Tacos of Doom

TACOS OF DOOM
(C)2010 Rupert King

The Trans Am came from nowhere. It was black with gold highlights and tinted windows. It was hard for Ray to tell what model year at the speed it was approaching him, but it looked to be late-‘70s. Ray’s mom had always told him not to jaywalk, that it would surely end in heartbreak, but she had also told him that if you washed clothes on a Sunday it would kill you. Ray’s mom issued mixed messages like a pagan god issues virgin sacrifice orders, so he eventually stopped listening to her altogether.

It turns out the pedestrian never really has the right of way.

Sure, there are laws to protect you, but these laws are mostly enforced after the fact. When you cross against the light, or when you jaywalk, you’re pretty much on your own. Legally you might be correct, and oncoming traffic may be obliged to stop for you, but you’ll find small comfort in these legalities when they’re hosing your ass off the street.

But so what if he had been jaywalking? Aren’t all the rights not assigned to the government assigned to the individuals in the states, or something like that? And as a free and autonomous citizen, didn’t he have the right to manifest his own first best destiny? Besides, there were no cops around, so who would know? These and other half-baked theories entered Ray Garner’s head as he attempted his latest illegal crossing. He had lived his life this way, and he’d managed so far…managed to flunk out of high school, then managed to almost finish broadcasting school, and ultimately managed to fail his way through two decades of dead-end fast-food jobs.

But at the moment the Trans Am knocked him down Ray was only failing to catch a bus. The car’s driver slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt, its front end knocking him backward into the street. Ray’s morbidly obese backside came to rest on the pavement fifteen feet from where he’d been illegally crossing the road.

Some time passed. Or perhaps it didn’t pass at all, since time itself is an illusion and we actually live in the eternal now. It’s a matter of great controversy and heated discussion among philosophers and physicists and other busybodies who themselves ironically have too much time on their hands…whatever that means.

“You awake?” the waitress asked. Her black comfort-insoled shoe gently nudged Ray in his side.

Ray opened his eyes to see a woman in a green waitress uniform standing over him, poking him in the side with her foot. She had curly red hair and she was loudly chewing bubblegum. She was plump but not obese, with wide hips and large round breasts. She wore bright red lipstick, and looked to have been down the street once or twice but not completely around the block. She held a lit cigarette in her left hand, and there was a red lipstick ring circling its filter. She looked exactly like a waitress should. Her nametag said ANGIE.

Ray was flat on his back on the street. He was cautious about moving, even though he didn’t feel any pain, not even from hitting the pavement. “Yeah, I’m awake. I don’t guess you saw the truck that hit me.”

“Car. My car,” Angie the waitress confessed. She held up a set of keys and jingled them. An orange troll doll with pink hair dangled from the end of the key chain. She gestured with her cigarette hand at the black Trans Am, parked several yards away. “Well…it’s my boyfriend’s car. I sort of…borrowed it…after he met with an unfortunate accident. Just headed for Vegas myself. Bad brakes, sorry…anything broken down there?”

Ray sat up and didn’t feel anything unusual. He’d justified his own jaywalking for years but had never been hit by a car himself. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel now. He got to his feet and didn’t feel dizzy or bruised.

“No, I guess I’m okay. I appreciate you stopping, though. Most people hit somebody, they just keep driving.” Ray had to admit to himself that he probably wouldn’t have stopped. He didn’t have a car for a reason, and that reason was his own car had been repossessed and his license had been revoked.

Angie puffed on the cigarette and then smiled. “Had to stop…just to make sure you were okay. Checking on people is a big part of my job. I’m service-oriented. Employee of the month for August.” Ray noticed she was holding up her nametag, and that it did indeed bear a special EMPLOYEEE OF THE MONTH designation. Of course it was April at the moment, but Ray didn’t think about it. He looked at Angie’s ample cleavage poking out of the top of the waitress uniform and suddenly wanted to cover her with maple syrup and roll around on the ground with her, but he was off his game at the moment. He then remembered the bus, and the job interview.

“I got an appointment. I’m okay, thanks for checking on me,” Ray said.

“Well, just in case, take my information.” Angie was already writing on a green order pad she’d pulled out of her apron. She folded it three times and gave the ticket to Ray. “Good luck.” He put the paper in his front pocket.

Angie the waitress got back in the Trans Am and the engine roared to life. As it sped away, Ray could have sworn he heard a Molly Hatchet song coming from the car.

A close one, Ray thought, but a bus was waiting. And this was his bus, the number 44, to take him to the job interview. He’d just gotten a text message from the placement service, or a placement service, since he had signed up with a few and wasn’t sure which one it was. But he knew that he had to get on the 44, even if he hadn’t taken it before, and to talk to Lou at Lou’s Tacos in the Southpoint Mall.

Ray hated tacos. He’d never been to Lou’s. In fact, he’d never even been to the Southpoint Mall. He didn’t have time to think about it now. He just had to get on the bus. Ray expected it to quickly pull away as most do, and he thought he might have to chase it, but it just sat there with the door open. Like most Metro buses, this one was brown, gold, and blue with a huge gopher painted on the side. Seriously, a gopher, thought Ray, are they known for their speed or efficiency? He couldn’t make sense of it. Ray couldn’t make sense of a lot of things.

He got on the bus. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened. “Did you see that? That chick with the big boobs? She almost killed me,” he said to the driver. The driver faced forward, silently.

Ray reached for his bus pass but his wallet wasn’t there. He searched his pockets. His phone, the folded paper the waitress gave him, but no wallet. Must have lost it when the car hit me, he thought. No bus pass. The driver turned and looked at him. “It’s okay. We have a seat for you, Ray.”

The driver looked familiar. Actually, he bore a striking resemblance to Ray’s kindergarten bus driver, Hank. Couldn’t be Hank, though.

“Did you call me -- ”, Ray started.

“Please take a seat, sir”, the driver told Ray, and the door closed behind him. The door made that hydraulic swish sound that you only get from doors on public transportation and on Star Trek.

There was one available seat, three rows back. There was an overweight sandy-haired girl wearing glasses who’d already slid over next to the window so another passenger could share the seat. Ray sat down. The girl didn’t speak. He didn’t notice any other passengers speaking either. They seemed to all just face forward in silence.

Ray tried to make conversation with the girl: “The driver…he looks like my bus driver from when I was a kid. I thought he said my name.”

The girl didn’t turn her head toward him, but spoke: “Maybe it’s him.”

“Nah, couldn’t be. That was thirty years ago. Besides, he’s dead. One morning I got on the bus and there was a different guy driving. I asked where Hank was and he told me Hank wouldn’t be driving the bus any more. My mom told me years later that he’d driven to the package store and bought a bottle of whiskey and ran his car up a tree. She said that they had to pull the bottle out of his throat before they could bury him. But mom was always prone to exaggeration. It seems that the bottle would break, and he certainly couldn’t have swallowed it whole -- ”

The girl didn’t answer or even act like she’d heard him. Ray thought she was cute but she didn’t seem interested. She just stared forward. He gave up the idea of trying to make time with her. He played with his phone, but it wasn’t getting any reception at all. Normally he’d get a bar or two, but nothing now. It wasn’t cracked from hitting the pavement. He blamed it on the bus’ metal surroundings, even though he’d always had crappy service with this particular large telecommunications company.

He still had the interview to do, but suddenly found himself exhausted. In the total silence Ray found it very hard to stay awake. He kept drifting off to sleep, then suddenly was startled awake. This happened several times.

Then it was dark. The bus was empty. Even the large girl who’d been sitting next to him was gone. He’d fallen asleep and somehow missed the arrival at Southpoint Mall. He also apparently missed the girl exiting over him in the seat, which he surely would have enjoyed if awake. The driver was still sitting in the front, staring ahead.

“Last stop, Southpoint Mall. Everybody off.”

The bus was parked in a huge underground transit terminal, but there weren’t any other buses around. A few people were sitting quietly on benches in the terminal, apparently waiting for their own buses to arrive. As he exited the bus, Ray tried to get a look at the driver’s nametag. HENRY.

“Good luck, Ray.”

The door closed with the familiar swish, and the bus pulled away.

Southpoint Mall was a colossal underground structure. It was a mass of levels and escalators that seemed to spiral down to infinity. An underground labyrinth, full of bad music and shoppers. Luckily, Ray was not far from the food court where he was to talk to Lou. He took two escalators down to get there.

Lou’s Tacos was a gaudy, greasy place. The food looked terrible and smelled horrible, yet there was a long line of diners waiting to be served. The menu seemed simple enough:

LOU’S ORIGINAL TACO – .99
NO ADDITIONS – NO SUBTRACTIONS
NO SUBSTITUTIONS – CASH ONLY
NO REFUNDS – NO SMOKING – NO SWEARING

Apparently, Lou was a man of a single mind. If you wanted a taco, he sold you a taco…but his way. Ray had to admire a businessman that cared so little about pleasing the customer. Still, there was no food in the world Ray wanted less than a taco. He hated a taco. Did not want. He’d worked at a taco place much earlier in his dead-end career and found them to be disgusting.

The girl working the counter had a lip ring. She had scars and tattoos covering her arms and her hair was dyed a deep maroon color. She was very pale and had the damaged, faraway look that Ray had often sought in women. She was wearing a smock over her work shirt and she seemed to be very thin. Ray liked big girls, but he wasn’t about to turn anything down. The orders weren’t being filled in any hurry, and the assigned numbers were being called out in what could best be described as a random fashion. Some of the customers seemed to have been waiting a very long time for their food, but nobody complained.

A large man in a white shirt was calling out the order numbers. He was bald but had a goatee and a twirly moustache. While everyone else was not expressing much passion about the food or their jobs, this guy was having the time of his life. He had a sing-songy voice and an artistic flair. He seemed truly flamboyant and theatrical to Ray. His nametag read LOU. He watched for a moment as Lou called out some orders.

“Number thirty-seven. Thirty-seven, please. You are awarded these delicious tacos. Please enjoy!”

“Number fifteen. Fifteen is the number, and the number is fifteen. You are blessed this day to receive these, the tacos of destiny! Enjoy!”

“Number fifty-six. Meaty, beaty, big and bouncy, sailor! It’s a taco-palooza for you and yours, number fifty-six! Enjoy!”

Ray finally approached the counter where Lou was standing. “I’m Ray Garner. I was sent here about the job.”

Lou’s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes…we’ve heard about you. They called and said you were coming, and I think we have just the thing for you. Come on back, Ray.”

He threw Ray a greasy shirt. “You look like a XXXL, Ray. This shirt is an XL. They run a bit small, but I can get you an extra one if you need it. Come here and meet the crew.”

Ray walked with Lou to the back through a swinging door. There were tables upon tables of people assembling tacos and rows upon rows of people putting taco shells into smoking deep fryers.

“Say hi to Ray, everyone. You’re going to get a chance to know everyone soon enough…plenty of time for that.” Lou motioned at the employees toiling at their jobs. They didn’t look up or even seem to hear what he’d said.

He continued. “This isn’t like most taco places. For one thing, there is a shortage of Hispanic labor. Catholics, you know. Always praying and confessing and being forgiven. Very tiny people, like the Asians. But they’re surprisingly efficient at contrition, so we don’t see a lot of them. Now, Ray, we need to go over your paperwork.” Lou gestured to a tiny room that housed a separate interview area, consisting of a small rickety table with two uncomfortable-looking chairs. As they both sat down, Ray’s phone fell out of his pocket and onto the floor.

“What’s this?” Lou picked up the phone and examined it. It had a touch screen with colorful little icons on it.

“Yeah, I tried making a call on the bus, but I couldn’t get a signal.”

“Oh, one of those smart phones. Handy. I love the way they make these things. Little Indonesian kids working for three cents a day, no labor laws there, and the company sells it for what? Four hundred? And a two-year contract? Pure profit. And if you want to complain to customer service you have to talk to some guy in India named ‘Kip’. Come on…you’re in Bhopal…your name was never Kip. ‘Ooh, look at me, I’m Kip in India!’ Talk about evil. You have to admire the sheer gall of it all. Well, you won’t get any reception in here regardless. From what I’ve heard you have to take it outside and hold it to the sky to send a text message anyway. Useless down here. So…where were we? Back to business.”

Lou put on a pair of reading glasses and produced a thick manila folder marked RAY GARNER.

“What’s that?” asked Ray.

“Ray, this is your file. We put you to work based on the information we have on you. We’ve been getting a lot of reports on you. You’ve slacked off in the past few years but we have a lot on your youth. Still, not forgiven is not forgotten. Haven’t been to church since…1984. Wow. Hall of Fame, Ray.” Lou thumbed through the file. “Lying, theft, cheating. You forged checks, stole money from your family?”

“Yeah, I guess…a long time ago. I don’t see how that…”

“Ray, you stole a stuffed squirrel from your biology class, then sewed comedic clothing onto it, and returned it to the class?”

“Like, in 1986. What’s this got to do with tacos?” Ray was angry. He’d done a few things, but he didn’t mean harm. And he realized he had screwed up. A lot.

“Ray, this has everything to do with tacos. You know why I make tacos only one way, and refuse to add or subtract anything from them? That’s because I make the perfect taco. I have made tacos into an art, and you do not screw with art. I can only -- ”

Lou took off his glasses and put them down on the file. Ray hadn’t noticed the music before. It came from the kitchen, and it had increased in volume. Lou rose from the table and walked into the taco prep area. At that moment, the pale skinny girl from the counter walked by the door. Her nametag said BRITNEY.

Ray spoke to her. “You work here long?”

“Ages,” Britney said, not really looking at him or anything in particular. “You’re gonna hate it…this place sucks.”

“So why you work here?” Ray asked.

“Free tacos, mostly. All you can eat. Plus, it’s not like there’s anything else out there for someone like me.” Britney held out her arms, which were covered in skull tattoos and cut marks. Ray knew her type, and although she was pale and had the maroon hair and smaller breasts than he liked, he suddenly found her infinitely more attractive. Daddy issues have kept tattoo parlors and strip clubs in business for generations. He always did well with that type.

They could hear Lou in the taco prep area shouting at his workers. “I have told you all time and again, NO HIP-HOP! We play pan flute music here, and only pan flute! That is the in-house music of Lou’s Tacos, and none other! Is this Zamfir? This CD is not Zamfir...this CD is the Black Eyed Peas. You are aware of the penalty!” There was a crashing of pots and breaking of glass.

Ray saw an opportunity and spoke to Britney. “So, what are you doing later? You hang out?” He was cool, he felt his game returning. “What time do you get off?”

“I don’t get off. That’s my torture. Forever and ever. I take orders for tacos and have meaningless sex but I can’t feel anything. It’s a goth cutter girl’s dream in its own way, but I wouldn’t have chosen it for myself.”

Lou returned to the table, saw Britney standing there, and spoke to them. “I’ll have you know that employee fraternizing is strictly forbidden in the work area. If you two are going to have sex, there is always the break room. You of all people know the drill, Britney.” He playfully spanked her on the butt with his right hand as she walked away. Then he laughed and calmly sat down again.

He suddenly seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry about the music, Ray. There are certain rogue elements here. Even in our situation people can be inhumane. I simply will not abide hip-hop music, even in a place of eternal torment.”

“What -- ?” Ray was failing to grasp the obvious.

“Look, Ray. I know there’s a learning curve. You’re new here. Most people already have it by now. To put it bluntly, you are, as the Mormons say, darned to Heck. Eternal darnation. And please to remember we don’t allow any swearing here. This isn’t a Naval shipyard, it’s a taco restaurant. Please respect the difference. You’re here because it’s your job to make tacos. You will make tacos, and nothing but tacos, forever and ever. Vile, disgusting tacos with crushed glass and ground up coal. Tacos with seaweed and vomit and dirt. Tacos with ground-up puppies and the tears of small children. We make tacos for the shopping mall at the mouth of Hell, and we’re open 24/7, 365 days a year.”

“Even on Christmas?”

“Especially on Christmas, Ray. You are in Hell. A quite literal and not at all metaphorical Hell, though some might construe it that way. I suppose it’s open to individual interpretation, but rest assured that you have died and you are in the afterlife, and it’s most likely not the one that you were hoping for.”

“I died? When the hell did I die?”

“Ray, earlier today you were hit by a car. I don’t have to remind you, you were present when it happened. Perhaps that is when your phone ceased to function properly, or maybe it’s because of the inadequate 3G data service in this area. And also you fell asleep next to a fat girl on a bus. She could have slit your throat for all you know. You never fall asleep next to a fat girl on the bus, Ray. That’s just asking for it. But I have it on good authority that it was the Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with the faulty brakes.” Lou was still glancing at Ray’s file, and something caught his attention. “Hang on a minute...did you really sleep with and play with the affections of a simple-minded girl just so you could get her to vacuum your apartment in Saint Paul? You’re a monster...that girl was in love with you, Ray. You are in the right place.”

“Wait. So, I’m dead. I have died and gone to Hell. Is that what you’re saying to me, Lou?” Ray didn’t quite have it.

“So, you didn’t see The Sixth Sense. You’re not aware that these things sometimes have twist endings? That guy was dead the whole time! Spoiler alert, everyone...Bruce Willis was dead the whole time in The Sixth Sense! Who didn’t know this?!? I’ll spell it out for you once more: You are to make tacos for all eternity, and it’s the thing you hate the most. And you can have all the free tacos you want, but you despise them! You can have unlimited sex with a damaged girl, but the girl has small breasts and a flat ass and she’ll never be able to feel it anyway! Also, I have it on good authority that she doesn’t shave, and it’s a mess down there. You’re not going to like that, either. It’s a veritable feast for irony lovers everywhere. Please, Ray. We’ve got some serious reverse-Gift of the Magi action going on here. Oh, it’s all too much. We are having fun, aren’t we? But need to wrap this up before we’re issued a cease-and-desist order by the producers of The Twilight Zone.” At this point Lou was wiping a tear from his eye from laughing so hard. He so loved his job.

“But I see that you have a good heart, Ray. I mean, sure, maybe you felt up that girl at work, and maybe that other girl was a little drunk at that party, and maybe that one girl wasn’t quite eighteen yet. Maybe the lights aren’t all on upstairs, but I can see that you’re not a bad guy. I tell you what. You’ll make tacos, day and night, for all eternity. But by ‘all eternity’ I mean this: there is a way out. If you are truly contrite, if you work hard and are honestly sorry, then someday…and it may take a long time…but someday, you may get out of here and be reunited with your loved ones.”

“Really?” Ray was hopeful, if not totally aware of what had just been said.

“No, of course not. I’m screwin’ with ya. This is Hell. You can’t get out. You’re here forever. I say the same crap to every last one of you idiots and it never gets old. Hysterical! Hell is full of stupid people making tacos! Stupid, stupid stupid! Put your tiny shirt on and clock in. You get your first break in about 65,000 years. Ha!”

Lou walked away, laughing hysterically. Britney walked past Ray, who was still sitting at the rickety table. "That guy is so gay," she said to him.

Lou hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. After he left Ray he'd gone into his private office to have a smoke and reflect on how good his job was. Good, good times. He kicked his feet up on his desk and lit a cherry-flavored cigar. He slid a Marshall Tucker Band 8-track into the player. Let those poor bastards listen to Zamfir, he said to himself, I’m living the good life.

As he was about to put his work shirt on, Ray remembered the ticket the waitress gave him. He pulled it out of his pocket and unfolded it.

CONGRATS, RAY!
TODAY IS THE LAST DAY OF
THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!
HOPE YOU LIKE TACOS!
YOUR PAL, ANGELA DEATH

Ray suspected that something was amiss, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe he shouldn’t have jaywalked after all. He’d have a good long time to reflect on it. He cringed at the thought of an eternity of bad goth sex and horrific tacos. This was gonna suck.

Elsewhere, the black Trans Am sped on. Angela Death replaced the Molly Hatchet tape with Foghat and continued on the way to Vegas. There was a porno convention in town, and a sleazy producer had a dream date with a belt, the closet door, and a plastic bag.

She smiled and lit another cigarette. It was a good job, and she was a people person.