Solace and Dread At The Taco Bell

Four days prior to my 27th birthday, I ate Taco Bell for the first time in my life. When asked why I would put my ass through that (which, it wasn’t even bad or anything, I’ve definitely incurred worse damage from some good curry), I would chirp some inane comment akin to “just trying something new!” But I was trying for a piece of freedom. The decision to eat Taco Bell was oddly dramatic– a floundering attempt at inner reflection, and then a comeuppance with reality. A deep dive of the psyche using a tostada shell to keep the small discoveries together.

I mean, yes, some would brush away the overdramatic prose and just say “you’re eating your feelings”; and maybe it was more like I was eating my usual self-destruction patterns . . . This wasn’t the latest iteration of food-based coping mechanisms. This was a voice inside of me asking, “So are we gonna address this? Are we going to talk about what has happened, and what has to happen?”

I wanted to address the little knick of hunger at the base of my belly.

11:30 at night and I was hungry, but out of all the late night options available to me? The Greek, the Turkish, the Indian– hell, McDonalds? None of these were satisfactory. None of these were the hard, savory, weighty reminders of life that I needed. December was a month of discontent and disorder, the whiplash of apathy unbidden, and consuming so much of me I wasn’t even aware of the edge I was approaching. But I knew that I was hungry, so hungry. Hungry for a mess, for something new, something that felt like an escape from a burdensome reality– a mess that I could create and eliminate quickly, by my own power.

I craved an experience. Something I wasn’t getting, hadn’t had before, to continue a pleasant fallacy. I wanted out, just for a little while, of the spiral downward that my life was taking. So, naturally, I turned to a co-worker and asked, “What do you think about Taco Bell?”

The answer was never really needed. I just wanted to say it. Taco Bell. Feel the hard syllables of the first word bounce off my tongue, feel the second word drip out of the chalice of my mouth into the velvety night. And it felt good. Right. Damn the myth of Taco Bell’s time bomb recipes, and the future I was running from.

The journey there was quiet, aside from my music. I never realized this part of town got so quiet. International Drive is one long road and I don’t think I’ve ever driven to the end of it. But there’s always a section of it that seems to blare and shine until it just abruptly cuts off at some unspecified point, before it shimmers in a gasoline haze and eventually turns over to Buena Vista. The main drag, though, that’s the more familiar area- the metal spring in the tourist trap, if you will. Where the gigantic Ferris wheel sparkles in a glorious spire of capitalism, and restaurants are nearly stacked one atop the other as they beckon in that one last customer before the night grows old. Here, the miasma of autotune and dubstep fights the warbling wails and croons of live bands. And at this time of night, just shy of twelve, the lights were still twinkling, and it may not have been buzzing with life, but it still hummed.

Taco Bell is on the opposite end of that.

This side of International Drive, chock full of outlet stores, and the main Outlet Mall of the area at the very end, is quiet. The stores closed early in the evening, and there was nothing else here to entice folks. The only sign of life was, indeed, the audacious ball of light that comes from Taco Bell.

There, the line of cars proved the existence of humble local night owls. Folks in familiar uniforms or bedraggled hoodies looking for some savory proof of good in the bumper to bumper stream of fumes, when none could be found in the searing light of day. There I sat, musing over the long line and what it would be like to sink my teeth into my chosen meal: A crunchwrap supreme, soft taco, and cinnamon twists. I had pre-ordered it on the app, so I was just waiting to get it.

The voice that cut through the night air was pleasant, energized. “Hi, what’s your order?” I paused for a second too long. Was this another sign of Taco Bell’s magic? A chipper team member, the Universe telling me to get right for this new occasion?

It took another two songs and a reread of a fanfiction blurb before I was greeted with that chipper voice– a chipper person, copper curls and placid eyes giving me direct eye contact as they handed me my cravings box. I was not of the mind to wait until I got home to dive into this, so I parked up in that poorly lit parking lot, watching cars zip in and roll out, watch people come up to the door of a clearly closed dining room and tap on the door and shuffle awkwardly.

The box opened easily, a wispy ‘ssch’ sound as the flimsy cardboard opened up. Inside were my choices, all neatly wrapped. I chose the crunchwrap first. With the first bite into that lukewarm meat and lettuce, the crackling stings of dread were smothered. I couldn’t help but chew slowly, surprised by the fact that . . . it was good! Why was it good? Simple meat, cheese, wrapped up, and it gave me the experience I needed. Each bite was a grounding ritual- tear, chew, chew, tilt the mass with your tongue, swallow, and gulp down your Mountain Dew. Each oscillation of my jaw culminated in a mantra.

This is familiar, you know this.

It’s new and yet not.

It’s comforting isn’t it?

You can regain clarity again.

Nothing lasts forever, good or bad.

Good can come, and change this.

Through the crunchwrap, through the soft taco, my shoulders relaxed and my feet tilted sideways as I enjoyed this fast-food created oasis. The orange twist soda was delicious, bright sparkles of effervescent flavor, a flash mob on my tongue and down my throat, and I couldn’t even attempt to properly sing along to my songs anymore because of the cold razor-sharp rush. Thank God, I thought amusedly, Thank God Taco Bell wasn’t a waste! All those years of wondering what they tasted like, and they were this good. Mad respect to their new marketing strategy.

And then I was just left with cinnamon twists. Suddenly . . . I couldn’t bear to be in that parking lot anymore, where the line was now dried up and the lights seemed suddenly dimmed and meek. I would drive home now- there was no need to linger, Taco Bell’s allure wouldn’t extend forever- and I would risk decimation of my work clothes as I drove and ate my cinnamon twists. Shifting my car into drive, a little pack of twists balanced between my thighs, felt like taking the last bit of magic with me.

With my hand digging around the twists, I contemplated the streets before me, the swathes of buttery lights and the stretches of road void of them. The faint smell of beef and sour cream still lingered in the air, the cravings box still open and the flap wedged underneath my work bag. I had known the weight of reality would return the nearer to home I drew, after all it had hovered above me with sickly sweet patience as I aggressively drowned stark truths in citrusy soda. But I had no armor left. I plucked each twist up from the crinkling paper and shoved it into my mouth, tasting how quickly the cinnamon faded away and just left a near tasteless little lump of dough in my mouth. The mantra to match the oscillating was a little different this time.

Well isn’t this feeling familiar . . .

Almost time to head home, pfft.

I can’t believe I’m running out of time.

Savor this while you can!

Rude of me, but alright. It’s no secret how quickly the sweetness of a moment can fade, and you have to be okay with that, you learn to be okay with that. Those cinnamon twists somehow became a metaphor for my life, those strident truths I’d endeavored to eat away now back to give me a knowing but patient stare as they sat primly on my dashboard. I could almost see the imprint of them, could almost see their bodies disturbing the layer of dust just above the vents. I’d gambled and cackled all Fall, the heady feeling of competency and self-confidence a vicious brew that I wasn’t capable of handling. I’d thought the sweetness would last ever after, like some story, but really it was just a dusting, a sprinkle of good fortune and careful thought over the crispy neutrality of life.

I didn’t see the pieces falling away, just like I couldn’t see the way my sugar spotted fingers were no doubt leaving a mess on my steering wheel or right pants leg.

I contemplated the little heap of trash left behind, all the physical evidence left behind of that moment of satisfaction. It spoke in voices too familiar to me, the voices that have always foretold my failings. “Don’t you at least consider the consequences of your actions?”

I’m not too sure, but– I don’t think you go to Taco Bell at midnight and eat a little horde of food in your car, in the middle of a deserted parking lot, if you’re, like, super serious about future consequences. Are these even “consequences” or just the wine dark trough before I crest back to victory? Who even knows what the future holds anyway? I’d watched through a screen as part of the sea burned, skies turned blood red. What I know for sure is that in the future I will die. If, in the process of trying to feel alive in a world crumbling under the maddening and futile objective of trying to feel “normal”, I screw up, disappointing countless loved ones and becoming a joking footnote in the lives of once sincere friends . . . . then, I’m the one who as to live with those consequences. I’ll carry those scars while everyone else forgets it, brushes me off, or keeps it as ammunition when I get careless and let my scars be seen.

Yeah, I’m in the pursuit of happiness, but I’m not good at it. Live más.