“Want to go to Taco Bell?” Caroline asked Kim.
They had been smoking all day. Smoking and laughing. Laughing and snuggling. Snuggling under a blanket that smelled like Old Spice and new weed. They had not moved more than two feet in seven hours. Except to pee. And even then, the bathroom trips felt like epic quests. Bold adventures. Like Frodo crossing Mordor. Like Odysseus steering home. Like stoned girls shuffling across linoleum in mismatched socks.
It was good weed.
The kind of good that made you speak in parables. That made a shadow look like a rabbit. That made you think about God. Kids these days don’t know. They don’t remember. They can just cross a border now. Illinois. Michigan. Ohio. Legal weed. Menu weed. Lab-grown, terpene-tested, scientifically blessed. With names like Space Daddy and Peach Nightmare. Labeled for body high, mind high, spirit high.
But back in 2007. Or maybe 2008. Or maybe 2009. Back whenever it was — weed came from a guy. A guy you met through a guy. A guy who lived in a second-floor apartment that smelled like mildew and Axe body spray and oftentimes feet. There was always an iguana in a glass box. The iguana was real. The ashtrays were full. The sandwich bags were generic. Scarface was always on. Or Family Guy. Or both. It was called “chronic,” whether it was or not.
Sometimes it popped. Seeds in the bowl. Seeds that jumped and screamed like popcorn. You needed a bobby pin to dig them out. Or a safety pin. Or maybe a stick from outside. Sometimes it was bad. So bad it made the corn husks outside look appealing. But this time? This time it was good. Really good. For 2007. Or 2008. Or 2009. Or whenever this was.
So: Taco Bell.
Caroline asked, “Taco Bell?”
And Kim said, “Yes. But drive-thru. You know how Taco Bell gets.”
Caroline’s eyes got big. “Kim. That’s such a good idea.”
It was a good idea.
Because Taco Bell, when you're high, when you're together, when you're both high and together — was a place of dreams. And nightmares. And things in between.
Like that time the dining room was full of Asian teenagers. Wall to wall. Like a youth group trip. Like a vision. And in a rural Hoosier town, it felt like a hallucination. Caroline thought it was the first time she'd ever been the minority in a public space. But as soon as they ordered and sat down, the teenagers left. All of them. Just vanished. The girls sat alone. Eating tacos. Wondering if it had happened at all.
Or the Dad-day time.
The line was long. The girls were holding in giggles like water in cupped hands. A boy tugged on a man’s shirt. “Dad-day?”
But it wasn’t confident. It was a question. A plea. And the man turned. Half a face. A hole where his nose should be. A dip, a slope, a horror-show. Kim and Caroline flinched. The boy flinched too — as if still getting used to the new geography of his father’s face. Caroline grabbed Kim’s hand. Held it to the counter. Held it through the order. Held it all the way to the car.
And once in the car — they howled. Laughed until Caroline peed a little. For years afterward, decades maybe, one could just say “Dad-day?” and they'd both dissolve.
So yes. The drive-thru was safer.
Maybe this time, they could go unscathed. No surprises. No faces missing pieces. No mystery teenagers or possums on leashes. No Mormon missionaries with glossy pamphlets. No rednecks with shotguns. Just tacos. Just cheese. Just quiet.
They climbed into Caroline’s car.
Which had once been Kim’s car.
Which had once been a car.
But was now a ghost of a car. A myth of a car. A rattletrap machine with no working gas gauge, no speedometer, two windows stuck partway down, and a dent from a one-armed girl who drove with her elbow while holding a phone with her only hand.
The insurance paid out. Kim got a new car. Caroline got this one. She gave Kim $200 and a bag of weed for it. Or maybe it was just stems.
It was a blessing.
Caroline popped in Circus by Britney Spears. The CD player still worked — a miracle. iPods were everywhere by then, and yet cars still clung to cassette decks and CD slots. This was before Bluetooth. So came the adapters. Wires everywhere. But for a ten-minute drive? CD was fine. It only had a small scratch.
“Look!” said Kim. “No line!”
No line.
No cars.
Just them.
Hope shimmered.
The order was simple. The voice on the speaker got it right. No repeats. No substitutions. No riddles.
At the window, the cashier said, “I like your pants.”
Caroline blinked. “Thanks. They’re hers.”
They were Kim’s pants. No one remembered why.
The cashier raised an eyebrow. Shut the window.
One minute passed.
Then two.
Then five.
Then eight.
Then ten.
Each time the window cracked open, the cashier emerged like a wizard with a question.
“Want hot sauce?”
“Need napkins?”
“Craving cinnamon twists?”
Finally, at minute fifteen, she burst out and yelled toward the kitchen:
“How many spics does it take to throw together a fucking taco?”
The girls’ eyes met. Did she really just say that?
And then — poof — the food appeared. As if by magic. As if summoned by the slur.
The spell broke. But the story remained.
They drove home laughing. Laughing at the drive-thru. Laughing at the day. Laughing because Taco Bell was never just Taco Bell.
It was a realm.
A vortex.
A portal.
And when Caroline and Kim were high, and together, and hungry?
Taco Bell was always strange.
And always wonderful.
And always, always — just a little bit cursed.
Even now, years later, they’ll text each other on slow afternoons. One word. Sometimes two.
“Dad-day?”
And somewhere, in a different city, with a brand new car, and a legal vape pen, one of them will laugh.
Because nothing was ever just a Taco Bell run. Even after all these years and a couple of Taco Bell rebrands.
Live Màs.
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