Delicious Tacos - Finally, Some Good News

You barely know me, she said. But she took the revolver. Walked off into the ravines.

He took a long cool drink straight from the leaky pipe before starting on the bottles. Maybe twenty minutes before he heard six loud fast cracks echoing. Ran to the car. Guns half spilling out the black duffle bag and he grabbed the one close to his hands, the rifle with the scope and the black stock and the pointy .308 bullets long as his thumb. Tried to slam the bolt home while he was running and couldn’t. Had to stop. It was sticky, fucking up somehow– finally after what felt like a ten episode miniseries he got it. Checked the safety. Red means dead. Fucking remember this time. Ran again until her head popped up over the grass and the chaparral and she was laughing. GET ON THE GROUND, GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND, he was screaming, and she was laughing and saying it’s OK, it’s OK. A man stood in blue track pants and white sneakers and a hoodie that said WHARTON.

It’s OK, she said. He had the gun at his shoulder but the scope just looked like opening your eyes underwater. The tiny bright dot with crosshairs seemed to appear and disappear at random. He couldn’t make WHARTON appear in it. You’re gonna miss, said the man. And you’re gonna scope yourself. You’ll lose an eye. It’s OK, said Marcy.

What happened.

I startled her. Honest mistake.

Is it true?

Yes, she said. He’s nice–

Don’t feel bad. She missed too.

He lowered the gun. Are you OK, he said to Marcy, and she said yes I’ve been telling you. My name’s Kent, said the man. And he pronounced the T too hard as he reached out a hand from his hoodie pouch pocket.

Kent was white. Maybe 45. Maybe five foot ten. His hair was black with a stately amount of gray at the temples. His face was like a senator from Utah. He sounded like a commercial for paying to make sure your loved ones were taken care of after the unthinkable.

You came up from LA? Said Kent.

Yes, Sherman Oaks– sorry, I didn’t mean to–

Not looking too good down there I bet.

They’re raping people.

How’s the infrastructure.

What?

The roads–

They weren’t great to begin with. Where did you come from–

Calabasas. We got hit hard too, and they keep coming. But if you came up here for the bunker I’m in it.

He looked at Marcy, then at Kent, then at Marcy.

You don’t know about the bunker, said Kent.

Is there food?

Enough for me to wait it out for a while, said Kent. But not too long.

Anyone else with you?

Just me, said Kent. Would you like to take a look?

I should lock the car.

We’ll wait, said Kent.

He came back with the .45 in his belt. Red means dead. Kent and Marcy had started walking and he had to jog to catch up. Over the ridgeline was a barbed wire fence on a concrete slab with a heart that said CUNT painted on it. A path through a hole in it. Nestled in the hills old blown out cement buildings. City buses picked clean. Everything spraypainted with Fuck Piss Cunt . Down a staircase cut in the hillside a giant concrete platform. Thick looking steel double doors in it, maybe forty feet long. For the missile crew, said Kent. Steel, dirt and concrete. We’ve had air blasts so far but if we get a ground hit there’ll be fallout. This was made to take it. Do you know what this place was?

No–

This was a Nike site. Military installation for missile defense. They built fifteen or so of these around the city, to intercept atomic weapons and aircraft–

Fucking great job–

Well it’s been defunct since the 70’s. But it wasn’t to protect people. They protected military assets. Ultimately it was more efficient to just move them away from population centers where the nukes would hit. I was an Air Force man myself.

By the missile doors was a small square hatch and Kent crouched down and opened it. The hinges screamed and the sound bounced around a tunnel underneath and startled sparrows out of the creosote bushes. A tiny steel ladder dropped down a chute into blackness.

Kent brushed the rust off his hands. I’m glad you’re here, he said. I don’t know when they’re coming but they will be. The Russians, the Chinese– the Arabs. We’re going to resist. They want to take this country, they can pry it from my cold, dead hands. Come take a look and we’ll talk, said Kent. He gestured at the ladder. You go ahead.

There was something about the air. Not a smell but something cold he could feel in his lungs. He hesitated. Then held his breath and climbed down into the dark.

He needed a raise. To save enough money to quit. HR was six months behind on his annual evaluation. This meant they knew he’d ask.

He’d had to follow up. The meeting was this morning. 9AM. The HR head would review his evaluation. They’d have budgeted an amount. But they wouldn’t mention money unless he asked. They’d pass his request to some anonymous personage. Come back with a smaller amount. A prior evaluation noted he did not always dress for the job he wanted. He would need to wear his crisp white shirt. It was custom tailored at Men’s Wearhouse. A client. He’d had to buy it for a wedding. All cotton. No armpit stains.

He’d got up at five to iron it. Hung it on the shower curtain rod in the hope the shower steam might soften it. It didn’t. He had to spritz it down with the water gun from the iron. He took care to rinse out the chamber three times in case the old water had rust. Laid the shirt on the carpet and laid the iron on it and nothing happened. He waited for the iron to get hot. Tried again. This time it hissed. The fabric got marginally smoother. He spritzed it again. Ironed it again. It was still wrinkled. This was one section of one side of the sleeve. The whole shirt was spread out on the floor. It looked like there was a schooner sail worth of gesso white fabric left to go. He dragged the iron on the shirt intently. The correct speed took many tries to calibrate. Slow enough to flatten the shirt but fast enough to not leave iron shaped burns.

When he was done he took the tupperware of chili he’d packed the night before. And the wet smooth shirt. Not folded. Not on him. The seatbelt and his back against the car seat would mangle it into a state far worse than when he’d started. Carefully draped the long unfolded shirt over the back seat. When he got to work he parked. Carefully hoisted the shirt up and out. Carefully slipped it on. It was hard to chicken wing his left arm into the sleeve with the right arm in, without wrinkling the shirt. Hard to bring his hands to chest level to button the cuff buttons. Even this movement left an accordion of deep folds at the inner elbows. He bent his body only where this area was already ruined. Closed the car door. Locked the car. Picked up the heavy tupperware and his briefcase off the trunk lid. When he got to the dark glass door from parking garage to office, he put the briefcase down. Then the tupperware. Pulled the door open. Held it with his foot while he picked up the tupperware. The briefcase.

The meeting was nine o’clock. Later he would heat his chili. Take it to the park. Sit on the bleachers by the baseball diamond. Eat in the sun watching starlings and squirrels. A celebration. At 9:10 he got an email. We have to delay until this afternoon. Apologies.

The bleachers might be dirty. Instead he microwaved his chili. Ate in the break room. The florescent lights sputtered. Made a sound like Tuvan throat singing. He opened the tupperware. Steam twirled out. The edges of the chili were molten. Bubbling. He dipped in his white plastic spoon. Held it aloft. Regarded it.

An amoeba-shaped hunk of meat squatted in the red grease in the spoon. It formed a face. Frowned malevolently. You know what I’m going to do you, it said. To that fucking shirt.