Wilton’s left shoulder joint was his first ball and socket to go. He simply had a cuff now. The only rotation he could conjure from his left arm required the vicarious use of his hip joint. The doctor said, “Your shoulder joint died in its sleep. It was a painless death.” Wilton didn’t cry on Friday after or during his visit with his doctor. He held it in until Sunday, until the wake. He went to the kitchen for the nachos. He wept atop the kitchen nachos. The refried beans slid from their respective chips, and the shredded cheese resembled globs of melted. No one tasted his sorrow in the nachos because the nacho plate required two functioning shoulder joints for proper transport. The nachos flipped from his right hand and onto a fellow mourner’s chiffon blouse. This is the second time he cried. As he watched the nacho plate rotate from his wrist to the mourner’s torso, he remembered his ex-shoulder: the years of rotations in the shower, the rotations to get out of the car—headlights, seatbelt, door handle. Everyone thought his tears were for the loss of nachos. They went to the kitchen and assembled a substitute nacho plate. All week, they dropped off anonymous nachos at his doorstep—in good taste, then in bad taste. By the end of the week, they nicknamed him Nacho. He consistently ordered nachos at restaurants. But then one day, he decided to try the pulled pork tacos.