JOURNAL: Gay Sam @ Taco Bell -- A Great American Novel

What a dinge town.
there.  that's the opening line of the book I've decided to write just now.
I don't mean now-now, but that this is the moment I decided I would.

I tried writing a book once before, like twelve years ago.  Of it is no remnant but a blog post here.
Why consider another go?  Twelve years of material.  I'm a bluray disc gig'd up with bits.
Because there are hundreds of thousands of words on this blog whereby I've tried to purge bad habits and plain poor foundation -- maybe I'm better.

And then this crap happens:
-- in order to bust out of a writer block I'm back to a cheap RiteAid notebook and a Sharpie pen.
These are the tools of evocation.
Wasn't my thing these thousand word sketches, these micro-transactions of humanity.  I think I thought this kind of writing was, (as the old gospel song goes), working on the building;
And I never get tired tired tired of working on the building, 
cuz I'm goin up to heaven to get my reward.
As these transactions accrued, they would mature to something bigger.

And now here I am with the notebook trying to do one, trying to confer something bottomless to the dullest meeting -- here, today, an attempt, but I think I've lost it, the little I had:
-- Taco Bell by the airport.  11:47am, looking for lunch.  Now look at this sweetheart at the counter.  Six feet tall.  Maybe 26.   He's half something dark, half something lighter, with freckles, a reddish-blonde afro.  And he's gay.  How do I know?  These things are always about location.  At the hippest boutique in West Hartford this kid would come off, well, affected; here at the airport Taco Bell, he's a sorer thumb.  Seven men in line; seven Carhartted hard-hearted samurai with burrito on the brain; three white, three beige, one brown; with this lot, the counter worker is coming off as anything but ambigously gay uno.  And then there's this: Samuel, (his name tag reads with a flowery handwriting --  flowery is a hack descrip, but apt), takes orders politely, efficiently, and with a great deal of eye contact.  It's clear Samuel takes his job seriously.
-- I would like to think this is the heart of a man: nothing trumps work on the pyramid of ways we judge each other; smarts, courage, loyalty; race, sex, politics; how you handle your booze; what sports team you have committed to; infinite hobbies and obsessions to put your monkey to; but judgement one is where you pound a check, and how vigorously you pound.
A airport Taco Bell lunch rush really isn't the place to get your fabulous on, but Sam be Sam.  Fuck us grubby dudes.  I'm admiring this kid.  Windsor Locks couldn't have been easy on a queer mulatto.  This kid is iron.  Taking this job at Taco Bell seriously.  Where have all the Samuels gone?  --
-- That bit above I wrote last week.  I called a friend to ask them about using the phrase, "queer mulatto".  "Do you think it reads like a compliment?  The response was noncommittal.
I don't use words like queer or mulatto in my life.  It was to evoke a feeling of what I felt this real person I observed might feel the customers who look like I looked at the Taco Bell the other day might think of him; I'm a grubby white dude in work boots who wants a burrito.  And so here I am down a rabbit hole.  The question is: Why was I calling and asking?  Whether to cut the sentence or leave it, why was I asking someone?  What happened to instinct?  Why am I doubting myself?  I hope this isn't sobriety making me realize I suck, what with the coming great american novel and everything.