Short Story- Taco Shop Rockabilly Boxcutter

I can’t exactly say it was “just like any other night”. Around this time every night was different. This particular night finished it’s sick pageantry in Umberto’s Taco Shop, a small hole in the wall with a neon green cactus unconfidently flickering and glowing from the roof, making a green, cactus-shaped halo in the haze of that night.

I was with a group of true hooligans whom I had recently met through a mutual friend and a common hobby in making music. Chavo, Clinton, Fidel, and Fidel’s girlfriend at the time, Ela, were sitting in the orange booth closest to the counter. I was sitting in the yellow booth behind them, as there was no room left in their booth. When we were all together (this cohort being a smaller version of the usual mob we traveled in) if we were to have a trademark, it would be loud, unsavory conversation. These conversations were an exercise in spreading negativity the way a priest flicks holy water onto his congregation on a holy day—but instead of holy water it would be filthy, unholy stories of sexually deviant liaisons under the influence of street drugs, and hypothetical situations involving Marvel Comics characters wrapped up in domestic abuse problems.

Grimy, sour drops of the trash juice-like ideas and memories were flying everywhere, dripping down the windows, infiltrating people’s minds and staining anything in there. Whatever armpit of the human experience, whatever unique cocktail of shameful malaise we were discussing that night, if you were to believe in karma, would surely bring back some foul returns and rotten lessons. Sometimes all I could do was listen in amazement, having little in my comparably bland life experience to top some of these tales. What I did have, however, was an unfortunately adaptable imagination and a sick sense of humor, both of which were coming in handy that night.

I can’t blame the rockabilly guy and his friend for getting mad. I can’t blame the rockabilly guy’s girlfriend for covering her mouth and furrowing her eyebrows. They were in perfect view, as the taco shop was otherwise empty and I was actually facing them in my booth, picking at my carne asada fries, loudly participating in whatever audio pollution that was being broadcast behind me; I didn’t even turn around to talk most of the time—just speaking loud enough to be heard. At this point in time, I think I recall us imagining Wolverine coming out of the closet to his wife, each of us taking turns imitating him with his raspy voice, confessing the things he had done behind her back. From their spot in the taco shop, about 3 booths down, the rockabilly guy asked, “Gentlemen, can we change the subject please?” He said it in the tone of voice of a drunk golf course security guard and the way he said gentlemen was particularly grating. I could tell by his sideburns and the way his small-brimmed fedora was cocked that the world had wronged him in some way, and that Social Distortion’s albums and hard alcohol had gotten him through it. All he wanted that night was to smoke cigarettes in front of Bar Pink, and then to cure his drunk-munchies in peace. Who were we to rob him of his 1 a.m. solace? We were just the right people.

Needless to say he was flatly ignored and the spewing continued. And it continued, and it continued. How we were able to be so offensive so consistently, without a lull in the conversation, while still inhaling Mexican food is beyond me. There is little time to analyze these things when carne asada and offensive conversation are using your mouth as a revolving door. It got to the point where they had to get up and leave. They were standing outside, glaring through the window at us. Believe it or not, their reason for doing this was still lost on me. I gave my fries a break and sat up on the table to face my friends. We chatted, laughed and enjoyed our college-age youth as many college students do: with little regard for those around us. I noticed Fidel looking out the window, doing the “I’m talking about you to someone else while looking directly at you” thing. “Oh no,” I thought, “this is going to turn into one of those stories.”

They came back into the empty taco shop, getting ready to prove me right. Led by the Mike Ness look-alike, they lumbered past me and stopped at the table behind me. One of them aggressively put his hands on the table amidst the yellow paper, Styrofoam plates, and burrito carcasses. “Is there a problem gentlemen?” Again with that gentlemen thing. Chavo, having recently quit one of the more gripping and addictive of the devil’s vices, and still living in Temecula, was in no mood to have his conversation questioned, however depraved it was. At first I just plunged my fork into my carne asada fries, wishing I could follow the fork and hide amidst the melted cheese and jalapeños. Rockabilly’s friend put his hand on Chavo’s shoulder and said, “You need to calm down.” Chavo, with lightning fast ese anger twisted the poor drunkards arm and held him by the elbow, pulled him closer and said, “No, you need to calm down and not touch me, I’m a grown-ass man.” Chavo was an electrician. This is why I’m assuming Chavo had a folding box cutter in his pocket. Ghastly things, those folding box cutters.

Stay tuned for part dos.