Fast Food

He walked through the tempered glass door through the foyer into the main atrium, as if you could describe the area in front of the counter of a fast food restaurant an "atrium." The man, with his comely blonde wife, strode to the counter uninterrupted. Two o'clock in the afternoon is not a peak business hour for the establishment that serves something approaching Mexican food at speedy volumes for increasingly inflated prices.

One used to be able to call Taco Bell cheap, but sadly, corporate greed under the mask of economic reality has pushed the prices of their once bountiful stoner fare into Panera Bread-levels of petit bourgeoise excess at the counter.

However, Thomas Francis Xavier Battaglia was the husband to a pharma executive and, well, yes a wrestler in PRIME, a nationally televised, multimillion, approaching billion, dollar company. He could easily afford it, in fiduciary terms.

But what about in mental terms? Spiritual terms?

The Anglo Luchador and PRIME and Taco Bell.

That combination of phrases sent shivers down the spines of owls everywhere in the aerie on the vast properties of Lindsay Troy.

"I don't know what I want," he said to his wife.

"Is it because you're indecisive, or is it because of the other thing," Tam asked in reply.

"I... don't..."

"Hello, and welcome to Taco Bell, may I take your order?"

Sweat started to bead on his forehead. His cheeks were flushed read. He stammered and stuttered.

"Jesus fuck, Tom, okay, I want a number nine with a soft taco and a Starry, extra Diablo sauce."

"That'll cost ex..."

"No it won't, you're going to give me the Diablo sauce for free like you always used to or I'm going to conveniently find pencil shavings in my taco, okay?"

The cashier didn't get paid enough to deal with an early fortysomething blonde white woman who was already clearly annoyed, so he grabbed a handful of Diablo sauce packets and pushed them towards her. She smiled and nodded as if nothing had precipitated the anxious behavior from the young adult behind the counter.

"And you, sir?"

Panic started to set in behind his eyes. He froze. All of a sudden, he saw another life flash before his eyes. Baja Blast cocktails. Long-winded tales featuring bit actors from '90s sitcoms. General annoyance from people in other universes, groaning at him. Elon Musk.

But then one last image appeared in his head. It was a young Thomas Francis Xavier Battaglia, sitting in a Taco Bell in 1992. In front of him on the faux granite tabletop were three crunchy tacos and a big cup full of Pepsi. My God, did that little boy love Pepsi, more than most kids his age, but thankfully not as much as a miserable man who would take an elbow to the groin without aid of technology did. His mother dutifully opening sauce packets and pouring them over the openings between the sides of his shells. The bright mauve and teal interiors. The coin catcher game with the plastic platforms, filled with water. Once upon a time, Taco Bell was a safe place for him.

It was time for it to become one once more.

His face cleared up. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

"I'll take the Taco Party Pack, all crunchy. And a large Baja Blast Zero Sugar."

Tam looked at him stunned.

"Would you like any sauce with that, and please don't threaten me if I can't give you extra, that's a lot of tacos."

"No, kind sir, I prefer using Cholula anyway."

They received their order and then turned to walk out of the restaurant. Tam turned to her husband as they ventured back to her car this time. The Shitty Green Explorer was still being cleaned and detailed from the last transit of a certain three-legged goat who liked defecating in it.

"A whole party pack? Babe, are you really that hungry?"

Tom turned to her with a smile.

"I have never been hungrier in my life."