hamburger? Will somebody please buy me a hamburger?”

His demands unmet, Harold leaves for good. His seat is taken by Horacio, a former Marine who continually slips his boot camp dress-blues wallet-size photo from the pocket of his new aqua dress shirt. The collar button is buttoned. Horacio was in the Marines for four years. He had an uncle who served in Vietnam for eight years. Smiling yet furious, he expresses hatred for those people who choose to burn the American flag, declaring: “You don’t have to have blond hair and blue eyes to feel American.” He was born here in this country, and when he sees “these fucking wetbacks,” he thinks “they’re shit.” He has “a passion for geography and world history.” And he wants to know if anybody saw the guy standing outside who didn’t have a calf muscle, whose leg had been shot by cholos, who had nothing but his left ankle ...

A black guy in shorts, sneakers, and polo shirt appears in the doorway, shouting out in a nonthreatening but abundantly loud voice, “Would anyone care to buy a homeless person a burrito, preferably carne asada with cheese?"

No response. Heads don’t even turn.

He tries again: “I repeat, for the hearing impaired, someone please buy a homeless person a burrito. Carne asada, with cheese. Don’t all jump up at once.’’

At the counter, a barrel-chested young man orders food while keeping his girlfriend close. She wears a short, wildly colored taffeta skirt, red high heels, and black nylon stockings with thick seams up the back. His eyes gleam with pride and the complementary message: “You look the wrong way at her and I’ll jam that plastic coffee spoon through your head.’’

A Latino kid weaves his way among the tables, peddling a cheap digital watch. A determined black man squeezes onto the bench next to Horacio, offering a double-breasted suit coat for sale. He is told, disparagingly, “I have one just like it at home.” Breaking into a sudden intense grin, the black man replies, “Then you can appreciate its value!”

Fighting to be heard, to be acknowledged against all the fervent energy captured within La Especial, Gary shouts, “Hey, I can tell you some stuff about living here that you won’t believe. In fact, it’s so unbelievable that sometimes even I don’t believe it.”