The Churro Man

There is a wafting aromatic drift to his walk. Sailing through the crowd, blending through the streams of smiling, laughing, talking arms and legs. The sun, oh the sun is shining and when you hold steady in the sunlight, you can feel its warm breath breathing in through your skin and into your bones. He knows where he is going, he can smell his delightful destination above the crowd. He is the churro man. His mustache is kissed with a salt and pepper gray much the same way his churros are softly sugared and coated in cinnamon. There are food stands, food trucks and food carts. Booths, tables, chairs and the occasional honey bee.

The park is alive. The carnival is in town, Saturday afternoon in the spring. The bumper cars? Bumping. The rollercoasters? Rolling & coasting, sometimes coasting and rolling.

The churro man returns to his churro stand. It is vibrating with activity, like that honey bee from earlier. Fried dough is popping in the back, an effervescence reaches out into the world, drawing in attention from all corners of the park. There is a thin caramel sauce warming on a small hot plate near the front. Listen to it sizzle, you'll only need a drizzle.

The folks in line aren't even staring down at their phones while waiting. They're all longing to be nearer to the churro man, as he slides his cheerful churros into their crinkly, crackly wrappers.

All this for $1. Just $1. A dollar bill should be so grateful for granting its former owner with such a regal reward in return.

The churro man handsomely hands out his handiwork. A sweet sensation, a smile on every face, warm sugar on everyone's lips.