Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

Bob shakes Otis, who isn’t big on answering or moving, but is sleeping soundly with some spittle dripping from his mouth. Shakes him once more for good measure and the scratchy raw lady voice says, “Otis, I’m waiting for your hard taco meat to slide in my wet taco shell!”

“Hello?” Coffen says to her.

“Who the hell’s that?” says the lady without much friskiness behind these words.

“A paying customer who’s hungry.”

Then the voice pauses, makes some phony computer beeping noises, and finally says in a robot voice, “We are experiencing some technical difficulties with this intercom system. For example, unofficial messages totally unaffiliated with this fine establishment have been mysteriously beamed here from places unknown, maybe outer space, and please keep in mind that the words currently reaching your eardrums from this malfunctioning intercom system have not been approved by any sanctioning body. We hope to have this situation remedied quickly and are so sorry for the inconvenience.”

More phony computer beeping noises.

“You’re not fooling anybody,” Coffen says.

A dramatic exhale from her and then, “Otis, you know the rules. You can’t bring any friends along.”

“Pardon me,” Coffen says to her. “I can’t order because this drunk is asleep in his car.”

The scratchy lady voice sighs. “Not again.”

“Not again?”

“Hold up a minute,” she says.

Coffen looks at Otis, poor guy grabbing some shut-eye at the drive-through intercom. Life could be worse, right? At least Bob doesn’t binge-drink and go dead to the world getting intercom hanky-panky at Taco Shed.

He says to Otis, “Looks like you’re going to have to jerk it the old-fashioned way tonight, my friend.”

Still nothing from the narcotized Casanova.

Then the back door opens and a woman with gargantuan muscles spilling from her official uniform storms out. Her nametag says Tilda. Coffen has seen this woman many times before and is always impressed with her many muscles, like a bodybuilder. She’s probably fifty years old and too tanned and Coffen feels thankful not to be Otis yanking Tilda’s hair and mounting her from behind.

“Hey, I know you,” says Tilda.

Coffen actually blushes. Jane is doing her best to break the world’s treading-water record and Bob is poised to be the first human to munch one million Mexican lasagnas. “I know you too.”

“You’re here all the time.”

“Not all the time.”

“Yeah, you’re the capitán of Mexican lasagnas,” she says with a Spanish flare.

If it’s possible, Bob blushes even more. “I guess I am.”

“ Capitán , I’d like to apologize,” Tilda says, “for this strange man that I’ve never seen before sitting in his car, obviously inebriated. This is an injustice and on behalf of Taco Shed, I’d like to prepare you a complimentary gourmet meal.” She puts a muscled paw through Otis’s window and gives him a spank on the face, very hard, and Otis stirs awake and stretches with surprise. “Get out of here, you strange stranger,” Tilda says. “Get out of here before I alert the proper authorities to your inebriated state of mind. You are a public nuisance, and I’m aghast by this strange stranger’s actions!”

A groggy Otis is confused but understands enough to make a quick run for it, moving the sloshing whiskey to the passenger seat and driving off.

“What do you mean you don’t know him?” Coffen asks her. “You called him by name.”

“You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“These days, everyone looks like a cop, and that’s why it’s getting so hard to break the law — used to be the police were all white guys with crew cuts and cheap shoes. You could spot ’em a mile away, but these days, wow, I’m going to need to see some ID.”

“You want to see ID that says I’m not a cop?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they make those?”

“They sure as shit should,” says Tilda. Then she seems to lose her drooping gall. “I can’t keep up the charade any longer. You got me, cop. I’ll sign my confession. I’ll waive my right to a speedy trial. The men have to say a secret phrase into the intercom. They have to say, ‘Hark the herald angel likes to watch TV in his birthday suit.’ See what I mean? No one else would come up to the intercom and say that accidentally, so I thought I’d make a little extra dough on the sly and no one would ever know, but this drunken perv is always passing out on me at the intercom and now a damn cop happens to stumble upon our impure exchange.”

“Will you relax and make me something to eat? I’m not a police officer. I build video games.” Coffen thinks that maybe humor might set her mind at ease. “The capitán of Mexican lasagnas is no friend of the policía .”

“Typical cop behavior.”

“I’m really hungry.”

“This smacks of entrapment.”

“Your paranoia has paranoia,” Coffen says.

“You gum as much blotter acid as I did, and you live the rest of your life convinced everyone’s a cop.”

“I only want a Mexican lasagna.”

Tilda eyeballs Bob, probably searching for some sort of tell to indicate whether he’s a cop or not, but realizing there’s no way to know for certain. She says, “How about three Mexican lasagnas?”

“Deal.” Coffen nods and she says she’ll go inside, prep the grub. He walks back to his car and pulls it up to the intercom and says, “And also a Coke, please.”

“The beverage will be complimentary as well on account of Taco Shed appreciating your patience with our malfunctioning intercom,” Tilda says through the not-malfunctioning intercom. “I’ll deliver them personally to you out back, once it’s all ready.”

Soon, this strange woman opens the back door again and brings the booty of Mexican lasagnas, then hands Coffen his drink. She has one Mexican lasagna for herself, too. It’s a tortilla filled with refried beans, marinara sauce, and processed cheese. They both get busy chowing down.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Bob says.

“What?”

“On my way here, I was thinking that I needed somebody to talk to, and you’re like a therapist.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But sort of.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but therapists aren’t helping their clients pull their pud.”

Coffen nods, takes another bite of Mexican lasagna. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks. You don’t even want to know how bad I need the money. You don’t wanna hear about my daughter living in her boyfriend’s car, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Ain’t these weird times? Lately, life’s like one gigantic cartoon, and all I see are cops and monsters.”

“I’ve been thinking that life is pretty much a no-win situation,” he says, done with his first Mexican lasagna and sipping from the Coke.

“How’s that?”

“I seem to be in the process of ruining everything.”

“Are you going to knock it off? The ruining, I mean.”

“I’m trying.”

“Men love to say that they’re trying. But really, you either do something or you don’t. Trying is for babies learning to walk.”

In principle, Coffen agrees with what Tilda is saying— trying is the most tired excuse out there. The worst part is that it’s not even true, in Coffen’s case. He’s not trying. If he had been trying, Jane wouldn’t have had to stoop to a magician for marital help.

“I miss babies,” says Bob. “I loved napping with my daughter asleep on my chest.”

“How old are yours?”

“Twelve and nine.”

“Those ages are still fun,” Tilda says. “Wait until they shack up in Roy’s car with a bun in the oven and a meth habit. Then we’ll talk.”