Slow Taco Death

One of the things I love most about flying out of my local airport is the breakfast taco kiosk. It’s located right behind the main bar, so pretty much everyone knows they can find me in this general vicinity, whatever time of day I’m flying.

Saturday, I was traveling with the fam to visit my godson and his family. A big event I’d been working on for MONTHS (insert sympathy here) had finally happened Friday night, so I was freakin’ exhausted.

I felt certain that all I needed to rev my engine was a delicious overstuffed taco (the diet starts Monday, right?).

Normally my little taco stand is staffed by two, rapid-fire taquistas, or taquilladors—whatever you want to call them. Not this morning, though. Only Miss Molasses (I’m sure she would prefer I call her “methodical,” but that would imply an attention to detail, which was sorely lacking. And, truth be told, she wouldn’t know what “methodical” meant).

Naturally, a line had formed. It was early. People were hungry.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I pretty much figure that, if you’re eating in an airport, you are, by definition, on a deadline. (goddam, that seems like a lot of commas. HOK?)

But I’m pretty sure Mo had a few too many Tequizas last night and la vitesse is NOT on the menu today. And then it all began to unravel.

Now, I have a personal policy (which I’m lobbying to get passed into law) that any time you have to wait in a food line for more than five minutes you might want to have a fucking clue what you’re going to order.

But the stupid girl in front of me apparently didn’t share my ideology.

“ummmmmmm . . . let’s see . . . . Can I have . . . uh . . .” I didn’t hear what she ordered because suddenly the blood was pounding in my ears like a drum line. Sort of how I imagine a vampire feels just before it kills.

As my blood pressure begins to drop, I notice the taquista is beginning to make the tacos. Whew. Crisis averted. Yeah, right.

This particular cart has a glass front, so you can watch the taquistador actually assemble your taco. Fascinating stuff. Apparently Miss Indecision thought so too, since she practically had her nose pressed against the glass watching her taco progress. Which made it even more surprising that, AS SOON AS MOLASSES WAS FINISHED, the customer told her, “um . . . that’s not what I ordered. It was supposed to be . . .”

YOU COULDN’T HAVE FREAKIN’ CORRECTED HER BEFORE SHE PUT THE SHIT ON YOUR TACO?!?!?!? MY GOD, SHE WAS MOVING AT THE SPEED OF HAIR GROWTH.

Had I not been next in line, I would almost certainly have screamed and run for a stale scone at Indifferent Pastries up the concourse. And I couldn’t wish for ptomaine, since I was next in line and would almost certainly suffer from my own curse.

Plane crash? Too many innocent victims. Choking? Hmm. Worth considering. But then I asked WWDD? What would Darwin do? And I realized, nothing. It will all sort itself out. Naturally.