A line of cars and pickups grew as people waited for their takeout orders at Paraiso Mexican Restaurant in Minneola.
MINNEOLA, KANSAS
SETTING THE SCENE: In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, we arrived earlier than expected here in southwest Kansas, where we are parked on a relative's farm. Six days later, on the first Saturday, we ordered some takeout from the local restaurant. Perhaps some of you have had experiences like this.
Cars and pickups were lined up outside Paraiso Mexican Restaurant on this perfect April Saturday. Paraiso is the latest in a line of family restaurants to occupy the building at the crossroads of highways 54 and 283. We remembered dining there with Angie’s cousins, when it was Tim’s Place, and it had a taxidermist’s trophies hanging on the walls. Maybe in the 1990s.
But now when we drove by it had one main attraction: “$1 TACOS” displayed in bright green on the window. Another announcement has become a sign of the times: “Takeout only. Open 5 to 7 p.m.”
Since we started keeping our distance from people, this was only our second time ordering takeout. A week earlier, when we were in Lincoln, we went to a rib joint offering curbside pickup. The restaurant got swamped, however, so when I parked in the designated spot, I was confused about whether to stay outside and wait or go inside and ask about the order.
When my order didn’t appear to be coming out, I went inside and found a line of uneasy customers. They were standing too close together. I saw a few puzzled faces. Or maybe it was just me.
I awkwardly edged my way to the front of the line and asked about curbside orders. Another customer said to “check in,” and when I did a friendly staffer handed me the big bag of ribs and extras that we paid for in advance. I was relieved to escape the crowded entrance.
Now, at Paraiso, I was relieved to walk into the large dining room to find just two other customers waiting. All the tables and chairs were pushed to one end except for one chair which was occupied by and a man in his 30s. An older guy moved slowly out of the entrance so I could walk in. I would learn later why he moved so slow.
I sensed that none of us wanted to be in this situation, but at least we had some space. The two men were discussing the virus and related news.
The guy in the chair said he worked for Fed-Ex, and that his customers were glad they no longer had to hold and sign the receipt device that drivers carry. He said UPS drivers would be wearing masks and gloves, but Fed Ex hadn’t taken that step.
The older man told of a veterinarian, just 52 years old, who died from the virus. He also said his daughter, who works in a pharmacy, had to stay home for three weeks because a customer with symptoms came to her counter. I shared the news that in Nebraska, workers at a beef packing plant had tested positive for the virus.
These guys might have had the same thought I had: Was it safe to be here together?
Perhaps our discomfort made us chatty, when under normal circumstances, just weeks ago, they wouldn’t have three takeout orders there at the same time.
But now it was takeout only, and the counter by the exit was lined with white bags, filled with meals in takeout containers. I glanced at tickets, hoping to see our order, but I didn’t want to get too close. Soon, a woman came out of the kitchen and asked us about our orders.
It became clear that only the owners were working to keep some revenue coming in. She said our orders weren’t ready.
“Yours will be next, then yours and then yours,” she said, pointing at me last. “You can wait outside. please.”
It was a polite rush to get out the door.
Waiting by the pickup, I thought that by now in cities, waiting for takeout was becoming routine.
I texted Angie to tell her about the delay. From across town came the sound of sirens, a medical call, I thought. A red Camaro pulled up next to our pickup. A man in the front passenger seat must have seen our South Dakota license plates.
“How far do you drive for $1 tacos?” he asked.
I figured out the joke, and then just to make small talk, I said I would walk two miles for $1 tacos.
The Camaro couple must have decided the wait would be too long, and they drove off.
I kept hearing the sirens, but now it sounded like a three-alarm fire. Then I looked east and saw cars on Main Street, one block away, pulling up to the U.S. 54 stop sign. They were just beyond the town’s digital message board that reads “Minneola” on top. The message was “Spring Cleanup has been postponed” followed by the time and temperature.
The line of cars and pickups grew. Cars with horns honking and passengers cheering. I figured it out. This was one of those Cruise Nights that I had seen promoted on social media. It was just past 6 p.m., so it had just begun.
Cruise nights are a small-town phenomenon. Families get in the car to blow off some steam and lift spirits in their neighborhood.
As a baby boomer I remember the late 1960s and early 1970s when you could drive up and down Red Cloud’s Webster Street for hours on $10 worth of gas. I also remember when gas jumped past $1 per gallon and it seemed like the world would never be the same.
I wondered what was going through the minds of these grandchildren of baby boomers, those kids in the back seats of these Minneola cars. They probably just enjoyed the moment.
The parade reminded me of those special times back in David City, when the one of our high schools’ wrestling or speech or drama teams brought home a state championship trophy, and sheriff patrol cars and fire trucks escorted the team buses into town. The sirens blared while proud parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles cheered and waved from the street corners.
And just like back in David City, I was on the corner with a camera, and it seemed appropriate to capture the moment.
Looking back down the block, I saw the Minneola Fire Department’s bright yellow engine, with the Stars and Stripes blowing in the breeze. It turned the corner and headed my way.
I captured the department’s fleet – a couple tanker trucks, a grass fire rig, an ambulance – as they roared by. Then the family cars followed. A young girl standing in a back seat waved and yelled with glee.
Then I turned back to the restaurant, wondering about our burritos and enchiladas. I walked toward the door, and the older guy stood near his parked pickup.
I joked, “Good thing gas is $1.49 a gallon, or these people might not be driving around so much,” but he seemed unaware of the parade or its noise. I didn’t try to explain.
We chatted for a while, keeping our distance. I told him about our camping situation and how we were parked on a relative’s farm, staying away from everybody. He said he lived seven miles west of town, and that his wife was in the nursing home over in Fowler, the next town west down U.S. 54.
“I can’t go in to see her. She can’t leave her room,” he said. “We’ve been married 60 years.”
I tried to find the right words, and said “Wow, that’s tough.”
I had seen stories of family members looking in to nursing home windows to see their loved ones. I asked if he was able do this, but it didn’t seem to register. He seemed distracted and that was understandable. It’s good they’re keeping her safe, I told him. He said he calls her every day.
After the Fed Ex guy came out with his bag of food, we went inside. I was signing my receipt when the woman at the counter handed the older man his order, which he had already paid for. I caught up with him and used my foot to hold the door open. Another don’t-touch-the-door-with-your-hands trick.
He was headed for his pickup with his food, but he seemed intent on telling me one more thing. Looking off into the distance, he spoke.
“You know, they talk about this virus stuff being so bad. It’s nothing. I just had prostate cancer. Just went through 39 chemo treatments.”
“So, then you know some misery,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t said it. Maybe he didn’t hear me.
He just walked away. “I wish the best for you,” I said.
Now I knew why he moved so slow.
Stay safe and healthy everybody. We’re all in this together.
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