Deciding that hiding in my fries was no longer an option, lest I get rockabilly blood in them, I left the fork standing stabbed in the heap of meat and potatoes and turned around. I turned around, as a matter of fact, just in time to hear the box cutter flick into a locked position. Without thinking I jumped on Chavo’s back like a papoose—I had to prevent the razor blade from finding it’s intended home, which I assumed was a vein under a dingy tattoo somewhere on rockabilly’s neck. Had I been a second later, the pin-up girl tattooed over his jugular would have had a c-section. I’m not a good Samaritan, but one of us had to be responsible, as I could tell Clinton, Fidel, and especially Ela were more than willing to jump in and fight like crazed, bloodthirsty chimps. I love a good story, but I don’t like being an accessory to an assault such as this.
I succeeded and was able to restrain Chavo, keeping him firmly planted in his orange booth. I looked at rockabilly and his friends. If not for the Jack Daniels, their eyes would have been wide in terror. “You guys should go,” I said. They took a couple seconds to deliberate, then backed out of the taco shop like a bully and his goons from a 90’s movie. Jotos they called us.
Chavo was sitting in the booth silent. He was staring at his plate, trembling with anger. I began to console him, telling him it’s probably better that no one was injured or sliced but it was like talking to an angry statue, a shell shocked, angry statue in a taco shop. There we sat, not exactly reeling from the situation, but letting it sink in. Some of the taco shop employees had been staring the whole time, bewildered, while others were going about their work, quietly chuckling at the ones staring…they must be the new guys. I wanted to get everyone together to leave—I figured it was best. Then that drunk girlfriend of rockabilly’s came stumbling in. Why? Why do drunk girls always do this? What could she possibly contribute to the situation that would be in any way constructive? “I just want to say,” she slurred, “it’s cool, ok? Everything’s cool, ok? Like…everything? Everything’s cool.” Thanks for that, drunk girl.
It wouldn’t have mattered to Chavo what she said (or tried to say in her stupor). He sprang from the booth, with me swinging from his back like a cape, as he pointed at her with both hands saying, “You ain’t shit to me! GO! JUST GO!” To which she so intelligently replied, “No, I just came back…I just came in here…to tell you guys that like, it’s cool, ok? Like, we don’t need to do this…everything, you guys, it’s cool…” Jesus, please. Didn’t she just witness her boyfriend’s near-death experience? I spoke to her like a parent would speak to an illogical, tantrum-throwing child and said, “If everything is ‘cool’ then how about we all leave? You should go and so will we. Sound good?” She didn’t like my response…I’m not sure what she was looking for. No one is ever sure what drunk girls are looking for. She left, frustrated that we wouldn’t acknowledge the “coolness” of the situation.
We left as well. Ela was saying something like “Oh, I would have jumped on that bitch so quick.” I later found out she had caught more than one case for assaulting a grown man with her car keys. Chavo got into my car, still angry, and I’m sure still in withdrawals. I looked at him and said “Later, we can laugh about this…right now, let’s call it a night. I’ll drop you home.” We all parted ways, and drove back to our respective houses. Some of us were chuckling, some of us pensive, some of us trembling in anger. I never again saw the drunk rockabilly guy whose life I saved that night. All I know is this is exactly why I don’t drink.
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