"Do you even speak English? Are you even a fucking citizen? Si? No? Fucking green card?"
I'm in line at Del Taco, becoming more and more aware of the asshole in front of me chewing out the attractive, English-speaking girl working at the counter. It's 9:30 AM and the guy is apparently already either drunk or high on something.
"Okay pal, people are waiting," I hear Jason say from behind me. "The fuck is this guy's problem?" he asks me silently. But the jerk just keeps on with his rant, completely oblivious to the angry patrons amongst him.
I'm somewhere else right now. I'm not even in this restaurant. I'm not feeling the horrid hangover I woke up with this morning. I can't feel my neck seizing up in a sudden rush of anxiety. I don't even know if I'm hungry at the moment, but after the long walk to pick up Jason's truck from wherever-the-fuck-we-left-it-the-night-before, eating just seemed like the right thing to do. I don't remember coming home last night. Is Del Taco even considered a restaurant?
"Number five... cinco, you know, you understand that right?"
I'm still spaced out, but I pay attention to life long enough to roll my eyes at Jason. Jason's shrugs and shoots a look of disgust at the prick in front of us.
The girl has finally had enough after taking his order, basically throws a fountain drink cup at the bastard, and walks off to begin preparing his piss-ant tacos or whatever-the-fuck-he-ordered. He takes his receipt, while also taking his sweet fucking time, puts it in his wallet, and before moving to the fountain drink machine gives me and Jason a look of disgust while jerking his thumb at the Mexican girl.
After I order--I can't remember what, I'm on autopilot at fast food joints now that I've spent 23 years of my life eating at them--I'm waiting at the counter with Jay for our trays.
"So..." He's got something on his mind. "I say we go see Terminator in a little bit. That shit looks pretty rad. I think I gotta get some sleep, lay down for a bit first though dude, my stomach is fucking raw from our night of debauchery."
"Well," clearing my throat, "I'm down, but I'd rather see it early this morning, because I work tonight. You know the 4 AM thing..."
"Fuck that man. I'm not feeling like doing anything. You know we passed out at 10 o'clock? We could have fucking made it to Jack in the Box, but you said it was too late and they were closed."
"Eleven." Referring to the time we finally cashed out and drunkenly stumbled to my house. It was a long night.
I'm checking out the Mexican's ass, which is ample. She's got nearly perfect skin, a perfect body, and green eyes. She spits into the taco she's preparing for the asshole who was in front of us, before wrapping it up and calling out his number--"Forty-seven."
"...besides," I continue, "711 was right there and I was in no shape to walk a fucking mile for a Jumbo Jack."
I time travel for five minutes and suddenly I'm half way done with my burrito, sitting in a booth towards the rear exit. Jason just moans and has given up completely on his food, complaining about bourbon not mixing well with vodka, food from 711, how he almost died of food poisoning one time a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away where 711 food is responsible for the deaths of millions upon millions of enslaved--
"Oh no," Jason starts right as the door behind me opens. It's not a worried 'oh no,' he's got a sinister cackle already going to match his devious grin. "Look who just walked in. Fucking won't believe it. Oh Jesus dude..."
"Oh fuck."
It's the homeless man we ran into while walking home last night near the street construction. We offered him change, threw a cone into the street, kicked over a sign that read 'CAUTION', and exchanged (both sides lying) Vietnam and Iraq war stories and how awful war flashbacks are.
He recognizes us reluctantly, and as he's asking for change, I go back into the cave in my brain and begin to zone out as usual. The white fluorescent lights and counter tops remind me of a hospital, and I pretend I am actually in one. The Mexican family eating in the corner becomes a swarm of nurses and doctors surrounding a patient, eagerly gnawing and gnashing at his insides with plastic forks and spoons, shoveling his organs into their mouths. The homeless man next to our table is the head surgeon. Maybe he's here to tell me my mother isn't going to make it through, or we need to operate now if your dog is going to stand a chance... organ donors... feeders... medical school... junior college... cocaine, I think, cocaine would be swell right now.
Gathering myself, only seconds gone by, I tell the homeless guy I've never seen him before and he'd better fuck off because I have no change. Jason just stares at me, and after he walks off, I go back into my hospital trance and only pretend to hear Jason begin to let me know how fucked up that was.
Later that night, after seeing Terminator: Salvation with Julia, I go home and silently weap into my pillow for a minute, thinking about what I said to the bum.
I'm in line at Del Taco, becoming more and more aware of the asshole in front of me chewing out the attractive, English-speaking girl working at the counter. It's 9:30 AM and the guy is apparently already either drunk or high on something.
"Okay pal, people are waiting," I hear Jason say from behind me. "The fuck is this guy's problem?" he asks me silently. But the jerk just keeps on with his rant, completely oblivious to the angry patrons amongst him.
I'm somewhere else right now. I'm not even in this restaurant. I'm not feeling the horrid hangover I woke up with this morning. I can't feel my neck seizing up in a sudden rush of anxiety. I don't even know if I'm hungry at the moment, but after the long walk to pick up Jason's truck from wherever-the-fuck-we-left-it-the-night-before, eating just seemed like the right thing to do. I don't remember coming home last night. Is Del Taco even considered a restaurant?
"Number five... cinco, you know, you understand that right?"
I'm still spaced out, but I pay attention to life long enough to roll my eyes at Jason. Jason's shrugs and shoots a look of disgust at the prick in front of us.
The girl has finally had enough after taking his order, basically throws a fountain drink cup at the bastard, and walks off to begin preparing his piss-ant tacos or whatever-the-fuck-he-ordered. He takes his receipt, while also taking his sweet fucking time, puts it in his wallet, and before moving to the fountain drink machine gives me and Jason a look of disgust while jerking his thumb at the Mexican girl.
After I order--I can't remember what, I'm on autopilot at fast food joints now that I've spent 23 years of my life eating at them--I'm waiting at the counter with Jay for our trays.
"So..." He's got something on his mind. "I say we go see Terminator in a little bit. That shit looks pretty rad. I think I gotta get some sleep, lay down for a bit first though dude, my stomach is fucking raw from our night of debauchery."
"Well," clearing my throat, "I'm down, but I'd rather see it early this morning, because I work tonight. You know the 4 AM thing..."
"Fuck that man. I'm not feeling like doing anything. You know we passed out at 10 o'clock? We could have fucking made it to Jack in the Box, but you said it was too late and they were closed."
"Eleven." Referring to the time we finally cashed out and drunkenly stumbled to my house. It was a long night.
I'm checking out the Mexican's ass, which is ample. She's got nearly perfect skin, a perfect body, and green eyes. She spits into the taco she's preparing for the asshole who was in front of us, before wrapping it up and calling out his number--"Forty-seven."
"...besides," I continue, "711 was right there and I was in no shape to walk a fucking mile for a Jumbo Jack."
I time travel for five minutes and suddenly I'm half way done with my burrito, sitting in a booth towards the rear exit. Jason just moans and has given up completely on his food, complaining about bourbon not mixing well with vodka, food from 711, how he almost died of food poisoning one time a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away where 711 food is responsible for the deaths of millions upon millions of enslaved--
"Oh no," Jason starts right as the door behind me opens. It's not a worried 'oh no,' he's got a sinister cackle already going to match his devious grin. "Look who just walked in. Fucking won't believe it. Oh Jesus dude..."
"Oh fuck."
It's the homeless man we ran into while walking home last night near the street construction. We offered him change, threw a cone into the street, kicked over a sign that read 'CAUTION', and exchanged (both sides lying) Vietnam and Iraq war stories and how awful war flashbacks are.
He recognizes us reluctantly, and as he's asking for change, I go back into the cave in my brain and begin to zone out as usual. The white fluorescent lights and counter tops remind me of a hospital, and I pretend I am actually in one. The Mexican family eating in the corner becomes a swarm of nurses and doctors surrounding a patient, eagerly gnawing and gnashing at his insides with plastic forks and spoons, shoveling his organs into their mouths. The homeless man next to our table is the head surgeon. Maybe he's here to tell me my mother isn't going to make it through, or we need to operate now if your dog is going to stand a chance... organ donors... feeders... medical school... junior college... cocaine, I think, cocaine would be swell right now.
Gathering myself, only seconds gone by, I tell the homeless guy I've never seen him before and he'd better fuck off because I have no change. Jason just stares at me, and after he walks off, I go back into my hospital trance and only pretend to hear Jason begin to let me know how fucked up that was.
Later that night, after seeing Terminator: Salvation with Julia, I go home and silently weap into my pillow for a minute, thinking about what I said to the bum.
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