LIAH #1125

This is a work of fiction, any similarity or likeness to any events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The Burrito Kitchen
By Andrew Southard

I
I'm tired. The Q-Train isn't coming. It's fucking hot in this subway. I'm not sure what the worst part about summer in New York City is, but it's arguably sweating your balls off waiting for the subway. That just about takes the cake. The heat is not only uncomfortable but is making me more tired than I am already. Fuck this.
As I sit on the train, I'm trying to start this 600 page novel about the draft riots ala Gangs of New York. Maybe that's not the best decision in the world, but I've been putting off this book for a while. It looks interesting, but committing to 600 pages? That's serious, but if not now though, then when. WHEN?! WILL THE BOOK EVER BE OPENED?!
And it begins.


II
Canal St, next stop, work. Dammit, I'm still not feeling any less tired than I was a half hour ago. Of course not. I've got 5 pages left to go in this chapter. Can I beat the clock? This is actually starting to get somewhat good.
Nope. 14th Street the Square of Union. Time for another night in the burrito kitchen. Let's do this.
I wrote down this quote from Fitzgerald the other day. It's really good, and I think pretty much sums up how I feel about my job. It's from a short story of his called The Four Fists, which is in a collection of short stories called Flappers and Philosophers.
“Do you fellows love Wall Street?” he said hoarsely, “or wherever you do your dirty scheming.” He paused. “I suppose you do. No critter gets so low that he doesn't sort of love the place he's worked where he's sweated out the best he's had in him.”
Quality stuff. And, yes, well put. I'm not quite John Tavares who gets to sweat out the best he has in him for the New York Islanders and guide them to the promised land of a Stanley Cup Championship, no. I'm Andrew Southard and I sweat out the best I have in me while rolling burritos for overprivileged Manhattanites, hopefully guiding the Front of House staff to the end of the night. For now, emphasis on for now, it's all I got.
I go into that place almost every day, usually on the night shift, and try to pull together a night. There's a line out the door for arguably the best burrito in New York City, it's then time realize that you have to make that shit happen. I'm not going to say it's exactly an enormous or pressing pride, but it's a pride none the less.
Maybe pride isn't even the right word. The more I write about this “pride” the more it's actually making me sick. Don't worry, this is just practice for mastering the art of kicking ass. Right? No, not really. It's just rolling burritos. That's about it.
Well. Here I am. Do I take the exit towards 14th St. Union SQ WEST and get to enjoy my last leisurely walk, or do I try and make it as early as I can to work.
It's 4:16. I'll take the walk.
Getting out of the subway from this exit is always nice. It's fresh. It's not the morning, therefore the lady handing out free newspapers isn't there to scream in your face. For about 5 minutes I'm taking a stroll in the park like anyone else, but before you know it, there she is. Not the woman handing out free newspapers. It's another beast entirely.
The Burrito Kitchen. Staring me in the face. Gametime.

III
My boss, Jack, the owner of The Burrito Kitchen, is in the customer area. We had a strange exchange while entering the store, about forty-five seconds ago. As I was walking down the block, I noticed someone looking a lot like Jack, cutting the street ahead of me and entering the store. Does he see me? I'm maybe about the length of two people behind him, but I mean what am I supposed to do in this situation. For a second I consider turning my walk into a light jog to catch up, or maybe give a loud, “HEY JACK”, but I decide those both really aren't options I want to explore at this time. Does he really not see me? What the hell is he doing at our store anyway. It's the beginning of the night shift, this is a rare appearance for him. The night shift is where the shit hits the fan, and someone of Jack's stature stays far away from a fan full of shit. What's going on?
Jack is by the garbage area, wiping it down with a napkin. God dammit, the fucking garbage area is always a mess Jack. It's your fault too, for installing those new upside down metal cones above the trash. Yes, it's as confusing and meaningless as it sounds. Our garbage area, instead of a normal garbage system you see at any conventional seating area, is guarded by two upside down metal cones to avoid our nickel a piece trays from going in. There's about a shred of logic behind this construction project of their's, but beyond that shred it's just plain stupid for two reasons. One, the trash piles up frequently and quickly into a nice bushel of trash. No pampered Manhattanite wants to push in their trash if it's starting to pile up. This also leaves the garbage area just plain nasty looking with guac stains and dried beer everywhere. It looks like a fucking mess, and here is Jack trying to wipe it down with a napkin.
“Hey Jack.”
He gives me a cold glance, “Can you go turn off the music.”
“Alright.”
Turn off the music? This is YOUR shitty playlist Jack consisting of Sublime and some other crappy douche music. I don't get it, but whatever. And what's with that cold glance Jack. I just got here man. My shift literally hasn't even started yet, and already Jack is fucking stressing me out. Either way, I head to the back of The crammed Burrito Kitchen, to put down my bag. The Burrito Kitchen is about the equivalent of a long hallway, with a Burrito Kitchen inside. There are no air conditioners.

1. Sweating your balls off waiting for the subway.
2. The overwhelming and probably illegal +100 degree heat of the burrito kitchen.

After saying hello to my fellow workers I make it to the back of the hallway. I put down my bag, and start to get settled. Here we go, another night shift. Let's just try to ease our way into this. Wait a second, what the hell is Jack doing under the counter. He's walking back here. Jack hasn't walked back here since 'nam. I really hope he doesn't want to talk to me again. Shit, here he comes.
“Andrew, I need you to get on assembler immediately.”
“Uh, what? Ok?”
He scatters off.
What's going on. I mean, there's, let's see what about five, maybe 6 people in line? It's a line, but it's being dealt with. Why can't he wait about five fucking minutes, then yeah Jack, I'll hop on the line. I'll roll the fuck out of those burritos and make way too much money for you tonight. Get off my ass. What the fuck. I mean Ernie is rolling right now, and yeah I know he's not that great, but it's the beginning of the shift Jack. Let the kid get some rolls in. Let me put my fucking bag down and throw some god damn water on my face. I guess this means I don't have time to put on my no longer floor gripping Shoes For Crews. Lawsuit's on you buddy.
Shane, that crazy fuck, is walking back here. Hopefully he can switch out the cash drawer, because obviously there's no time for that.
“Bruins opening night. Going.”
“Nice. Can't wait for hockey season.”
“Fuckin-A.”
“Hey are you working tonight? Someone needs to switch the drawer, I have to go on assembler? I don't know.”
“Nope, not working tonight.”
“Ok.”
Shit. I'm going to have to just change out this drawer quick, give it to Martin to count, I guess that'll work out.
Whatever. The exchange happens. I head on assembler. Time to roll some burritos. 5 minutes down, about 7 hours to go. Lovely.
My burrito's are coming out nice, so much so that I forget that I'm still tired, and I wish I had some coffee. That glory lasted about three, no wait, five minutes, damn. 4:40.
This asshole is screaming on his phone at the front door.
“I'm at The Burrito Kitchen. The BURRITO KITCHEN. I SAID I'M AT THE BURRITO KITCHEN.”
I turn to James at the steamer.
“Look at this fucking guy.”
“I SAID I'M AT THE BURRITO KITCHEN.”
James is laughing his ass off.
Is this dude really that hammered? It's only 5:00. Wait it's 5:00? Nice. Maybe he's just a little slow or something. Who knows. Whatever. The burritos are starting to build up, time to focus for 30 seconds.
“Do you want salsa?”
“I don't want anything hot.”
“Only our hot sauce is hot. Do you want salsa?”
“Is it hot?”
“Only our hot sauce is hot. It has tomatoes and onions, it's good. Take it.”
“Ok.”
“Guacamole?”
“Is it extra?”
“It's a dollar extra, but it's extra good, so you're coming out on top in the end.”
I hate myself, but that does always give me a good laugh.
“Ok.”
“Hot sauce, sour cream?”
The word hot obviously repulses this customer, as they shake their hand and head to the register immediately, refusing to talk to me anymore. I go through this set of questioning for about a couple hours. It takes about maybe 5 or 6 different turns, maybe, in a night, but usually the same ordeal. Sometimes I throw in a joke or two. If someone is wearing a Yankees shirt I'll try to talk them up about the game. Besides that though, hundreds of customers, and the same three questions.
“Salsa?”
“Guacamole?”
“Hot sauce, sour cream?”
“Salsa?”
“Guacamole?”
“Hot sauce, sour cream?”
“Salsa?”
“Guacamole?”
“Is it hot?”
“Yes we serve spicy guacamole here.”
We don't serve spicy guacamole, and I didn't say that. Instead, it was my classic, “nothing's spicy except the hot sauces.” Yeah, no shit.
That dude screaming on the phone is now waiting in line. I guess his friend didn't meet up with him, or he's eating early.
He orders a cheese quesadilla, thankfully normally. He's chatting it up with James about something, I don't really care. He seems irritated though. Seriously, this dude must be really drunk. He's talking about “long-haired people being refused service at places.” Quite frankly he looks pissed, he's not smiling at all. This is just plain weird. He needs to just get his fucking quesadilla and leave. We go through the salsa-guacamole-hot sauce sour cream conversation quickly, and this dude seems out of here.
After taking a look at the tip sign, he rips off a piece of his quesadilla and puts it in the tip jar. What the fuck is that, is this dude serious? That's not even funny that's just being a dick.
Jim, at the register, turns to me.
“Did he just do that?”
“Yeah, I don't know. Just throw it out I don't know what is up with this guy.”
“Throw it out?”
“Yeah, just, whatever.”
Looking back, I think Jim was fucking with me by asking me again, “Throw it out?”
The dude leaves to go sit in the back. He's starting to harass customers. He's yelling something at them, I can't tell what it is.
He's starting to walk around the store, yelling at people about his quesadilla. Seriously, what the fuck is this. Why is this shit happening now. I just started my shift about half an hour ago and this guy is being a fucking prick. This douche-bag. Let me explain said douche-bag. Said douche-bag has long hair and a beard, and is wearing a flannel shirt. There definitely is this pampered look to him though, he didn't just roll out of bed. Douche-bag kind of looks like some college piece of shit. Now, as a student of a college it's quite hypocritical for me to say, “college piece of shit.” But for some reason no four words seem more fitting for this guy than “college piece of shit.” There's this dazed look in his eyes, he seems too upset to be drunk. I don't know what the fuck is going on.
Ok, now he's by our register, and he's looking at the hand sanitzer we provide. He can't possibly be serious. How fucked up is this guy, there's no way he thinks the hand sanitzer is some kind of sauce. There's just no way. And, yeah, there he goes. He put the hand sanitzer on his quesadilla.
“Wait, this isn't hot sauce.”
You fucking serious? Are you fucking serious guy? You are a complete and total retard and quite frankly you're wasting my time. Get the fuck out of here.
“Yeah that's hand sanitizer.”
He doesn't laugh about it, he just looks really upset.
“I want another one!”
I really don't feel like arguing right now.
“Yeah whatever man.”
Now he turns to the customer area.
“Who wants a cheese quesadilla? WHO WANTS A CHEESE QUESADILLA?”
Ok, asshole. You've officially crossed the point of no return. As a manager of the Burrito Kitchen, when it comes to asshole customers, they get about three strikes. This dude's had maybe seven and now he's officially a problem. God dammit, this is the worst part.
My fellow manager of the “Back Of House”, Rick, is about as miserable as I am that this is happening at barely five fucking o'clock.
“Hey, Rick? What, the fuck, do I do here?”
“You want me to do something?”
The asshole is now drinking out of the soda fountain with his mouth. You don't fucking do that guy. Is he on drugs? Seriously, who has to be this fucked up to pull this kind of shit? Rick heads out there, and grabs his arm.
“Let's go man.”
“Don't TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH ME!”
Fuck, this is getting physical. I turn to Martin, who emerges from the back.
“Martin, go to the firehouse and tell them we have a problem here.”
I really fucking hope this doesn't escalate before Martin comes back. It seems to be escalating every two seconds though. And as every two seconds go by, those are two seconds that Martin hasn't come back with support from the FDNY. It should have taken him about 30 seconds, and we're way past 30 seconds at this point.
“Jim, the fuck man! Can you go see where the fuck Martin is!”
“Yeah of course.”

IV
This is where things start getting nasty. Rick has unsuccessfully forced this guy out of the customer area, and he keeps looking at me like he's ready to lay this fucker out. As much as I want to see that right now, we just can't do that. Right? Rick is keeping his distance. It's a mexican standoff of sorts.
Jim comes back.
“Jim! What the fuck man! Where's Martin!”
Jim looks confused.
“This is MTV man.”
Wait, what?
“Yeah Jack's out there, with some guys. This is some MTV show. They want me to sign something.”
Said douche-bag is looking at me. I'm looking at said douche-bag while Jim is telling me this.
“Are you fucking serious?”
MTV. Are you fucking kidding me. MTV, of ALL THE FUCKING CHANNELS, decided they wanted to fuck with me. Oh baby, that's a can of worms like none other that's just been opened. I could go on all day about how much I despise MTV and everything they stand for. We're talking about the channel that now only plays reality TV. The channel that turned it's back on the music video for the jersey shore.
“Is this some MTV shit? Are you serious? Are you serious man?”
Said douche-bag is still just giving me a dazed look.
“MTV. Really. MTV shit?”
I'm having trouble putting words together.
“Hey, hey...HEY, what I want to know is why doesn't MTV play any good shows anymore? What happened to the music video? Can you answer me that man? Why did MTV stop playing music videos? I want to know. I really want to know! MTV? MTV. Fuck. FUCK MTV MAN.”
I throw off my gloves in anger and run outside, seeing if Jack really is out there. Yep, he is, with a stupid fucking look on his face. Are you kidding me.
“Is this some MTV shit Jack?”
“I'm really sorry, I thought it was going to be funny.”
“Funny?”
Some piece of shit reality TV show producer throws a clipboard in my face.
“Hey man, can you sign this?”
“Hey man, can you get the fuck out of my face?”
I grab his clipboard and throw it like a frisbee down the street. I take his fucking pen and stab it in his god damn neck. I tell Jack to go fuck himself and hand him my apron. I then proceed to said-douche bag and punch him square in the balls. I then knee him in the face, feeling his nose crack open against my knee. There's blood everywhere.
I do none of this. I sign the fucking waiver release form. I'm a fraud, a sell-out. I'm a pushover to my boss. I'm everything I don't want to be. I'm a pack-mule. I walk inside the Burrito Kitchen and do nothing. It's 6:00. Fuck my life.

V
Jack apologized a million times. Well no Jack, don't be sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you took a dump on the trust of your workers the day MTV came to The Burrito Kitchen. I don't know what you were thinking. I really don't.
Well, as they say, same as it ever was. I roll my burritos, I ask my three questions and I call it a day.
“Salsa?”
“Guacamole?”
“Hot sauce, sour cream?”
“Salsa?”
“Guacamole?”
“Hot sauce, sour cream?”
Same as it ever was.