Read The Walk for Free Online

seismic retrofitting that obviously came too late. The imposing, phallic tower, thrusting a faux-Greek temple into the heavens, was the official symbol of the city and it was even more so now, snapped in half, lying across the park like a fallen soldier.
    But across the street, the ramshackle “World Famous Home of the Authentic Kosher Mexican Burrito” withstood the quake unscathed and was open for business. Steam escaped from the tiny, open kitchen, where the perspiring chef, seemingly oblivious to the disaster, was busily serving meals to the equally oblivious customers at the sidewalk counter.
    If Marty limited his view to just the burrito stand, it looked like just another lunch hour, the counter crowded with hungry paralegals, secretaries, and civil servants, munching over-stuffed burritos and chugging huge sodas. The only thing wrong with the picture was that everyone was bleeding from somewhere, their clothes ripped, their bodies covered with dust. But there was no panic here, no moaning, no sobbing. The customers seemed to take great comfort in their familiar burritos, keeping their gaze on the kitchen and away from the shaken world around them.
    Without thinking, Marty abruptly turned and headed for the burrito stand. Even though he hated Mexican food, he suddenly had an overpowering urge for a burrito; he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was astonishment that drew him, the discovery of an oasis in the disaster. Then again, he’d never tried a Kosher burrito before, and this was certainly the day for new experiences.
    Marty shouldered his way to the counter, pulled down his dust mask, and filled his nostrils with the smell of sizzling fat. Faded, water-stained photos of direct-to-video movie stars and TV character actors hung on the walls, their sun-bleached autographs retraced with a ball-point pen by a shaky hand. Lee Horsley ate here. A place couldn’t have a stronger recommendation than that.
    The chef worked frantically, taking orders, serving food, and running the cash register.
    “What would you like?” The chef asked with a heavy, Mexican accent.
    Marty glanced up at the menu. Besides the Kosher Burrito, and a dozen variations on it, they offered Teriyaki Chicken Burritos for their Japanese neighbors, hamburgers for the bland bureaucrat, and Shrimp Cocktails for the discerning gourmet. What would Lee Horsley have chosen?
    “What’s a Kosher Burrito?” Marty asked.
    “Pastrami, Hebrew National salami, corned beef, chili sauce, onions, mustard, pickles and peppers wrapped in a home-made tortilla,” the chef replied. “Is very very good.”
    All that was missing was a matzo ball and gefilte fish to really make it work.
    “I’ll take it,” Marty put four dollars on the counter. “And a coke.”
    The chef swept the money into his hand, dumped it in the open register, and returned to his cooking, digging a handful of chopped meat out of a bucket and tossing it onto the hissing grill. Marty watched him.
    “You know there was an earthquake, right?” Marty asked.
    The chef replied without turning around. “People still got to eat. I still got to make a living.”
    Marty was about to ask what inspired the chef to create such a bizarre entrée, but was distracted by a hard shove from the big guy next to him.
    “Hey asshole, your back is on fire.”
    Marty looked over his shoulder and, out of the corner of his eye, saw smoke rising from his gym bag. He yelped, shrugged the bag off and dropped it on the concrete floor, stomping out the flames. It was only after the fire was smothered, and he was staring down breathlessly at the scorched bag, that he realized the stupidity of what he’d done.
    He’d put out the fire and saved the bag, only to destroy anything that hadn’t burned inside by stomping on it. If he’d bothered to think first, instead of panicking, he could have extinguished the flames with a little water.
    Now he knew why there was so much smoke everywhere he went.
    “Nice going,