Because whether it’s a bean smear inside of a tortilla or a meaty one in the middle of the road, it makes no difference in the end.
Beans.
Not a bird, not a season, nor a flower, nor God so help me a fruit. I was named after that which swells the belly and stinks up a room, the slop in a can, the smear of brown paste inside of a tortilla is my namesake.
And what kind of destiny do parents envision when naming their kid Beans? Beans the future president of the United States? Beans the football hero? Beans the doctor performing open-heart surgery? Beans the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize?
Surely not Beans, whose teachers wince when calling attendance on the first day of school. Not Beans, who has food thrown at them on the school bus. And not Beans who receives a cacophony of fart sounds when they cross the stage during high school graduation.
These days, it’s all scowls and sighs. My resume still hasn't landed me an interview. All those hours perfecting my chuckle and finger guns for nothing. That's why I don't bother to look both ways before crossing a street. Whether it’s a bean smear inside a tortilla or a Bean smear in the road, it makes no difference to me.
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