Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Not as much as I had hoped,” he mumbled to himself, “but worthwhile nonetheless.”

“Dude, watch where you’re going!” a teenage boy yelled as he bounced off the yellow tracksuit-clad pedestrian deeply immersed in his reading.

“Get back to school, you grubby street urchin pickpocket!” a startled Avery gruffly replied as he checked to see that he still had all his possessions.

“Screw you, fatty!” the boy cried as he took off running down the street.

“I’ll see you interred!” Avery shouted as he flipped the back of his hand under his chin and in the direction of the fleeing boy. “A youth of today, prisoner number 48238 of tomorrow,” he mumbled.

Passing a local flower shop, Avery noticed a local taco vendor’s truck pulled up alongside the curb. Suddenly realizing he hadn’t had anything to eat except a dozen or so Mountain Dews since last night, he decided to stop for a brief respite.

“Madame, what is the name of this establishment?” Avery inquired of the thirty-something-year-old Hispanic woman behind the counter as he approached the window.

“Consuela’s Tacos,” she replied in a mildly perturbed manner as she pointed to the two-foot-high red lettering on the side of the truck clearly announcing it as CONSUELA’S TACOS.

“Are you the owner of this mobile culinary contraption?”

“Yes, I’m Consuela,” the woman replied while wiping her hands with a white dishtowel.

“Do you have the proper documentation to operate here?”

“Yes.”

“Have the health inspectors reviewed your premise lately?”

“Yes.”

“Any recent write-ups or food critic reviews recommending your food, and if so, how many stars were you awarded?”

“No,” Consuela replied, leaning her elbows onto the counter. “But I expect the Zagat’s people here any time now. Look, do you want something to eat or not?”

“What’s the specialty of the house?”

“Pretty much tacos,” Consuela replied as she pointed to the large menu board propped against the truck. “But I sell hot chocolate and churros as well.”

“What the bloody hell is a churro?” Avery demanded.

“Fried dough. Kind of like a doughnut.”

“No, no, no,” said Avery, shaking his head. “My arduous and lengthy journey today to obtain these rare and valuable resource materials requires much more substantial sustenance that that.”

“Monster books?” she replied smugly as she reviewed the titles on the spines of the books in his hand.

“ Compendiums of Cryptozoology , to be more precise. What kind of tacos do you serve?”

“ Pollo , carnitas ,” she said, once again pointing at the menu in front of him, “ carne asada …”

“In English!” Avery demanded.

“Chicken, pork, steak,” she drolly recited, “shredded beef, chorizo—that’s sausage to you—ground beef and vegetarian.”

“I’ll have three chicken and three steak. What do they come with?”

“Onions and cilantro. Hot sauce and limes are over there.”

“No onions on mine. You hear me? Absolutely no onions shall touch my food. They don’t react well with my digestive system. I don’t even want the meat to be cooked on the same part of the grill used to cook the onions. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Don’t worry. The onions are raw; I put them on last with the cilantro.”

“Do the onions and cilantro share the same container?”

“No.”

“Do you use the same knife to cut them?”

“Of course not,” Consuela said in mock horror as she cupped her hands to the sides of her face. “Are you crazy?”

“Very good, then, woman. I’ll have three chicken and three steak tacos to go. Oh, and one large Mountain Dew.”

“I don’t have Mountain Dew, only Coca Cola, bottled water, or Jarritos.”

“What?” Avery exclaimed. “No Mountain Dew? What kind of backwater operation are you running here?”

“I’m running a taco truck.”

“Without Pepsi products? Are you insane?”

“Look, mister, you want something to drink with your tacos or not?”

“What were my choices again?”

“Coke, water, and Jarritos,” an exasperated Consuela repeated.

“Explain Jarritos.”

“Flavored water,” she said, pointing to a row of glass bottles filled with brightly colored liquid that lined a shelf in the window of the truck.

“Absolutely not,” a repulsed Avery replied. “Probably swarming with infectious diseases from their foreign place of origin. I’ll have a Coke, if I must.”

“Okay, then,” said Consuela as she turned and placed six tortillas on the grill to warm. “One Coke, three chicken, and three steak…all with extra onions.”

“What!” screamed Avery. “You insolent wench, didn’t you hear a word…”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Consuela laughed as she added the chicken and steak to the grill. “Don’t worry,” she smiled at Avery over her shoulder, “no onions.”

Avery leaned against the side of the truck and returned to perusing his books as Consuela prepared his order.

“You want cilantro on your tacos?” Consuela asked.

“On the side.”

“You want cilantro on the side?”

“Wrapped separately.”

“Okay,” Consuela shrugged.

When the meat and tortillas were warmed through, Consuela assembled the tacos individually in small squares of tin foil, making sure to hide a small piece of onion in the filling of each one. Wrapping them up tightly, she grabbed a plastic bottle of Coke and placed the order on the counter.

“Your order is ready,” she called to Avery, smiling ever so slightly. “That’s six dollars for the tacos and a buck fifty for the coke. Seven fifty total.”

Avery closed his books and returned to the truck window counter. Reaching into his fanny pack, he retrieved his Diners Club card and placed it on the metal counter.

“I don’t take Diners Club,” said Consuela as she pushed the card back at Avery with her index finger. “Cash only,” she added, nodding in the direction of the large sign in the window that read CASH ONLY.

“Preposterous!” Avery exclaimed. “This isn’t Mexico City, you Teotihuacan chiseler! This is the United States of America, and Diners Club is accepted universally by all restaurants in all fifty states.”

“First of all,” Consuela snapped her fingers, “my family is from Monterrey, and second of all, no, it’s not!”

“Fine,” spat Avery. He retrieved his card and fished in his fanny pack for cash.

“Oh, Jesus,” said Consuela as Avery dumped handfuls of change and a few wadded-up bills on the counter.

“Please understand,” said Avery as he smoothed out four singles and began separating the coins into piles. “As soon as I’m back in my office, I plan on contacting the Better Business Bureau and lodging a formal complaint.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“There,” said Avery pushing the change and the bills across the counter and sweeping up the remaining coins and depositing them back in his fanny pack. “Seven fifty.”

“This one’s not a real coin,” Consuela said, flicking the offending bronze-colored coin back across the counter.

“It most certainly is. It’s a Canadian dollar coin, commonly known as the ‘Loonie.’ Come to think of it, given the current exchange rate with the U.S. dollar, it’s actually worth slightly more than one dollar. You owe me change.”

“The only ‘Loonie’ here is the one wearing the yellow tracksuit. Now give me another dollar, take your food, and leave.”

Avery dug back into the fanny pack and produced the necessary change. After slapping the coins down loudly on the metal counter, he gathered up his meal.