At my warehouse, we like to eat. We like to eat a lot. Not only does this contribute to my hereditary fluctuating weight gain, it also leads me to sneak out of work for about a half hour for what we call "food runs" every couple of weeks. The food runs have a nice feel of faux rebellion to them as I'm not at work when I'm supposed to be and because when I'm supposed to be at work, no one else is. I'm sure you can imagine the surge of adrenaline I feel waiting for my Big Mac not knowing if the next person to walk through the Golden Arches will be my boss. My bad assity is unmatched.
Last night it was my turn for the food run. I decided on Taco Bell, simply because tacos are both delicious and good for you. Trust me. Burritos have even more health benefits. Keep trusting me. I wandered around my warehouse taking orders from my eight fellow high powered executives and, orders in tow, drove to the Border.
As soon as I arrived at Taco Bell, I knew something special was about to happen. Do you ever have those nights? Nights where something magic is in the air? Nights where you know, no matter happens after this, nothing in your life will quite be the same? I've had two such nights at Taco Bell. Let's flashback to the first:
I was a young, strapping high school buck, age 16. I had my license for about one month, and my inner child struggling with obesity loved the fact he could now drive to every fast food restaurant on his own, without having to convince Mommy or Daddy. On some random day, on some random weekend, Taco Bell was my locale of choice. I don't remember what I ordered, I only remember that the price came to 6.53, a hefty sum for the TB. I paid with a twenty, as I hadn't yet signed up with the life ruining VISA, took my change, ate my tacos, drank my soda, left the store, drove to my friend's, sat there, watched a stupid movie about a stupid kid who played chess, got thirsty, decided to go buy a delicious diet soda beverage at the grocery store, left my friend's house, walked to the grocery store, went to the soda section, picked up a Diet Dr Pepper, walked up to the counter, opened my wallet to pay, and realized the $13 of cash that should be in my wallet wasn't. Instead, I had $4. This upset me. The damn taco shop gave me four one dollar bills instead of three ones and a ten. Anger consumed me. I politely placed my Diet Dr Pepper on the counter, muttered a random obscenity at the undeserving checkout boy, and stormed out of the store.
I walked back to my car and drove straight to Taco Bell to explain the situation. I rationalized, "You f---ing ripped me off!" My argument, though compelling, did not seem to convince the store clerk. She asked how so. I explained the situation, and her way of solving the problem was to count the bills in the register. Everything came out okay by her counts. Now, being that I had at least a second grade understanding of math, numbers, and common sense at this point, I calmly explained, "Listen you dumb ass, of course all the bills add up. The bill you gave me from the ten dollar bay earlier must have been a one. Now please give me my money. Now." Of course, I was so smart and put together through this whole ordeal, she went to get the manager to explain the situation. Obviously he was going to give me both my money and even better, a free taco! Or he was going to take her side. I nicely asked them, "How dumb are you people?" They did not take kindly to my question. Defeated, I left. Upon returning to my friend's house, I immediately made a pledge that before I die, I will slowly regain my nine dollars from Taco Bell. A pledge I have kept to this day by stopping at a Taco Bell to fill an empty pop bottle with their fountain pop, or claiming an order is wrong just so they have to make something else. By my accounts, these genius acts of rebellion have cost Taco Bell about $6.50. With interest, I figure they still owe me $2.50. I'm generous enough to not take into account inflation.
As always, the random, exciting event from my far past brings us back to the near past. Our Taco Bell does not have a drive-thru; we don't know why. I'm fourth in line. The guy at the front of the line is a ManGiant, and people two and three are a married couple wearing adorable matching fluorescent green t-shirts. The woman at the counter, presumably overdosing on Prozac, started asking the ManGiant about the wedding band on his finger.
"When's your wedding?" Prozac Taco Bell Manager asks.
"It was last night actually." ManGiant dryly responds.
"Awesome!!! How did it go!?!?" PTBM shouts.
"It was okay. Not as long as I thought it would be. Kinda fun though." ManGiant says.
They then start talking about tacos and burritos and those strange sugary desert dishes Mexicans eat instead of ice cream. ManGiant got very excited about tacos. ManGiant got even more excited about the sugary dessert treat. This occurred to me as strange. Who in the hell goes to Taco Bell for the first supper of their marriage? What the hell? Then, who reacts with some weird disdain towards the wedding itself, showing no excitement for his poor wife (who might I add was not there), but gets oddly worked up about tacos? I'm taking bets on the divorce. I got three weeks.
Next we had the adorable matching couple. Prozac shouts, "Aaah! Twinsies! I always dress my kid and me in matching shirts and we look so cute; I love it when people do that!!!" The couple, clearly not a very friendly couple, did not like being called out for wearing matching shirts. Then I ask you this, "Why did you wear them? Why do you do something that is clearly going to have attention brought to it, if you then get angry when the attention is brought towards it?" It's like people who grow stupid hairstyles, and then when someone laughs at them they get all pissy. If you don't want me commenting on your jet black afro, Mr. Pale White Teenager, don't grow it!
Ahem, sorry about that. In the midst of all this people watching, I started to get my food run rebellion adrenaline kick in. At this point, I walk up to Prozac, and promptly order $45 worth of greasy, low-quality food. She freaks. "Oh my God! You sir, just saved this store's 8:00 sales hour. It had been so slow, and you're going to account for over half our sales!" What an honor. The stoned food preparers (they're not cooks if they don't cook), not used to moving at real people speed, slowly start assembling my army of tacos. This took awhile. I stood at the door waiting for my order when the person behind me in line asks Prozac, "Did you have an unusually good day or something?" This question cracked me up to the point of tears. I don't know why, it just did.
I then had a strange emotional reaction. Evidently food run rebellion adrenaline plus giddy Man laughter equals the courage to settle all debts. I decided then and there, "tonight is the night I regain my last $2.50." Originally, I had only ordered one delicious diet soda beverage. I usually didn't order drinks for people because on a past food run I had spilled a drink carrier in my car, splashing soda everywhere. Since then, I've been a bit leery of carrying drinks for all nine of us hoity toity executives. It was time to stop living in fear. By my accounts, two $1.25 large sodas would officially settle this issue. I asked the taller of the two stoned food preparers for two large soda glasses. He gave me a blank stare and handed them to me. He did not ask why. Which was good, because I didn't want, nor did I have the time, to explain corporate karma to him-I had to get back to work. I then filled the sodas, put them in a carrier, and waited for my tacos. I looked around, nodding at others waiting for tacos. They could tell they were witnessing history. Upon being handed my tacos, I took them along with my drinks, and walked triumphantly to my car.
I drove back to my warehouse carefully. The soda cargo stayed intact. My grudge, so long consuming me and preventing me from enjoying Taco Bell for what it truly is-a completely shitty restaurant, is done.
I am going to be late for work about five minutes ago, so I can't really wrap this up in any witty or fully circular way at the moment. I may reedit later, adding a truly excellent ending, or I may not. If this incident proves anything, it takes me about ten years and a strange cross-breeding of emotions for me to finish anything.
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