..:S...P...I...D...E...R...B...I...T...E...S:..

Sunday, November 04, 2007

“I think a good gift for the president would be a chocolate revolver.
And since he's real busy, you'd have to run up to him fast to give it to him.”
- Jack Handy - “Deep Thoughts”


FICTION:



spiderbites...a 79% true story



chapter VIII: taco hell





All I wanted was a taco. The last three times I asked my partner in crime (at the time) to pick me up some drive-thru Taco Hell, something happened where I ended up not getting any (tacos, that is). It got to be a running joke, me standing there looking down at empty, no-taco hands because of fights, fires, firefights, or simple confusion over store hours. And the night of the Presidential debates, and my unofficial farewell party to Brickwood, Ohio, was no exception.

The evening starts out innocent enough. I’m having Kay, Jay, and Dee, the last splinter faction of my old local crew, over to watch the debates, maybe some thumb wrestling, definitely some laughs. I figure if we have to drink a beer every time our Commander In Chief fumbles and fucks up English like it’s his second language, possibly causing an entire generation to speak with mixed metaphors and stuttering sentence fragments, we’ll be on our way to being drunk fast enough not to care who actually wins. Or for his grammar. To effect us.

An hour passes with me and Jay bored with my Presidential Debate videogame (“rated M for Mature”) and eventually staring in silence at the pre-debate interviews and Sunday evening quarterbacking. We wait and wait and wait for ex-girlfriend Kay and Dee to get back with the food, eyes narrowing, blinks slowly. The girls were put on Taco Duty since Dee lived by one, and we were hoping they’d take this important mission seriously. In spite of how nervous the President looks, tonight everything still seems under control. It’s been years since the first 10 undergraduate Taco Hell incidents, so I’m almost ready to think of it as just another place to get food...where no one might die. Taco Hell, for some reason, is confused around this town for being a vaguely healthy alternative where you’re able to get four groups into your hands in the least amount of time. Maybe not as fast as McDougal’s or Burger Queen, but, hey, it’s pretty fast. Or so I’m told. And eating fast-food is always the great equalizer. Watching their dead eyes at that window makes you regret quitting whatever job you just quit because, shit, it wasn’t that bad, was it? It also makes it real easy for small arguments to escalate out of control quickly.

But they’re running way too late. I decide to call them again and ask them to pleeeeeese remember to hook me up with some tacos on their way over, just in case they started tittering in the car about their respective days of phone tag and taking smack and completely forgot. There’s no answer. I should have known.

Now that I think about it, in spite of the dozen or so times I’ve walked through their door or drove up to their drive-thru window smiling, sweaty ball of money rolling around my hand, I don’t think I’ve ever actually received a taco from there. Or anything. Something has always fucked it up. Drive-thrus have always been a bad idea. Cars mixed with hunger? Think about that. Honking, impatient drivers, garbled instructions, pictures of the food just out of reach? Why not release clouds of bees into the cars to raise the stakes even further? Or put the window up a steep hill surrounded by sprinklers? It’s the very definition of a recipe for disaster.

And sure enough, another half hour later, in walks two girls empty-handed and visibly shaken from some kinda trauma. Their story comes out like this, but louder:

-We pulled up to the speaker to order the food (My food. Sniff) and the chick inside was having trouble hearing us. So Dee says, "No, not bean burrito, beeeFFF burrito." And apparently by exaggerating the letter "F" and by stalling your truck again, sorry, and then having trouble getting it moving again, she sent this bitch into a downward spiral of madness. We pulled up to pay, and she takes the money, Mexican girl, cute purple braids by the way, then fired off all mad, "By the way, don't ever get smart with me again...”

Time out from her story while I explain the strange hiring practices of this franchise. They always hire young, hot Mexican girls. Is this racist, a gimmick, or just equal-opportunity employment? Who am I to judge. I will admit, they usually work fast. So I’m told. Oh, yeah, Kay’s still talking:

-...So I’m like, "What did you just say?" And she’s like, “You heard me.” And I’m like, “I’m afraid I didn’t.” And she just slammed the window and walked over to another employee to rant ‘n’ rave about us, all waving her arms around like she's being attacked by bees...

-Bees?! I fucking told you!

-Told me what?

-Nothing. Never mind. Just my stomach growling.

-Can I finish? Okay, so, at this point, it was taking way too long with the food. And Dee decided to ask for the money back because now she's thinking someone's going to...

Dee jumps in.

-Yeah, I figured someone was gonna spit in the “beeeFFF” burrito. Or worse.

Burrito? Sigh. I’ll never see one in my lifetime. I’m sure glad I didn’t try for that new, certainly unattainable “Choco Taco” desert item I saw advertised earlier today. Oh, my Christ, I’d eat a hundred of those fuckers. Some day. Anyway, Dee’s still talking:

-...so the crazy bitch, Kim, now we can see that her name tag says "Kim," threw the money at me and snarls, actually fucking snarls, "You're lucky I’m in here or I’d come out there and kick your motherfuckin’ ass." So now we’re were getting loud, too, and some other employee came over to calm down Crazy Kim. But she just shoved this other employee up into the air, knocking his head off the heat lamp because now she’s got that crisis-situation super strength, and yells out, "Don't tell me to relax, I’m the shift supervisor!" By this time, everyone was swearing, and Kim was making these moves like she was really going to come outside and attack our car.

-My car.

Jay looks up.

-Actually it’s your brother’s truck.

-Let her finish.

-...so Kay started pulling away, loudly declaring that she's gonna to call the 1-800 number on the window. You know, the one that asks how smooth the transaction went? Right under the one that says “Always hiring?” Anyway, this nutty bitch yells out, "Go ahead, I don't give a shit! They're not going to fucking fire me!” And Kay shouted a final, "What the hell is your problem?" And Crazy Kim answered back with "Your mother!"

Kay jumps back in.

-Which is, of course, ridiculous, since my mother is at home watching Court TV at this same time every day. But, yeah, that was pretty much it. The debate ended with hard stares right out of those westerns you’re always making us watch. And after two or three stalls in your truck to ruin any dramatic exit, we were off! So, yeah, sorry.

-Off in a flash to not bring me food again. Sniff.

-Hey, we tried!

-No, that’s funny. And completely expected.

-You know what I hate? When you say “that’s funny” instead of just laughing.

In their excitement, they start telling the story again, mostly to just Jay this time because he wasn’t paying attention for the first half. It gets a little better the second time through as they start adding extra flavor, raising those stakes, sprinkling in some more important details about the enemy’s appearance. And by three and a half tellings, Kim’s purple braids are not being described as “cute” anymore, more like “clearly styled with peanut butter and hamburgers.”

I’m getting all worked up. Partly because, in my head, I’m picturing Kay or Dee stalling that truck over and over and sloshing imaginary grease all over the parking lot, and partly from being on the verge of fainting from malnutrition and lack of taco love. Looking around the room, everyone and everything looks like a giant taco to me. Even the President. Remember that cartoon with the guy seeing his buddy as a huge steaming chicken on the desert island? Just like that but with a taco. And without the island. And there’s three of them instead of one. And there’s no steam, as most fast food requires reactivation via microwave or it reverts to its natural inert state, industrial plastic pellets or Seamonkey dust. So, forget what I said. They look nothing like that cartoon. Anyway, now I got a dilemma. If it was a guy that was threatening people at some drive-thru, I could just go over there, or say I’d go over there, and pull the little bastard out of the window by his head, his crooked but carefully arranged oversized baseball cap falling slow-motion to the pavement. But here we have this girl-on-girl madness. And we're already 15 minutes into the Presidential throat-clearing that signals the beginning of the debates. Nevertheless, me and Jay start rubbing our hands in diabolical circles and get working on Plan A. Or, should I say, Plan "Egg." This involves taking three raw eggs and pelting the bitch when she opens the window to take our money. I know, kinda weak, but that's all that was in the ‘fridge. I think I was originally saving one egg for each of the three debate candidates judging by the confused faces I drew on the shells. See, it’s much easier to get egg off a face on the TV than it is an actual face.

But if I waste them on this employee, I need to think of a way to do this so that I can still get a goddamn taco. But I force myself to stop worrying about my stomach and think about the “greater good” instead. I drop the three eggs in a plastic bag, and we're getting ready to roll. Then I start to think about “collateral damage.” It should be noted that the phrases “greater good” and “collateral damage” are right now being volleyed back and forth between the President and the Green Party candidate. That and, of course, “World War III.”

But it’s a serious issue. What if Kim is no longer manning the drive-thru after all the excitement she just had? What if we bean some innocent waterhead who’s just working there one day a week for extra beer money? So I decide to call them up real quick to do some recon. When a teenager answers, I ask for whoever is working the drive-thru, claiming someone forgot my food. When an irritable female voice gets on the phone sighing before she speaks, I know it’s Kim. I just know it. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in all my life,” the President tells Red Party candidate. I clear my throat and ask all stern:

-Did you just have an altercation with two girls about 10 minutes ago?

-Listen, sir, that's n-n-n-not what happened, sir...

She starts stammering and going into this alternate reality version of events where she is just a victim who wants nothing more that to happily take money and hand out tacos, love, and smiles forever. I’m confused about something in her tone of voice after the girls’ play-by-play. But then something starts to dawn on me. All her "sirs," stuttering, rapid-fire explanations, and defensive over-enunciation? Is she running for office? Wait, no. Whoa. I get it. This dunce thinks I’m calling from that 1-800 number that they were talking about. Holy balls, she thinks I’m some sort of authority figure. Maybe we’ve got the TV turned up too loud and she can hear that instead. I clear my throat louder, as now I’m suddenly working for Taco Hell. And shit gets kinda strange:

-I heard that you were physically threatening customers and swearing and..."

-That's n-n-n-not what happened, sir. They were causing trouble, and I was just reacting and...

-Well, I’m afraid I must be privy to different facts than you are.

At this point, I’m now trying to imitate every similar conversation I’ve gotten from a boss, but I am, in fact, quoting our President word for word as he denies ever saying too much Arctic wildlife “was an eminent threat to global warming.” She almost whispers a question in my ear:

-Who is this?

-Your District Manager.

Okay, it feels like a demotion after the Presidency, but after I say this, I figure the jig is up anyway. I wait for her to say “fuck off’ and hang up because she's gotta know who her DM is, right? Right? Wrong.

-Listen, sir, they were making fun of me at the drive-thru, and I can't believe that I would get in trouble over this when it's just my word against hers and...

-Well, it's not just your word against hers because (I’m really proud of how fast I pull this out of my ass) there was a vehicle behind them and someone from that car also called the 1-800 number to complain about your behavior.

I should mention at this point that me, her District Manager, is wearing a homemade “I Fucked Your Martyr” T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, twirling three frowning eggs in a baggy, and trying to stifle the three giggling heads leaning in to listen.

-Hey, they started it!

Clearly she’s scared now and folding faster than Superman on laundry day.

-So you were threatening and cursing at customers because you thought they were being rude to you? That is simply unacceptable. Why do you think you can just...

-They started harassing me first! It's not fair that I should get in trouble for this and...

-Okay (big authoritative sigh) when is your next day off?

-Tomorrow.

-I’m going to need you to come in so that we can sit down and talk about this and figure out what should be done.

-Oh, no. It is not fair that I should have to come in on my only day off when I already rearranged my schedule once this week and it's my only day off and it's just not fair that I should be the one to...

And blah blah blah. Kay whispers in my other ear:

-Goddamn, this bitch is big on “not fair.”

At this point, I hold out the phone in disbelief. I don’t know what’s funnier, the fact that this idiot thinks I’m her District Manager, or the fact that me, her boss, can't get her to come in on her day off, even to save her job. On the television, the President holds a hand tight to his elfin, tomato-red earlobe, and a camera zoom reveals an earpiece no one knew he had.

-Are they giving him the questions or the answers?! Jay wants to know.

Suddenly offended, Jay declares this as “fuckin’ cheatin’!” and I motion for him to shush and turn off the TV and squeeze the phone painfully closer to my own head. After another minute of “not fair,” I finally give up and switch tactics:

-When do you work next?

-Sunday. I open.

-Okay, don’t worry about opening the store because...

Time out. This is where some people in management may start getting a disapproving “you've gone too far” kinda look on their mug. Hey, I've only been a District Manager for seven minutes, I’m gonna make some mistakes.

-...we'll take care of that. You just come in later. I’ll meet you at noon so we can sit down and figure out what we're going to have to do.

-Fine.

Wow. That was easy. Apparently, it's infinitely easier to convince someone to stay home instead of coming in. It's a lesson we all remember from grade school where, of course, kids would rather get suspended for ten days instead of standing in the corner for just one.

I hang up, and we’re all laughing our asses off, hoping that she actually comes in late on Sunday and gets canned. We talk about it a lot, drinking and ignoring the end of the debates even after Jay turns the TV back on. I do, however, catch one of the candidates saying something self-righteous about “never judging people by”... what? By something, I guess. Didn’t hear the rest over all the fake applause.

That’s all I remember because I spend most of my time fantasizing about being behind one of those podiums next to the actual District Manager of Taco Hell, carefully explaining our party’s platform with purposeful hand gestures and reassuring nods. I would declare, “My fellow Americans, you can never judge people by the color of their purple hair. However, you can judge people by their favorite books, songs, or movies. You can judge people by how fast they yank clothes out from under a sleeping cat. And you can only judge people by how rude they are on the phone or in traffic...” Dramatic pause. “...or, of course, at a drive-thru, the unholy combination of both.”

When I think hard about this, I am convinced that Crazy Kim flipped out because of the nature of the drive-thru itself. Imagine a phone call where the person you just hung up on suddenly pops their head in the window of your house to get the last word. That would fuck you up, wouldn’t it? And if you’re more likely to be rude to strangers on a phone (like most people) you sure wouldn’t know what the hell to do if their head suddenly popped out of your freezer. Instant confrontations at the drive-thru window is an unexpected, awkward ending to what’s basically a garbled, angry phone call between the hungry and the disgruntled. It’s something that’s not meant to happen, ever. Like time travel. Or a rational debate. Or me ever getting to eat a taco.

To be fair, Kim probably didn’t know how to handle it. It’s kind of like when you’re in traffic and you’re yelling at the car next to you for whatever infraction, then, three miles later, you’re both idling at a red light together. Do you look over? You have to look over. A friend of mine used to be prepared for just that kind of situation. If someone was glaring at a red light, he’d slowly pull out the winter mittens, sunglasses, and motorcycle helmet that he kept in his glove box. Yeah, it was a big-ass glove box. Then he would stare them down at the wheel of his rusted-out ‘92 Fahita. You know what though? No one ever raced him.

In retrospect, it sucks that our debate party was full of such distractions because, since Gray moved away, it’s the most people I’ve managed to gather around me in months. Although I suspect this has gotten more difficult because of the upcoming elections and my tendency to drop my pants and press my groin up against the TV whenever the Leader of the Free World is talking, which is a lot. I keep trying in vain to make my friends understand that the bigger the crowd means the less likely I am to exclaim, “Hey, look! The President’s suckin’ my dick again!” Seriously. Where’s the camera? We could make T-shirts and cut the sleeves off! Wait, where’s everybody going?

So, it’s finally Sunday, and I’ve told everyone I know about the taco hijinks, actually kinda getting tired of the story and starting to doubt Kim really won’t figure that shit out in 48 hours. I was thinking that as soon as she mentions anything to her store manager or fellow employees, they would quickly call the District Manager (the real one, not me) and the cat's out of the bag. So I’m as shocked as you are by the phone call and happy ending to this story:

Kay works at Starfucks near the Taco Hell in question, and Sunday afternoon she calls me to say she just told her coworkers all about the incident. Her words:

-...so, at about 11:00, a couple of the second shifters went across the street to get lunch and came back to tell me the good news. Dude. There was a big sign taped to the door that read, “Will not open until 1:00. Sorry for any inconvenience.” No bullshit, I swear. I got five witnesses who saw the sign.

On the TV, a news anchor is saying that, in spite of the mysterious earpiece, polls are saying that the President won the debate with immigration scare tactics again.

Epilogue. A week later, Dee actually calls the 1-800 number to complain about those customer service issues, and she’s given the phone number of the store manager. This woman then proceeds to tell her that she knows all about “the situation” and that “the District Manager is handling it.”

Of course, this begs the question, is she talking about me? Because I ain’t handling shit. It's “not fair!” I declare. I’ve got too many new responsibilities that come with this job title. The truckstop puts too much salt on their fries, kid at the gas station shorted me on change, convenience store has a clerk who stares too much. Mouth hangs open, too. I’m sorry, there's just too many other stores in my district that need my attention.

One last thing. Remember those three eggs with the faces on them? As I was packing up the last of my silverware for the move, I noticed them on the windowsill, next to the phone charger, behind my dead plants and leaking squirt gun, still in the bag, fermenting in the sun to (kissing the tips of my finger and thumb) perfection. I never smelled anything bad. The only reason I know they’d gone over is because someone (still don’t know who) took the time to draw an “X” through all the eyes and a tiny tongue lolling out each of the mouths.

I’d like to say I used them to make a Mexican-style omelet. I’d like to say that I forced myself to eat it on the day of the election. I’d like to say that me and my girl went outside and placed those eggs at either end of a parking space and laughingly mastered how to drive a stick-shift and parallel park on a bright summer day without anyone losing their temper. I’d like to say that whenever she thought no one was looking, she would replace whatever article of clothing the cat was sleeping on with something equally comfortable so that it didn’t tumble onto its head like Sunday dinner off a tablecloth magic trick gone awry. I’d like to say that something meaningful happened to those three eggs, since the story introduced them and forgot about them completely, just like that gun hanging over the fireplace. I’d like to say that they did, indeed, crack someone in the head that deserved it instead of just getting dropped into the trash without any ceremony or debate. But they didn’t.

::: david - 6:02 PM [+] :::
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