That CrunchTada Feeling
It’s the name of the game.
At 2 AM there is a Del Taco box, heavy with manna. It sits on a boy outfitted as Oscar the Grouch. He’s come here ready to consume.
The “Del” life is full of scenes such as this. Vignettes of time and place mixed with marijuana, always ending up at the same place, the red sign a vivid reminder of your current locale. You have driven here, and you will stay here until the box sits on your lap, warm and caloric. You’ve ordered the Fiesta Pack.
Hands grasp the wheel as you approach the glowy menu. The Del makes everything easy. Simple. Your order is numbered, the deals obvious. The voice on the other side asking for your order is twee, with entry-level chirp.
“May I take your order?”
Take it! Take it now!
The line moves languidly. Hands reach for hands as you receive your fiesta. Wheels turn, acids of anticipation swirl in your little mortal stomach. Money is given in exchange for goods. You can’t wait for this mastication.
The whole thing is a process, honestly. You unwrap, unfold, and caress. Diced tomatoes fall with grace, your Tostada, with a capital “T”, a means to an end. Hand to mouth, mouth to hand. Not rocket science, but totally difficult.
Despair mixed with trepid agitation when you finish, curious of your bodies nano or mammoth reaction. You wish you could hold your sweet mother’s hand, dream of her soft leather couch to curl up on. But you have the warmth of this meal, and it is okay. It is going to be okay.
