mandy

28 followers | taco espionage- something original! | 1134 words

a/n: okay, okay, I AM still working on One Day More but I wanted to keep putting other work out there in the meantime. Here’s the first chapter of a short(ish) original story I’ve been working on featuring my boy Camren and the folks at Del’s Tacos.

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A gap year sounded nice. Take a break from studying, make some better friends, get a job, maybe save up a little. I guess only my parents can tell you why in the nine circles of hell I was saving for a degree I didn't even know I wanted. In all honesty, though, I actually accomplished more of my goals this year than I have in… well, my entire life. I'm not exactly a perfectionist, okay? That being said, I think anyone can agree that getting a job, setting up a career path, and establishing a network of friends and/or likable business associates who can kill me in seventy different ways is a pretty good start to adult life.

It all started with a really intense craving for Mexican food one Saturday afternoon. I'm not talking a "hey, I could really go for some Mexican food right now" type of craving- I mean like an "it's three in the afternoon and I didn't eat lunch because nothing but Mexican food will live up to my brain's expectations of what good food is right now. great job, Camren!" kind of craving. Should I have made a sandwich from my fridge to conserve the already-low funds in my bank account? Maybe. I did tell you I'm not a perfectionist, though, right? This may not have been my finest moment, but it had been a rough week and I figured some self-care was in order after a long seven days of sitting at home, filling out job applications, and gracefully ignoring the comments my parents made about my future and/or the state of my bedroom. I swiped my keys from the hook by the front door and turned to grab my wallet and bent over to check my hair in the hallway mirror. Kind of ruffled but cute. Okay. Outfit? Pretty proud of that, too- although I couldn’t see most of it since I’m, like, six feet tall and, in all honesty, fairly wide, too. I definitely got a little fatter after quitting swim. Back at the front door, I called back, "I'm getting food, be back in an hour." Dead silence. I winced. It was Saturday, so Mom was grocery shopping and Dad was out with friends. I  was talking to an empty house. It wasn't the first time, but still.

In an effort to not eat boring food, I scanned Google Maps for some not-totally-disgusting pictures of tacos. Remember how I said I’m not a perfectionist? I meant in all areas except for food. If the experience of eating something isn’t mind-blowing, I don’t want to eat whatever it is. I usually make it to at least the second page of results when I’m looking for a new restaurant, but this time something right at the top caught my eye. Mouth-watering (yes, I mean literally mouth-watering) pictures of tamales, frijoles, and burritos greeted me. I didn’t bother getting more details than the pictures and the place’s four-and-a-half-star rating. This was it. 

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into a shopping center that looked like the owner had just googled “modern-looking but cheap to decorate buildings” and showed the results to the re-modelers. When I had parked and found my way to the front of the restaurant, all I could do was stare for a moment. It was like a taco shop out of time- a purple and green neon sign at the top read "Del's" and the facade was painted a refreshing orange-ish pink. It was the only storefront that didn’t look soul-suckingly average. Inside, past the glare of a blue and red "open" sign against the kind-of-tinted glass, I could just barely make out a walk-up counter and some booths. The place was totally empty except for a woman in a purple polo shirt and visor behind the counter. By the time I reached the counter myself, I was ready to empty my entire bank account to get whatever it was that was making this place smell so good. The woman smiled calmly and walked over to me. 

By the time she got within a few feet of me at the counter, I almost felt like I knew her already. She looked exactly like my mom. Her dark, tightly coiled curls were just barely visible tied up in a tight knot over her visor. She had creases in her forehead but her skin was still a deep, warm brown. I half expected her to give me a look and ask if I had filled out any more job applications. Just then, though, a woman burst through the doors and advanced to hover at the counter. The person behind the counter, whose name tag read “Zenia”, raised her eyebrows and turned back to me without a word to the other customer. “Welcome to Del’s. What can I get you?”  I was about to open my mouth to ask about their tacos when the sound of the insistently clacking nails of the other customer (we’ll call her Karen as a placeholder) gave way to a sharp bark. “Excuse me, could I get some service here?” Karen broke in. Zenia turned to her, eyebrows somehow arching higher than before, and, without a word, she motioned to someone back in the kitchen. I managed to place my order in peace. As Zenia printed my receipt and strode back to the kitchen, though, I began to hear snatches of an escalating conversation to my right.

“What do you mean you won’t take my credit card? It’s valid, isn’t it?” Karen was jabbing her finger down at the person helping her on the other side of the counter. I wouldn’t really have been concerned, but that person, also wearing a purple polo, was about one good shove away from falling off the stool she was standing on. The girl behind the counter inhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and resolutely looked up from the register. “Apparently not, no. I’m sorry, we can’t accept the card.” I didn’t remember Karen’s nails looking quite as deadly as they did just then. They really matched the death glare she had going on. With a face redder than the vinyl booths behind us, Karen reared her finger back, flexed her jaw muscles, and let loose a strangled and vaguely well-contained whine. “This is ridiculous! I pay my card off every month and you’re telling me you can’t make your stupid machine take my money?”

“...Yes? If you wanna pay with another card or cash, then I can-”

“No, I don’t have another card. What’s wrong with the one I have?”

“Like I said, it’s been decli-”

“What kind of business is this? You think you can just tell me I’m not allowed to buy food here? I’ve never had such awful customer service in my life!”

At this point I had pretty much frozen in place at the register, unsure whether this was something I should involve myself in or not. Zenia materialized next to the girl on the stool, laying a hand on her shoulder, and settled a steely gaze on Karen. “Excuse me, what’s the problem here?”

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