October 1998. Charlie is adrift, tending bar in pre-gentrified, slacker-era Austin, drowning in '90s ennui and quietly wondering if life has anything better to offer. She doesn't believe in dreams-just survival, solitude, and the rare high of cooking a perfect meal.
But when she crosses paths with a wounded extraterrestrial hiding out in a local park, everything shifts. Before she knows it, she's behind the wheel of her beat-up Corolla, tearing across the Lone Star State with an alien hitchhiker and no clue what she's chasing, or why, for the first time in her life, it suddenly feels like everything matters.
Funny, fierce, and surprisingly tender, with plenty of grunge-era angst, pop culture deep cuts and the restless energy of a generation raised on mixtapes and midnight movies, The Whole Enchilada is a tall Texas tale for the end of the 20th century.
Take a road trip through the wide-open question of what comes next-and discover that the biggest mystery isn't in the sky. It's in the rearview mirror.
October 1998. Charlie is adrift, tending bar in pre-gentrified, slacker-era Austin, drowning in '90s ennui and quietly wondering if life has anything better to offer. She doesn't believe in dreams-just survival, solitude, and the rare high of cooking a perfect meal.
But when she crosses paths with a wounded extraterrestrial hiding out in a local park, everything shifts. Before she knows it, she's behind the wheel of her beat-up Corolla, tearing across the Lone Star State with an alien hitchhiker and no clue what she's chasing, or why, for the first time in her life, it suddenly feels like everything matters.
Funny, fierce, and surprisingly tender, with plenty of grunge-era angst, pop culture deep cuts and the restless energy of a generation raised on mixtapes and midnight movies, The Whole Enchilada is a tall Texas tale for the end of the 20th century.
Take a road trip through the wide-open question of what comes next-and discover that the biggest mystery isn't in the sky. It's in the rearview mirror.
Charlie was used to sleeping in unusual places, which is why, despite lying on a lumpy futon mattress pushed against one wall of her spartan bedroom, she was having some of the best sleep of her life. Deep, rhythmic breathing through barely parted lips, hands tucked neatly at her sides, eyelashes lightly resting on her cheeks. This was the sleep of comatose Disney princessesâpremium slumber. The kind that insomniacs would trade vital organs for. It was a dreamless sleep. It was always a dreamless sleep. Charlie was not a dreamer.
A digital clock sat on the floor within armâs reach of the futon, its Mars-red, geometric numbers glowing in the semidarkness. She never bothered to turn on the alarm. She didnât need to. Every morning, she was awakened the same way: with an explosion of sound that rattled the window and sent tiny, pulsing tremors across the floor.
Her eyes flew open, and she groaned a customary protest that was quickly drowned out by the relentless waves of alt-rock. Despite her friendly threats of violence, her next-door neighbor, Mikeâa squirrely guy she always referred to with the full title âMike the Neighborââplayed the same shitty album at full volume. The chorus of the albumâs opening song blasted aggressively into her struggling consciousness. Something about rattlesnakes and driving trucks.
A wave of nauseous exhaustion washed over her. Thanks to Mike the Neighbor, five hours was about her average nightâs sleep these days. Staring up at the dated popcorn ceiling, she sent hate vibes into the universe for several minutes before accepting that the day was upon her.
The comforting aromas of brewed coffee and cigarette smoke mingled in the apartment. Her roommate, Tina, was getting ready for work. Rubbing her face, Charlie sat up, wincing at the sharp pain in her left hip. She wondered if it was normal for a twenty-three-year-old woman to wake up every day feeling as if her body had been put through a meat grinder.
Granted, most of her nights were spent on her feet, working six to eight hours straight, pacing behind the bar, carrying tubs of ice and boxes of beer and liquor, catering to loud, sloppy idiots throwing money at her from all directions. They called her âsweetheartâ and âhoney,â and their tone grew progressively friendlier as the night progressed, but she was accustomed to that kind of attention and knew how to handle it. It was good money, and that was all that mattered. Her shifts blurred together in noise and adrenaline, and she always had a fat wad of bills in her pocket when she came home.
By the time Charlie wandered into the kitchen barefoot, Tina was occupying her customary spot at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee in front of her. She held a Nat Sherman clove cigarette in one hand and a copy of the Austin Chronicle in the other.
Tina was what Charlie called a âfancy goth.â Unlike the pale, greasy-haired goth kids who dressed head-to-toe in black and huddled together as they moved around the mall, Tina had elevated the look. Her straight hair was cut into a perfect, glossy, jet-black bob. Her makeup was always pale and minimal, except for her signature blood-red lipstick, which she constantly fussed over. Each morning, Tina carefully selected her outfits, paying close attention to detail and fit. On this particular morning, she wore a black tank top with a black lace miniskirt. Her legs were covered in black-and-white striped tights, ending in oversized black platform boots that added a much-needed (at least for a hair stylist) three inches to her five-foot-one-inch frame.
Charlie was definitely not goth. In fact, Charlie had mastered the art of staying unnoticed. When she wasnât wearing her black slacks and white button-down shirts for work, her styleâor lack of itâusually consisted of jeans and T-shirts or simple cotton dresses in muted colors. Her face was too round, and her athletic build lacked second-glance curves. She considered her thick, naturally tawny hair her most attractive feature, although it was usually pulled back with a scrunchie.
âGoddamn Mike!â Tina yelled the second Charlie appeared in the kitchen. âI try everything in my power to keep shit quiet so you can sleep, and his idiot ass has to blast that garbage every fucking morning.â She flicked her cigarette in the ashtray with disgust and tossed the paper down on the table before adding, âIt wouldnât be so bad except his taste in music sucks rhino balls.â
âSâokay,â Charlie shrugged, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and filling it with coffee. Sure, Mike the Neighbor was annoying as hell. He was always inviting himself over to raid their fridge. He blasted the same crappy CD every morning at top volume and partied late on weeknights, but he also sold them excellent weed, so they tolerated him. Still, Charlie was touched by Tinaâs concern.
âHey,â Tina said, standing up to carry her cup to the sink. âMe and Hector and Lisa are going to the club tonight. The Crypt is hosting its annual Halloween bash. Someone started a rumor that Trent Reznor was going to make an appearance. Itâs probably bullshit, but on the slight chance it might be true, I have to be there. Hector and Lisa are coming over early to get ready. Did I tell you Hector is going as Edward Scissorhands? I told him Iâd help with hair and makeup. I know youâre working, but I figured Iâd give you a heads-up. Theyâll be here around eight.â
Hector was Tinaâs cousin, and Lisa was his girlfriend. They lived a few miles away and visited the apartment at least twice a week. Charlie appreciated that Tina was thoughtful and informed her beforehand when she was having guests. If Charlie ever had guests herself, she vowed she would let Tina know in advance, too.
âThatâs cool. But FYI, Iâm not working tonight.â
Tina pantomimed a dramatic faint. âA Saturday night? You have a Saturday night off⌠and itâs Halloween? This is unprecedented. What are you planning?â
âI donât have any plans,â Charlie said, shaking loose one of her cigarettes from the package sitting on the dated Formica countertop. âIâll probably just stay in.â
Tina rolled her eyes. âGirl. You need to get out. The first night off youâve had in three months, and youâre going to sit on the couch? Why donât you come with us?â
Charlie pretended to consider this, but she couldn't think of anything she wanted to do less. She worked at a bar. Going to the club on a rare night off sounded like hell, especially since it was a holiday.
âNah. Iâm sure thereâll be some good Halloween movies on TV tonight. Why donât I make dinner before you guys head out?â
Tina shot her a grin. âHell yeah. Iâll call and let them know to come hungry.â
Then she grabbed her oversized, black patent leather tote from the back of her chair, threw her cigarettes and lighter in it, and was out the door.
*****
Soft mid-morning light streamed through the east-facing windows of the living room. With her coffee cup in hand and Tinaâs discarded copy of the Austin Chronicle under her arm, Charlie paused to bask in a sunbeam and watch floating dust motes. Mike the Neighbor had mercifully also left for work, and a sacred silence enveloped the apartment.
Lately, Charlie had started to notice herself relaxing at odd moments. It almost always happened there, at the apartment. Her shoulders would suddenly drop, and her jaw would unclench. Sheâd savor being still and quiet and⌠something else.
Safe?
Moments like these felt like epiphanies. They made her acutely aware that most of the time, she was not relaxed. It was ironic because everyone told her she was pretty chill.
Maybe on the outside.
The apartment was Tinaâs before Charlie moved in. Built in the 1960s, it was nothing fancy: standard white walls, neutral carpet, cheap fixtures, and mid-century cabinets with so many coats of paint that some doors were hard to open. But it was clean and pest-free, with a nice view of the nearby greenbelt. Even better, it was just a few steps from the city's largest park, where Charlie swam three or four afternoons a week.
Practically every item in the apartment belonged to Tina, who, compared to Charlie, was a maximalist. A deep red velour couch with a matching ottoman sat in the middle of the living room, and the walls were adorned with framed black-and-white photos of classic movie monsters â Frankenstein, Dracula, and The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Heavy black and white brocade curtains draped the windows, and one wall was lined with bookshelves filled with books about vampires and other creepy subjects. It was a lot.
Charlie had but one prized possession â a Kikuichi chefâs knife. Cooking was the one thing she felt like she was good at, and since Tina had no interest in doing anything in the kitchen except making coffee, Charlie took on the role of house chef. Tina often expressed gratitude for her cooking, bragging to others about her roommateâs culinary skills. The praise embarrassed Charlie, but she was secretly pleased and went out of her way to make dishes she knew Tina would love.
Aside from an expensive knife, Charlieâs few possessions included a 1983 Toyota Corolla, a janky futon, clothes, and a handful of books and CDs. She only brought three cardboard boxes with her when she moved from California to Austin. It had taken her all of fifteen minutes to unpack. Her bedroom looked like a monkâs cell compared to the rest of the apartment.
Despite having little in common, Charlie and Tina were surprisingly compatible as roommates. Shortly after Charlie moved in, they quickly settled into an easy, symbiotic relationship, dividing chores and expenses with minimal discussion or negotiation. Tina made coffee each morning, and Charlie cleaned up afterward. Everything was like that. Easy.
Charlie kept to herself most of the time. She behaved like a guest, adding nothing of her own to the common spaces. Her room and bathroom were always spotless, and she did her best to avoid interfering with Tinaâs lifestyle. This was how she had always been. Her parents had often said they didnât know she was there half the time. It was always said in an appreciative tone.
In contrast, Tina grew up in San Antonio and moved to Austin the year after graduating from high school, primarily to attend cosmetology school, but also to gain some independence. She loved her large family, but privacy was scarce in their house, and Tina craved her own space. Charlie couldnât imagine living with that many people around her all the time. She thought Tinaâs family tree must look like one of those wizened live oaks so common in central Texasâmassive, sprawling, and resilient, well-suited to the extreme heat and frequent droughts that often hit the area.
Tina spent every major holiday at her parents' house. The first Christmas after Charlie moved in, she was invited to drive to San Antonio to join them. That day, Charlie met at least a hundred of Tinaâs relatives and enjoyed some insanely good homemade Mexican food. Crowded into their modest home, surrounded by the extended Salazar family, munching on tamales, and watching the youngest family members tear into gift wrap with wild abandon made her feel like sheâd been painted into a Christmas card. There were even a couple of gifts for her tucked under the tree.
Later, Charlie realized it had been her best Christmas ever. She considered sharing this with Tina, but it felt like a strange thing to tell someone she still didnât know very well. So, she kept it to herself.
I loved Daniela Quirkeâs debut novel The Whole Enchilada for the same reason her bookâs protagonist, the reserved and oft-sardonic Charlie, loved reading Alice in Wonderland and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas â âbooks like that are relatable.â The three stories take widely different routes to capture the emotional core mired in the crisis of personal and collective identity, while still managing to be rooted in the common universality of feeling like an outsider. Three distinct genres and creative decisions boiling down to one symbiotic revelation.
Beginning with the popular trope of an extraterrestrial encounter, the novel follows Charlie, lost and indifferent in her 20s, taking on an unlikely adventure of driving a homesick alien, who resembles a chupacabra and belts out cosmic insights in the voice of Joan Rivers, to the deserts of West Texas in the bid to reach the pick-up spot for its journey back to its planet. Quirke creates what looks like the makings of speculative fiction at the outset but expertly nudges it to the backseat to let the emotional gravity of camaraderie and the fundamental connection underlying it take center-stage.
Their road trip stretches through long highways and obscure towns, an assortment of quirky people and quirkier experiences, leaning into a bumpy but notable evolution of Charlie and Joanâs relationship as well as the formerâs perception of life, love and its nitty-gritties, built on a turbulent and nomadic childhood.
The author occasionally intersperses her writing with vivid, descriptive prose that bolsters the reading experience. The sun glowing âlike a hot coal as it sank, dragging a blanket of deep blue behind itâ invigorates as seemingly plain a moment as Charlie and her found family having burritos in an empty parking lot while watching a sunset, and in doing so, keeps the writing from falling into a single tonality.
When I watched director Denis Villeneuveâs film Arrival a few years back, it was the first time I was introduced to how wrong I'd always been in my misplaced notion of science-fiction being little more than a collection of cliches vastly removed from my idea of reality. The Whole Enchilada did that once again, employing clever storytelling to make me reflect on what it really means to feel alien, riding on the societal bandwagon of the counter-intuitive anxiety of trying to find my place and purpose in the world as I know it. I felt called out on my blind pandering even as the story made me laugh and tear up at certain beats â philosophical epiphanies merging with the matters of the heart in a tender amalgam.
While I admit I found the last few chapters dragging towards a rather idealistic closure and exposition â one that, if left out, would possibly have had minimal to no impact on the novel as a whole â thatâs probably just me nitpicking at a heartwarming rendering that stayed with me long after I finished reading it.
Needless to say, Quirkeâs novel is one of those books I will be recommending to friends and family and anyone who would lend me their ears (and TBRs) for a long time to come, as a gentle reinforcing of the often-needed affirmation: âNo one gets to have the whole enchilada. We take what we get, and we make the best of it.â