by Louis Wittig
\n
<\/br>
\nJim Manzlyk did not see the cop car idling under the lamp post in the parking lot on his left.\u00a0 Or his Grand Am\u2019s speedometer, or the blinking yellow traffic light, or the curb. \u00a0He saw the Taco Bell and when it filled the windshield he slammed the brakes.<\/p>\n
Hurtling out of the car he grabbed the restaurant\u2019s locked front door with both hands and jerked back with all his weight. \u00a0He sprinted around back, praying under his breath and sweating everywhere else. \u00a0The drive-thru window was dark. \u00a0Still, he wheezed up to it and peered in. \u00a0A perfunctory fluorescent bulb hidden deep in the kitchen dropped threads of pale light along the edges of wire shelves and sleeping registers. \u00a0Jim pushed up onto his tiptoes and wrestled back his breath so he wouldn\u2019t fog the glass.<\/p>\n
He needed an angle or shape or clue or anything to surface from the shadows and show him that this was the Taco Bell he had been at two days ago. \u00a0He would have settled for anything that suggested it wasn\u2019t one of the six other Taco Bells he\u2019d tried since midnight. \u00a0He just couldn\u2019t tell.<\/p>\n
<\/br>
\nIt was at that same time of night, years ago, that Jim had pulled in to a rest stop on I-90 for a Coke. \u00a0As he waited in line to pay, an old man sidled up next to him and claimed that his brother-in-law swore that he could taste the difference between bottles of Coke.<\/p>\n
“Like they were bottles of wine. \u00a0Can you believe that?”<\/p>\n
No, Jim couldn’t. \u00a0But the old man’s eyes had grown in anticipation of Jim’s answer, so he said the man’s brother-in-law should work for Coke, as a taster.<\/p>\n
“Oh, he died years ago,” said the coot, unmoved. \u00a0“Heart attack.”<\/p>\n
<\/br>
\nThis memory floated up underneath the silhouettes of upturned chairs and stacked trays like the ghost images in those Magic Eye puzzles that eluded and humiliated him for a brief period in the \u201890s. \u00a0Higher on his tiptoes now, Jim\u2019s calves were burning. \u00a0The thought slipped out that all these places were identical.<\/p>\n
He knew that wasn\u2019t true. \u00a0It had been the day before yesterday, driving down Central Avenue after lunch, when Jim had seen the cheddar orange blur of a Taco Bell roof out of the corner of his eye. \u00a0It was unexpected and obscured behind a Mr. Subb he knew well. \u00a0It must have been new. \u00a0Jim had already eaten, but it had been forever since he\u2019d been to Taco Bell. \u00a0He turned around at the next light.<\/p>\n
Before he got up to the counter he was already thinking he should leave. \u00a0Just from the walls\u2014lush red and irregular like hand-smeared clay\u2014he suspected that he\u2019d wandered into an unadvertised line of members-only Taco Bells. \u00a0The windows flared into Mission-style arches with crosses at the top. \u00a0Between the windows, framed black and white photos of single clouds in desert skies and soulful pottery forced him to consider the alternate possibility that Taco Bell had been bought out by a chain of art galleries. \u00a0Either way, he was about to head back to the door when he saw the only other customers: Two black kids, boys, one older and one younger, leaning over a table, concentrating on a wordless game of rock\u2013scissors\u2013paper.<\/p>\n
\u201cWelcome, sir,\u201d said a voice from behind, jangling Jim. \u00a0\u201cIs there any way in which I might help you?\u201d \u00a0The voice had a British accent.<\/p>\n
Jim turned around and the man behind the counter put down the lint roller he had been working over his uniform. \u00a0He looked like Santa Claus\u2019 aristocratic older brother\u2014slimmer, with a cleaner, closer beard\u2014but every bit as sincere; maybe more. \u00a0His nametag said Gordon.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re serving our complete menu today,\u201d Gordon chuckled.<\/p>\n
Jim ordered a chicken quesadilla combo with a crunchy taco: a pure reflex.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcellent, sir. \u00a0You are number 175,\u201d Gordon nodded towards the pick-up end of the formica bar. \u00a0\u201cShaniqua will serve you shortly.\u201d \u00a0Gordon resumed his grooming.<\/p>\n
Jim meandered down-counter, running his fingers idly along the condiment station and bringing them up cleaner than they\u2019d gone down. \u00a0He noticed the two boys weren\u2019t playing anymore. \u00a0The older one had curled up into a peanut on the seat and fallen asleep. \u00a0The younger one had disappeared.<\/p>\n
\u201c175.\u201d \u00a0Shaniqua called it out like a nickname she had made up for him. \u00a0Jim looked up and beheld her. \u00a0She was so lithe and perfectly proportioned that if she had been playing an employee on a Taco Bell commercial, he would have taken it as insult to his intelligence. \u00a0She held his tray out to him with elegance. \u00a0And just as he took it, the small boy darted out from where he\u2019d been huddling behind her leg, vaulted himself up on the counter and shouted, \u201c175!\u201d<\/p>\n
He fell back laughing and darted away into the kitchen.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry sir, I could just not find a sitter today. \u00a0Now let me guess: You\u2019re a hot man.\u201d<\/p>\n
Before Jim could stammer, she was sprinkling a handful of hot-sauce packets on his tray. \u00a0Jim was actually a mild-sauce man, which made him love it even more.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs there anything else I can do for you?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot that I can think of,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
It was true. \u00a0He couldn\u2019t think of a thing. \u00a0He felt that his mind had been washed, dried, fluffed and folded. \u00a0Jim floated back to a corner booth. \u00a0The dining room and the world outside it\u2014barely distinct through the current of late afternoon light coming in through the window\u2014relaxed as he did. \u00a0His combo was exactly the same soft, unctuous consolation it had always been and would be forever.<\/p>\n
He did not feel like leaving when he had finished. \u00a0He bussed his tray and refilled his Wild Cherry Pepsi twice and sat, and he still did not feel like leaving. \u00a0There was no one looking back at him. \u00a0No glances wondering what kind of hopeless loser finds a Taco Bell comfortable, or thinking he might be homeless.<\/p>\n
On the periphery of his hearing, Gordon murmured a joke and Shaniqua laughed. \u00a0The hush that followed in the subsequent hours that Jim sat, then slouched, then laid there with his back against the wall, arms on the table and over the back of the seat\u2014felt like a quiet dip in a conversation between him, Gordon, Shaniqua and the Yum! Brands corporation. \u00a0Jim missed a meeting that afternoon, hanging out in a Taco Bell.<\/p>\n
Jim never would have combined the words like that, or said them out loud. \u00a0Nonetheless it was true. \u00a0Jim believed in Taco Bell. \u00a0Always had. \u00a0And in McDonald\u2019s and Burger King and Wendy\u2019s and Pizza Hut and KFC and Arthur Treacher\u2019s and Nathan\u2019s and all their competitors, always and everywhere.<\/p>\n
Deep in the flickering ball of Christmas lights that made up the sum total of Jim\u2019s existence, three neurons had knotted. \u00a0One was a half-second memory of his mother holding his hand and opening a Dairy Queen door. \u00a0The second one glowed blue with 39 years of commercials, playing and promising in an ever lengthening loop. \u00a0The last held the chemically coded taste of a perfectly salted French fry.<\/p>\n
This little lump was the nub of Jim\u2019s faith that the McRib sandwich would taste as good as it looked on the commercials; that he deserved a break today; that the 11 herbs and spices represented a genuine mystery; that individual locations were part of something larger than themselves, and that chains had discernable personalities; that the high-school girls running the registers upsold you because they wanted you to get the better deal.<\/p>\n
It was a difficult faith to keep when staring down urine-draped toilet seats in anarchic bathrooms and surly 17-year-olds who shouted \u201cHave a nice day\u201d as they looked right through you. \u00a0It wobbled when he opened his Popeye\u2019s bag to find they\u2019d forgotten his biscuits and the only thing he had wanted had been those biscuits. \u00a0It deserted him entirely after each meal and left him squirming on the toilet at home, feeling like a demon was inflating the spare tire around his waist.<\/p>\n
Yet it was never away for more than a few hours.\u00a0 And even while it was gone, the hope that it rested on remained: The hope that somehow these places knew him as well as he knew them. \u00a0Lolling his head around the dining room it seemed, for the first time, a reasonable hope.<\/p>\n
Jim was able to leave only by planning when he\u2019d be back. \u00a0He didn\u2019t want to ruin the experience by getting sick of the food. \u00a0He decided to come back for lunch the day after next. \u00a0When he did, he found the doors locked and the lights off. \u00a0The day after that it had become a Lens Crafters.<\/p>\n
Back in his apartment that night, Jim clearly remembered passing the Taco Bell behind the Mr. Subb on Central, but the only explanation that made sense was that he did not actually remember this, and that his Taco Bell was actually inside one of the half-dozen other Albany County Taco Bells he knew. \u00a0Traffic was light this late. \u00a0He could check them out and still be back for SportsCenter<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/br> \u201cHungry, sir?\u201d<\/p>\n Jim tripped backwards off his toes and tried to stammer out that he was looking for a friend. \u00a0The cop cut Jim off, to tell him how hilarious he\u2019d been.<\/p>\n \u201cLike a pig on two legs with its snout pressed\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Laughter was coming out of the cop\u2019s nose. \u00a0When he collected himself, eventually, he made Jim recite the alphabet backwards and left him with a ticket for reckless driving.<\/p>\n <\/br> She asked him how he would rate his experience at Taco Bell: poor, fair, good or excellent? \u00a0Definitely excellent. \u00a0She quizzed him on cleanliness and customer safety measures. \u00a0Excellent. \u00a0Excellent. \u00a0Excellent. \u00a0He asked if all of these excellents would mean raises for Gordon and Shaniqua. \u00a0Roxy dropped away into silence. \u00a0After a moment, she admitted that her system did not contain the names of individual Taco Bell team members. \u00a0Nor could she find any Taco Bell locations on Central Avenue in Albany. \u00a0But his survey participation was very important in improving customer satisfaction throughout all Taco Bell restaurants. \u00a0If he would provide his e-mail address, Roxy said, she would like to e-mail him a coupon for a free soft or crunchy taco, for his feedback. \u00a0Jim accepted only reluctantly.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t have any use for it. \u00a0He went back to the Lens Crafters once. \u00a0He tried on sunglasses, and tried to think of a reason why they would know anything about the previous tenants, until a woman in white coat asked if she could help him. \u00a0\u201cJust looking,\u201d he mumbled, and hustled out.<\/p>\n On a Saturday, on the desperate chance that Yum! Brands had forced his Taco Bell to convert and relocate, Jim drove two hours to a new KFC in Syracuse and strained to hear an accent over the drive\u2013thru intercom. \u00a0Peeling away and gunning it out into the wide open range of the weekend afternoon, Jim told himself that these places had been lying to him his whole life. \u00a0But what was he going to do about it? \u00a0He had to eat.<\/p>\n A chicken place opened next to Jim\u2019s office. \u00a0He couldn\u2019t leave the building without passing it, or the button\u2013sized Mexican woman who stood in front holding out $1\u2013off \u201cGrund Opening\u201d coupons. \u00a0He took one once and carelessly looked her in her needy eyes. \u00a0Then he felt obliged to eat their mangy popcorn chicken for lunch every day until a rainy afternoon forced her off the sidewalk, after which point he took to walking on the other side of the street.<\/p>\n No place else stuck. \u00a0Jim\u2019s colon was getting too old for McDonald\u2019s more than twice a week. \u00a0Burger King had gone the way of the buffalo. \u00a0Arby\u2019s was a roast beef novelty act. \u00a0Subway was a refreshing change of pace. \u00a0Jim felt healthy just for opening the door. \u00a0Yet no matter how much rehearsed his order in his head\u2014Italian bread, footlong, Italian sandwich, green peppers, extra olive oil\u2014when he got to the front of the line he always blurted out the sandwich type before the bread, and the kid behind the counter would look at him like he was wearing a unitard. \u00a0Denny\u2019s reminded him how nice it was to be served. \u00a0At the one on Wolf Road Jim could get a Grand Slam and a coffee, and if they weren\u2019t busy, the waitresses would keep refilling him, without attitude, all night. \u00a0If they were busy, though, they would stick him at a table in the middle of the floor and it would be like eating pancakes in a crowded hallway, and he could be left there dangling over his empty plate for 45 minutes until they brought him his check.<\/p>\n <\/br> He bantered with the idea like it was an absurd and giddy companion. \u00a0He could turn his new talent in to a county fair freak show act. \u00a0Or he and the guy who could distinguish between bottles of Coke could form a superhero team and use their powers to solve soft\u2013drink related crimes.<\/p>\n The chance appearance of the memory of the Coke man choked off Jim\u2019s good mood. \u00a0He still didn\u2019t believe such powers were possible. \u00a0He\u2019d seen the inside of a bottling plant on the Discovery Channel once: neatly stacked to the warehouse rafters with stainless steel monoliths hissing and spinning out an immeasurable chain of black bottles. \u00a0What was ominous about this memory now was that it suddenly came with a fizzling hope that he was wrong, and that each sloshing plastic tub could have more to it than that.<\/p>\n Who was this Coke idiot anyway? \u00a0A total nut job. \u00a0A shut\u2013in who assaulted the attention of relatives with preposterous claims. \u00a0Maybe it was possible that he had, once, gotten a bottle with a half\u2013ounce more corn syrup than usual and being an isolated kook to begin with, had spun out that instant of sensory flux into an ornate delusion, festooning it for the rest of his life with mundane distinctions until it grew to be the only thing that people could remember about him even a few months after he died. \u00a0Jim was still thinking about this when he blew past the turn for his apartment complex.<\/p>\n And he hadn\u2019t entirely squeezed it out of his head by the time he marched into Price Chopper ready to cook for himself. \u00a0He stumbled early on in the produce department, forcing himself to search for an unintimidating green vegetable until he realized he\u2019s been there for 20 minutes, and if he didn\u2019t pick up something soon, someone would think he was a retarded employee. \u00a0He fled the area with a bag of Granny Smith apples. \u00a0Jim fought the urge to beeline for frozen foods. \u00a0Things got baffling in the bakery department and he took three redundant loaves of bread. \u00a0By the dairy section he was in despair. \u00a0He saw the only thing he could make from the mess he\u2019d gathered were apple sandwiches on paper plates with baking soda on the side. \u00a0He seized an armload of Hamburger Helper boxes and five pounds of ground beef and kept his head down at checkout.<\/p>\n It turned out great, actually. \u00a0The slow sound of simmering meat in his long silent kitchen reminded Jim of a crackling fireplace. \u00a0Chili Cheese, Double Cheeseburger Mac, Cheesy Italian Shells and Cheesy Hashbrown took their places in the rotation. \u00a0Each tucked an identical warm, saline blanket over Jim\u2019s tongue, which juxtaposed perfectly with the sweet bite of the Granny Smiths he cut up. \u00a0So perfectly, that he was sure he was taking his life in the right direction when he decided to slice the apples directly into the Hamburger Helper. \u00a0The next night he was at Wendy\u2019s.<\/p>\n <\/br> It was the particular purpleness of the arrow that drew Jim down a series of cinderblock hallways, to an old marble lobby, to another arrow, pointing up, taped to the desk of a sleeping security guard. \u00a0He rode the shoebox elevator to every floor and searched. \u00a0The hallways were over-carpeted and airless. \u00a0The opaque windows set in the ancient wooden doors looked like they should have had private detectives\u2019 names stenciled on them, but had nothing. \u00a0The only difference on the top floor was that at the end of the last hall there was an aluminum\u2013framed glass panel door pouring out white light.\u00a0 And through it was Gordon, standing square behind the register.<\/p>\n \u201cOur first customer of the day! \u00a0Welcome!\u201d he called as Jim tentatively made his way to the counter.<\/p>\n Shaniqua appeared from the kitchen with her thumb in an accounting textbook.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat a treat,\u201d she said. \u00a0\u201cI better plug in the microwave.\u201d<\/p>\n Jim wasn\u2019t entirely speechless. \u00a0He could order a number seven combo. \u00a0He couldn\u2019t tell whether either of them remembered him. \u00a0Shaniqua held a tender, mothering note in her voice as called his number. \u00a0That could have been the way she always was though. \u00a0Jim wanted to ask her about what had happened on Central, but not as badly as he thought he would. \u00a0What he desperately wanted to ask her was how she was, what she was doing with her life, and how the boys were. \u00a0Of course, if she didn\u2019t remember him, this would make him a stalker.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is a strange space,\u201d is what he managed to get out as she was turning back to the kitchen.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, it is. \u00a0Mr. Abdulkawan, he\u2019s the franchisee, you could say he has a different business sense.\u201d<\/p>\n The dining room was a mustard yellow box that had until recently been a waiting room in the office of an ancient and lonely doctor. \u00a0Three booths huddled against the far wall. \u00a0In front of them a single table tilted on the uneven floor. \u00a0The only window was only part of a window, in the far corner, halved by the butt end of a hastily thrown-up sheetrock wall. \u00a0The counter had never been meant for exchanging anything larger than insurance forms. \u00a0If Gordon was working the register and Shaniqua calling out orders they would be shoulder to shoulder. \u00a0Just to the right of the door, the hallway to the exam rooms was blocked by a bank of soda dispensers. \u00a0A universe of incongruities had been miniaturized in here. \u00a0To Jim, it was majestic.<\/p>\n He took the window booth, knowing that he should have been panicking. \u00a0As he ate, he reminded himself that this could be a dream and that even if it wasn\u2019t, he would have to leave soon and this should terrify him. \u00a0At the same time his head felt so pleasantly, thickly creamy, like a vat of melted cheese being stirred slowly and rhythmically, that all his efforts at reason dissolved.<\/p>\n He was asleep on his arms before his quesadilla was even out of the wrapper. \u00a0When he woke, hours later the room was dim, except for a small light in the kitchen they had left on for him, and a Styrofoam doggie-bag box perched by his elbow, with a note taped on:<\/p>\n \u201cThe door locks behind you. \u00a0We open tomorrow morning at 8. \u00a0J\u201d<\/p>\n Jim was back at 7:45. \u00a0Gordon was already there, scrambling eggs for a special southwest breakfast burrito that wasn\u2019t technically on the menu. \u00a0Jim returned at breakfast\u2014and dinnertime\u2014for weeks. \u00a0Neither Gordon nor Shaniqua ever mentioned his nap. \u00a0They remained bafflingly polite. \u00a0When Jim got sick of tacos they didn\u2019t mind that he bought in McDonald\u2019s.<\/p>\n The only thing was, the small talk never grew. \u00a0Jim took comfort in the fact that they weren\u2019t any closer to the handful of other customers. \u00a0From his window booth, Jim saw a young man in a black double-breasted suit attempt to pay for a grilled stuffed burrito with a succession of maxed-out credit cards. \u00a0He apologized as Gordon handed each one back, confessing first that he wasn\u2019t good at juggling so many cards; then that he was a complete and total fraud; and finally, that he was poor.<\/p>\n \u201cNo problem, sir. \u00a0It costs Taco Bell about 15-cents to make these things,\u201d was all Gordon said. \u00a0Shaniqua handed the man his to-go bag.<\/p>\n Then there was the old harpy. \u00a0She came in, ordered, then returned her nachos supreme without touching them and sat back in her chair, sideways, waiting for her replacement like a gray flannel idol expecting a sacrifice. \u00a0And Shaniqua sacrificed: \u00a0she came out, put the new nachos on the table and kneeled in front of the old woman. \u00a0She took the old woman\u2019s nearly transparent hand in hers and squeezed gently.<\/p>\n \u201cI am so sorry,\u201d Shaniqua said. \u00a0\u201cYou need low-fat sour cream. \u00a0I know how it is. \u00a0My aunt has high cholesterol, too.\u201d<\/p>\n The woman mumbled for a moment and gazed over Shaniqua\u2019s shoulder; partly embarrassed by the sincerity, partly stunned, as if she was seeing every eye-rolling salesgirl and non\u2013English proficient gas station attendant she had suffered in her excruciatingly long life forming a line behind Shaniqua, waiting for their turn to apologize. \u00a0Shaniqua held the woman\u2019s hand for ten minutes.<\/p>\n Jim did what he could to pry at the margins of Gordon and Shaniqua\u2019s pleasantries. \u00a0How was Mr. Abdulkawan doing these days? \u00a0How long had they been at this location? \u00a0Their customer-service jujitsu was flawless.<\/p>\n \u201cFeels like we\u2019ve been here forever,\u201d Gordon would say and chuckle. \u00a0\u201cThat\u2019s the way it is with work, right sir?\u201d \u00a0All he could find out about Mr. Abdulkawan was that he rarely came by.<\/p>\n Not long after he had decided to stop nursing his curiosity, Jim went for a Pepsi refill on his way out. \u00a0The plastic nozzle coughed as he poked his cup under it, and what came out was still and bitter. \u00a0Shaniqua and Gordon were back in the kitchen. \u00a0Jim didn\u2019t feel right bothering them. \u00a0It stayed broken for weeks.<\/p>\n Gordon was astonished when Jim finally told him. \u00a0He tipped himself a cup and sipped thoughtfully, swishing and squinting more than he had to.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know sir,\u201d Gordon shrugged. \u00a0\u201cTastes about right to me.\u201d<\/p>\n Jim took Gordon\u2019s cup and took a swig for himself.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you sure? \u00a0It\u2019s not even carbonated,\u201d said Jim.<\/p>\n \u201cI could have Mr. Abdulkawan check the hoses when he comes in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut it tastes fine to you as it is right now?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt tastes like Pepsi.\u201d<\/p>\n Gordon apologized for the difference of opinion. \u00a0He reached behind the counter and came back with one of the large-size plastic cups. \u00a0He presented it to Jim.<\/p>\n \u201cFor our best customer,\u201d said Gordon, tapping his high\u2013beam smile. \u00a0\u201cWe really are sorry for the inconvenience. \u00a0But consider this good for life. \u00a0Any beverage. \u00a0Any time. \u00a0Complimentary.\u201d<\/p>\n Normally he liked these cups, for their durability and how they commemorated meals he would have otherwise forgotten. \u00a0When he got one of them he always meant to wash it out at home and keep it so eventually he would never have to buy another cup again. \u00a0Invariably, he only remembered this plan after the cup had been sitting in the car for days and was caked beyond hope with tenacious globules of dried cola. \u00a0Normally, too, \u201cbest customer\u201d would have been the sort of compliment he noticed.\u00a0 Jim took the cup and half\u2013filled it with Sierra Mist, just to be gracious, and left.<\/p>\n He knew that moping for a week and four days was an infantile way of handling it. \u00a0Exactly how much did he expect from his Taco Bell? \u00a0Should Gordon and Shaniqua have to wear their hair like him? \u00a0It made as much sense as expecting them to have the same constellation of taste buds. \u00a0They would have let him bring his own Pepsi. \u00a0They would have let him make his own Pepsi in there. \u00a0When his self-deprecation could make him laugh again he went back to find that it was gone.<\/p>\n <\/br> by Louis Wittig Jim Manzlyk did not see the cop car idling under the lamp post in the parking lot on his left.\u00a0 Or his Grand Am\u2019s speedometer, or the blinking yellow traffic light, or the curb. \u00a0He saw the … Continue reading
\nWhat snapped Jim away from the nebulous kitchen was not what the officer said, but the officer\u2019s laughter.<\/p>\n
\nGoogle could only find one record of a Taco Bell on Central Avenue, and it was for a Taco Bell on a Central Avenue in a city in Indiana that Jim had never heard of. \u00a0He eventually did get an actual person on the line at 1-800-TACO-BELL: a Hindu voice that rounded her vowels into pearls and identified herself as Roxy. \u00a0Jim explained and Roxy listened so intently, he thought, that when he stopped to breathe he could hear through her, to the tiny sound of phones ringing in the background.<\/p>\n
\nRolling out from a Dunkin Donuts lot and onto Madison Ave after dinner one night, Jim\u2019s half-full Pepsi tipped out of the cup holder and spilled on his leg. \u00a0Irritated by the moisture nipping through his jeans, he clenched his tongue against the roof of mouth and tasted the dull fructose sap lingering there. \u00a0And it just popped into his head: He was tasting the Pepsi through his skin.<\/p>\n
\nJim would have told you that he\u2019d forgotten his Taco Bell right up until he saw the sign. \u00a0It was almost six. \u00a0A wall of clouds that had been incipient all day was finally pushing over downtown. \u00a0The last state workers leaving out North Pearl Street towards 787 flicked their headlights on against the gloaming. \u00a0Rain was already falling when Jim hurried out of his lawyer\u2019s building onto the alley where he\u2019d parked. \u00a0As he hesitated in the doorway he glanced over and saw a sheet of copy paper taped to the faded-yellow brick office building across the way, with a hand drawn purple arrow pointing to a service door.<\/p>\n
\nIt wasn\u2019t hard for Jim not to mention his Taco Bell to anyone. \u00a0He only came close once. \u00a0Picking at a plate a of bourbon chicken in the Colonie Center food court he overheard the wad of teenagers at the table behind him throwing straws at each other and complaining. \u00a0Everything here sucked. \u00a0Cajun Caf\u00e9 sucked. \u00a0Sbarro sucked. \u00a0That sushi place was grody. \u00a0One teenager felt like Taco Bell. \u00a0Another remembered that there was one at the Crossgates food court. \u00a0They all agreed on the awesomeness of Taco Bell, but by the time Jim decided to turn around though, they were gone too.
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\nLOUIS WITTIG<\/strong> is a writer and editor who lives in North Jersey. His fiction has appeared on Storyglossia.com, Prick of the Spindle.com, Dark Sky Magazine.com and Wag\u2019s Revue.com. His nonfiction has appeared in Alligator Juniper and the Concho River Review.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"