Wednesday, August 15, 2007
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Last night I decided to grab some Taco Bell for dinner. This is not something I do that often, any more, given my desire to live past 30, but I felt I could indulge myself just a bit. So I hopped in the car to hit the drive through. It was not until I turned into the parking lot that adventure really struck.
"NO Taco Bell! NO Taco Bell!" a woman began screaming at me.
Thinking that perhaps she was a rogue dietitian or animal byproducts activist, I was unsure what exactly I should do. I mean, I wanted a chalupa, but I wasn't ready to have red paint thrown on me or anything to get one. I ventured a simple "what?"
"NO Taco Bell. Nuh-uh. Walk-up only. Parking for the Cubs game only."
"Oh," I said. "Not even the drive through?"
"NO drive through," she screamed. "Cubs game parking only."
About six illegal left turns, a jacknifed truck, and a creative double parking job later, I was successfully in line at Taco Bell. Unfortunately, this location appeared to be staffed in its entirety by America's Most Combative African-American Family, which slowed things down a bit.
"Hard or soft shell taco? Tanisha, quit messin' with that hairnet, or I'll smack you girl."
"Mom, why I always got to work the oven? I told you I wasn't the one that ate them cinnamon crisps."
"Um, soft."
"You got to cause I said you got to. You keepin' an eye on the baby like I said to? You want them chalupas supreme or baha?"
"Supreme is fine."
"Now why can't LaTonya watch her own damn baby, mom? Ain't my fault Curtis ran off, now is it?"
"All right, you hush it now, you hear? $6.45, sir."
Ah, the lengths to which we'll go for a little slice of Mexican pizza.
Last night I decided to grab some Taco Bell for dinner. This is not something I do that often, any more, given my desire to live past 30, but I felt I could indulge myself just a bit. So I hopped in the car to hit the drive through. It was not until I turned into the parking lot that adventure really struck.
"NO Taco Bell! NO Taco Bell!" a woman began screaming at me.
Thinking that perhaps she was a rogue dietitian or animal byproducts activist, I was unsure what exactly I should do. I mean, I wanted a chalupa, but I wasn't ready to have red paint thrown on me or anything to get one. I ventured a simple "what?"
"NO Taco Bell. Nuh-uh. Walk-up only. Parking for the Cubs game only."
"Oh," I said. "Not even the drive through?"
"NO drive through," she screamed. "Cubs game parking only."
About six illegal left turns, a jacknifed truck, and a creative double parking job later, I was successfully in line at Taco Bell. Unfortunately, this location appeared to be staffed in its entirety by America's Most Combative African-American Family, which slowed things down a bit.
"Hard or soft shell taco? Tanisha, quit messin' with that hairnet, or I'll smack you girl."
"Mom, why I always got to work the oven? I told you I wasn't the one that ate them cinnamon crisps."
"Um, soft."
"You got to cause I said you got to. You keepin' an eye on the baby like I said to? You want them chalupas supreme or baha?"
"Supreme is fine."
"Now why can't LaTonya watch her own damn baby, mom? Ain't my fault Curtis ran off, now is it?"
"All right, you hush it now, you hear? $6.45, sir."
Ah, the lengths to which we'll go for a little slice of Mexican pizza.
