Understanding Taco Nun
by Al Kratz
I heard about Taco Nun from my daughter even though I didn’t believe her, at first, when she told me someone was making revolutionary street art out of horse shit. My daughter liked to see what she could get us to fall for. One time in St. Paul, she tricked her mom into believing Tubman Avenue got its name from Harriet living there as a young girl. So, I wasn’t an early adopter of her Taco Nun story even though I so wanted it to be true. A shit-sculpting artist. Who would do that? The work of art always signed in cursive, always in handwriting too hard to read. No interpretations stuck until the weatherman suggested that it said Taco Nun. If this was another of my daughter’s tricks, it was the most elaborate one yet.
Lucky for me, reason to believe was soon left on the sidewalk, sun-drying in front of the Spaghetti Factory. The awesome life-sized horseshit replica of Picasso’s Guernica captured the brutality of war in ways even Pablo hadn’t dreamed of. So bold, I swear, you really could smell the suffering.
Part of the mystique was that no one had ever seen Taco Nun. We only got to see the work. The sun would rise to show off the gift of sculpture, the provocative sophistication from the unconventional medium. Like Jesus’s wine from water, art from shit required a leap of faith. She wasn’t for everyone. Nevertheless, she was a hero in our house. We debated about what she might look like. I called Ambitious Art Teacher. Hand-knitted purple sweaters, spiky hair, shit-stained Crocs. My wife chose unassuming Old Lady. Sneaky subversive. Diligently at church by day, revolutionary genius while we slept. My daughter scoffed, probably sure we were both wrong. She often liked to keep her better thoughts to herself. My wife claimed I had a crush on Taco Nun and she might have been on to something. I might have talked about her too much. My daughter might have made a shortlist of what to keep to herself next time: Everything.
The town also wavered. Public opinion shifted after the homage to Norman Rockwell was left on the courthouse steps. I didn’t care what the public thought. This piece was my favorite. The implications couldn’t be ignored. If Rockwell had captured the American dream, and Taco Nun had captured Rockwell, then the logic was right in front of our faces: the American Dream had turned to shit.
Weather sirens sounded. We missed the tornado but weren’t as lucky with the hailstorm. Still, the damage done to the Rockwell only enhanced the message: the shit soup running down the courthouse steps was the stain of Lady Justice crying off her makeup.
Taco Nun went further underground, and her mystique grew even larger. Now we talked about her to confirm she had really happened, that she wasn’t a collective figure of our imagination. Even if it was shit, the idea that she could have been a group hallucination didn’t make her any less of a hero to me.
We were trying to leave the Farmers Market, but I couldn’t remember exactly where we had parked. I thought level three, my wife said two, but my daughter was set on five. None of us was right. I hit the panic button, and we heard the car honking, but we couldn’t find the car. I clicked panic again to silence things, but the honking continued, telling everyone that we had no clue. We tried again but landed back out on the street. My wife and daughter walked away. It was my fault. They were going to the bus stop. I could pick them up if I found the car—or not. They didn’t care anymore.
Retracing our steps, I went to the back of the parking garage, near the alley we had taken to the market. Maybe we had been trying too hard. It should have been easy to find. Running up the stairs, I smelled it before I could see what it was. Even when I did, my feet kept moving before my brain could clarify the trouble I was getting into. With a surprising presence, the kind that mutes all others, Taco Nun hovered a few feet above me. Her presence paralyzed me. There was horse shit all over the steps now, up and down. The stench hitting the back of my nose made my eyes water. Somehow, she was pristine. More impressive than I imagined, her beauty from a seriousness I wasn’t prepared to match. She was out of this earth. I was nothing but in it. She was everything but out of it. More than intimidating, more than a street name—more devil and angel. Somehow, her message was automatic. It was understood. She was going with or without me. All I had to do was go to her, or all I had to do was leave. I ran down the steps, ignoring what I stepped in. I tried the door and found it locked. There was a wide-open ledge covered in horse shit. I saw her watching me figure things out. I was getting dirty either way. We all were. I turned around, put my hands on the edge, pulled up, and slid over. The only thing I really felt was her watching me go.
My wife and daughter were a couple of blocks away at the bus stop. I ran to them, but they didn’t see me or the tracks of shit I left behind. They didn’t see the stains on my jeans, my shoes, my shirt, my hands. They couldn’t see. They missed all of her final statement. They didn’t see anything I had done, how lucky I had been. Before I could show them, they got on the bus. They pulled away, and I stood there, wanting to show them what I had witnessed. They pulled away, and I stood there, knowing they were never going to understand.
Al Kratz lives in Indianola, Iowa with his wife Kristy and their cat Tom Petty. He is an Editor at New Flash Fiction Review and co-founder of the Flash Monsters!!! blog. He's on twitter @silverbackedG.
