To start this off, you should know this particular Taco Bell has more turnaround than an anorexic roll of toilet paper in a turd factory. We’re sure of only one constant face in the establishment, the General Manager… a woman we’ve heard on many occasions belittling the staff of part-time Morlocks for their wrongdoings in the delicate processes of assembling sophisticated stereotypes of Mexican cuisine. Food that could only be called Mexican if a truckload of it were to magically… improbably remain intact for long enough to make it South of the Manson-Nixon line and still represent itself as edible.
She was on deck, but busy correcting a young dreadlocked man who seemed to be stuck in a perpetual daydream of having made better choices before arriving at his scheduled shift.
Jamie and I gave our orders, her usual two bean burritos and my… whatever the number nine decided it was going to be for this culinary charade. Smooth sailing so far…
But then it happened.
When the girl at the register gives you incorrect change and repeats your explanation of why she has contradicted all logic of math and finance, the simple fact that there are 100 pennies between 9.06 and 10.06, and you pursue the matter… You assume responsibility for time and effort wasted every additional second you remain at the front of the line.
Jamie was bound for an apology or spark of situational realization but I knew by the vacant look in her eye she gave up halfway through her application long before this encounter. She was swimming in a world behind us far away, swirling like a wind caught Wal-Mart bag in dreams of the day a mullet sporting meth head comes and sweeps her up in his primer gray Geo Metro with gold painted rims to make her his very own semi-melted Trailer Park Barbie.
“Is that girl lost?” Jamie asks me as we hunt the nearly empty dining room for a table devoid of soda mucus and possibly still sentient meat particles.
Lost, I wonder as I find a seat that doesn’t threaten Ebola at the slightest touch.
Lost is what happens when you start at a point you know… and through the process of travel become unfamiliar with your surroundings.
“No, this chick is a special kind of cranial-numb rivaled only by those who accidentally become submerged in vats of sub-zero lidocaine. You handed her the money and I honestly thought she was about to start foaming at the mouth and rocking in the fetal position behind the counter with her pants around her ankles sucking her thumb.”
Our order called and I return to retrieve it.
If you’ve made it this far you’ve come to expect what I had and Jamie could not imagine… the order was wrong. It was at the time I opened my, thing stuff… for lack of better nomenclature, and took a bite.
As soon as my mouth filled with what is best described as pulp scraped from the backseat floorboards of a New York City whore shuttle, I came to the conclusion that city workers from around the South need to hold off on those statues for a minute and come take down this Taco Bell.
Still, I endured. I finished my (incorrect) order and immediately experienced the sensation of my ass throwing up in its mouth. I looked around and made a mental note to get a good series of Tetanus shots in my tongue and gums as soon as possible.
This is exactly what happens when you manage a place and decide firing is easier than writing a schedule. One of those experiences that’s easy to overlook at 2 a.m. after a night of drinking nothing but laced beverages and accepting the fact that V.D. is just a side effect of making a connection.
This place is so nasty it would turn Oscar the Grouch into Gordon Ramsay and bring production to an ass-grinding halt. We didn’t just leave after the meal, we escaped. Don’t fire these people, banish them to a place where accuracy is rumor and the food is pre-packaged.
We didn’t just leave after the meal, we escaped. Don’t fire these people, banish them to a place where accuracy is rumor and the food is pre-packaged.
Don’t fire these people, banish them to a place where accuracy is rumor and the food is pre-packaged.