I don’t like to commit to a grocery cart when I shop; I prefer the carefree swing of a basket at my hip. But as soon as we step through the automatic doors into Vons, Charlotte goes straight for the cart. She clutches it like a baby pram, leading me down the Asian/Hispanic Foods Aisle with a purposeful stride.
“The first thing we need is salsa,” says Charlotte.
“Salsa?”
“You can’t make nachos without salsa.”
Charlotte’s been talking about nachos since our trip to Tijuana, and claims they’re easy to prepare at home, but I’m skeptical — don’t you need some sort of nacho pan? She laughs when I bring this up, a gently derisive chuckle suggesting wisdom beyond my comprehension.
“Let the Nacho Master show you how it’s done,” says Charlotte.
There’s an abundance of salsa in the Asian/Hispanic Foods Aisle. My eyes are drawn to the store brand, which comes in a hefty jar. According to the label, the flavor is “Southwestern.”
“This one is good because it has beans,” says Charlotte.
“Beans are good?”
“Beans are good.” There is a vaguely Jedi tinge to her voice, the elegant gravity of Alec Guinness conveying a lifetime of knowledge about The Force.
It’s not very crowded at Vons in Burbank in the middle of the day. An employee lazily mops the floor by the dairy section.
“Do we need cheese?”
“There are no nachos without cheese,” explains Charlotte.
“I thought that was salsa.”
She doubles down on the Alec Guinness voice. “There are no nachos without salsa or cheese.”
We wait in the checkout line, savoring the lazy rhythm of a workday free from work. Back at her apartment, Charlotte opens a bag of tortilla chips and fans them onto a cheap plate from Little Tokyo.
“Are you sure that’s oven-safe?”
“We don’t need oven-safe.” She opens the jar of salsa, carefully slathering it over the chips.
“We’re not going to eat them cold, are we?”
“Trust the Nacho Master.”
Charlotte applies more layers: cheese, pickled jalapenos, olives. She covers the plate with a paper towel, sliding it into the microwave. Ninety seconds later, the cheese is melted to perfection.
We sit together watching West Wing, peeling off chips one by one. Then it’s time for Charlotte to get ready for her job; she works the swing shift at a post-production house in Glendale. As I walk her to her car, it occurs to me that I never got around to the thing I’d come over to do in the first place: search for a job.
***
Charlotte and I met at film school; we both had this naive idea that if we studied screenwriting, we might actually get hired to write screenplays. But it turns out that film school — even “the Best Film School in the Country,” as Charlotte bitterly describes it — is a mere asterisk in Hollywood, the equivalent of having gone to the same high school as the guy interviewing you from the H.R. department. Screenwriting, in other words, is just about the most competitive job in the world. I still haven’t given up hope it might happen to me one day, but I also need to be realistic and do something to pay the rent.
But what, exactly?
I don’t have internet at my studio in Los Feliz, so the next day, I’m back at Charlotte’s, browsing job listings on my laptop. There’s an insurance company in Glendale looking for entry-level analysts, but they prefer math and science majors. Toyota is hiring at their U.S. headquarters, but that’s an hour away, in Torrance.
“Want to have nachos again?” asks Charlotte when she emerges from the shower in a towel.
I’m surprised how good this sounds. “Sure!”
“Why don’t you start making them.”
I hesitate. “But you’re the Nacho Master.”
She opens her closet door, considering thrift shop dresses. “It is time for you to learn the Way of the Nacho.”
“The Way of the Nacho?”
The Alec Guinness voice is back. “You must learn to walk the Three-cornered Path.”
I still have half a mind to send my résumé to the insurance company in Glendale — but nachos come first. In the kitchen, I pull out everything we bought the day before and begin arranging chips on a plate, making sure they overlap at the edges.
“Excellent work.” Charlotte is in a turquoise dress now, hair still slick from the shower.
“Next is… cheese?”
“Salsa. Remember: there are no nachos without salsa.”
The salsa tumbles out of the jar like a raging southwestern river. I use a spoon to spread it in an even layer, careful to distribute the beans evenly. Charlotte watches as I carry out the remaining steps: toppings. Microwave. Sour cream garnish. Then we eat nachos while watching another episode of West Wing, the job search a distant memory.
***
We don’t literally eat nachos every day. Sometimes I buy bread and cheese for sandwiches; other times, I pick up takeout. But we have nachos more often than not. I pay for everything with my credit card, which would be scarier if I wasn’t already so deeply in debt; when you’ve taken out fifty-some-thousand dollars in student loans, what’s another $11.37 for sour cream, tortilla chips, and a one-pound bag of shredded pepper jack?
The evenings — when Charlotte is at work — are the hardest part of the day. It’s too late to work on my screenplay, so I read books and listen to Dave Brubeck and Miles Davis. I make recipes from my cookbooks, wondering if Charlotte will like them. I watch movies and shows, noting the screenwriters and producers; they’re invariably disappointing, because I’m saving the ones that are supposed to be good for Charlotte.
When it’s time for bed, I begin to imagine the next day: the morning glories blooming cheerfully in the alley outside my window. The sunny drive on the 5 and the 134, the bronze-green eucalyptus and straw-colored grass of Griffith Park, the cheerful tract houses of Burbank. I think of Charlotte’s apartment, the mint walls and Joan Miró posters, the tomato-colored sofa she found on craigslist for $50. And then I think of nachos: a perfect plate of nachos, topped with salsa and cheese and sour cream and maybe even an avocado. I think about eating nachos with Charlotte and I fall asleep happy.
***
One day, I find a listing for a software company in Marina del Rey looking for Quality Assurance Analysts. It’s not exciting, but it’s close enough to my old job that I can make a case for it.
“How are we doing on nacho supplies?” asks Charlotte. She’s curled up beside me on the couch, reading Entertainment Weekly.
“We’re running low on cheese,” I tell her from memory.
Charlotte looks at me with a mock-serious expression. “There are no nachos without cheese.”
I glance at the job listing; it was posted yesterday. If I’m going to apply, I really should do it today.
“I can run to the store,” I suggest.
“You sure you don’t mind? I’d go too but I have to take a shower.”
“Not at all.”
On the walk to Vons, I try to think about what I’ll say in my cover letter, but my mind refuses to cooperate, and I find myself dreaming up new kinds of nachos instead: Italian Nachos, with bruschetta triangles, arrabbiata sauce, and mozzarella cheese. Armenian Nachos, with pita wedges, red pepper spread, and feta. When they served us wonton chips at the Thai-Chinese restaurant the other night, I fantasized about microwaving them with chili-garlic sauce, cream cheese, and stir-fried bell peppers. There’s an entire universe of nachos out there, a lifetime of possibilities waiting to be explored, and I want to explore them all with Charlotte.
I don’t want to work for a software company in Marina del Rey. I want to be a screenwriter.
Inside Vons, I make an unplanned detour to the produce section. Thirty minutes later, Charlotte is surprised to discover the nachos have been topped with a verdant layer of green.
“Is that spinach?” she asks.
“Is that okay?”
She pulls off a chip and takes a hearty bite. I watch patiently, awaiting the verdict of the Nacho Master.
“Spinach is good!”
***
I’m fanning out tortilla chips when the call comes. The number is unfamiliar, but it’s the 310 area code: the west side. I brush salt off my fingers and press the button to answer.
“This is Doug Kim at PlayVision,” says a tired-sounding voice. “We looked at your résumé, and we’d like to bring you in for an interview.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, trying to muster enthusiasm. “Great!”
PlayVision, a game company in Culver City, has openings for QA Analysts. Charlotte walks into the room to listen.
“How’s tomorrow at noon?” asks Doug Kim.
I think about it. In my mind, I’m busy at noon, because that’s when I come over to Charlotte’s.
“Okay, I can make that work.”
“Great. Looking forward to meeting you.”
Charlotte takes a chip out of the bag. “Who was that?”
“PlayVision.”
“That’s the one you wanted, right? The game company?” She bites into the chip.
“Yeah, but it’s in Culver City.” I pull the salsa out of the refrigerator. “It’ll be like 45 minutes each way.”
“What are the hours?”
“Ten to seven.”
“Monday to Friday?”
“Yep.” I watch as she does the math: no more nachos. I won’t be able to see her most nights, either, because she works until midnight.
“If I even get it,” I add.
“You’ve got a master’s degree from the Best Film School in the Country. How could you not get it?”
I pour salsa over the chips, thinking back to the first day we walked down the Asian/Hispanic Foods Aisle together. There’s still plenty of cheese left in the bag. Will we have a chance to use it before…
I need a job; it’s that simple. I can’t spend the rest of my life eating nachos with Charlotte. After West Wing is over, she helps me prepare for the interview by asking me sample questions.
“Why do you want to work here?”
“Uh…” I think about it. “Is it okay if I say because I need a job?”
“No.”
I try again, but my mind is empty.
“Come on. They might ask this.”
“So I can buy nachos for my girlfriend.”
This, I realize, is the first time I’ve called her that. We’ve been dating for nearly a year, and it’s pretty clear we’re in a committed relationship. Still, inexplicably, I’ve managed to avoid using the G-word until now.
“I don’t think you can say that,” says Charlotte with a smile.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“You need a better reason than nachos.”
“What’s a better reason than nachos?”
The Nacho Master considers this, quizzical frown giving way to gentle smile. “Excellent point.”
***
When they offer me the job, I turn them down. I tell myself it’s about the money, which is closer to minimum wage than living wage, but that’s not really it; some money is better than none. I tell myself it’s about the commute, but that’s not it either; this is L.A., and most commutes are long. No, the real reason I turn them down is so I can keep eating nachos with Charlotte.
Everything ends. The credit card bills and student loans will come due. We’ll run out of West Wing episodes to watch. The earth will be swallowed by the sun. And one day — even if I’m not able to admit it yet — I’ll give up on screenwriting forever.
But not today. Today I’ll sit on the couch with my girlfriend Charlotte curled up beside me. And when it’s time for lunch, I’ll make nachos, the most perfect plate of nachos as I’ve ever made, a delicious plate topped with salsa and cheese and sour cream and maybe even an avocado.
“These are good,” says Charlotte, munching on a chip. “Really good, actually.”
“Thank you.”
She puts the entire chip in her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring the moment. And when she finally speaks, it’s with the Jedi voice, the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes.
“Your training is complete,” she informs me, a sparkle in her eyes. “You are the Nacho Master now.”
