Eureka twiddled with the dials on her radio.
Fed gear, my detachable buttcheeks… Payin’ these Milo Minderbinder wannabe contractors ta cold-solder buzzwords offa Reddit ta overpriced and underperforming radios. Boondoggles thet ahr bareleh functional. Et’s a RADIO fer fahk’s sake. Should be stewpid simple.
At least her tap on the CCTV system was working. Hannah laced her fingers with Mac’s tightly for all to see as they stood off with Roger Sinclair, Madeline Sinclair, and Rusty McGuire across the linen-lined table, complete with a vase of flowers in the center of the arena, a Category 10 shitstorm brewing underneath the surface. Some place Eureka, Tar, and Gordon couldn’t bother pronouncing.
Hearing a voice behind the static in her headset, she fine-tuned one of the countless dials until her laser got a lock on the passive mic hidden under the flower vase.
“Nice work, sweetie. The fans need the dish,” Tar praised.
“Nawt a problem. I am yer favorite daughtah, aftah all,” Eureka replied before pausing for a moment. “But I have ta ask, why did yew disguise the surveillance van as a taco truck? Thiz couldn’t be eny more obvious.”
Tar and Gordon returned fire in unison on the Microsoft Teams call, deadpan and dead inside. “That’s the whole point. We want them to know that we’re watching them. It makes for funnier narrative prose.”
The quip entirely bypassed Eureka’s logic filter. “Nevah moind… I’m nawt quite sure how ta help yew wiv’ thet. Mother and Unc know best, I guess…”
Then Mac spoke up, answering Roger’s question, something about “why Hannah?” “We’re married strictly for convenience. I cook, clean, function as her heated bodypillow, rub her feet after work, and serve as her emotional and mental support, just to name a few things I do for her. In exchange, she handles the scary stuff like bad guys and taxes. Right now, I’m reading a lot of books on massage therapy so I can be a better masseuse for her. Swedish, Thai, Shiatsu, hot stones, oils… That rabbithole’s surprisingly deep, sir. Yeah, I mean sometimes we kiss but like, that’s just small change. Gotta pay the bills, Mr. Sinclair.”
Roger damn near popped a blood vessel in his eye, clenching his Evan Williams and soda with such force that Eureka saw his rocks glass flex from the low-res CCTV feed.
Madeline was more of a fan, clasping her hands together in marvel. “Aww, he’s a sweetheart Rog. No wonder Hannah always talks about him over the phone. Cheer up a little! Making that face ages you by twenty years, dear.”
Rusty just coughed out a chuckle, rocking his wheelchair back a couple inches.
Eureka, Tar, and Gordon all howled loud enough for the esteemed patrons of Chez Jusfourlaf Gages to overhear them across the parking lot.
The table quaked in anticipation for the next few lines of parental interrogation.
It was Rusty’s turn to roll the devil’s die in this twisted party game modern society called “Meet the Parents.” “So Mac, how did you two meet?”
“No lie, I just ran into her on the street. She was in a huge rush but we locked eyes. Next thing you know, we were sitting in some old diner talking about how exactly we got there sharing the same space and time. I must’ve made a good first impression on her because by the end of the night, we were pinkie swearing some pretty big secrets. Entered a business partnership right then and there. Two weeks later, she said she just couldn’t live without me after we slow danced to some old country ballad in the living room. Got married a week after that. Professional reasons, of course,” Mac spun, gesturing wildly with his free hand.
Roger relit his fuse, visibly twitching now. “Locked eyes? Sitting in an old diner? PINKIE SWEARING?! YOU SLOW DANCED WITH MY DAUGHTER TWO WEEKS AFTER YOU MET, YOU DENSE PRICK! That’s clearly romantic! Will you two please just ADMIT that you’re in love? Hannah dear, please take it easy on your father. You KNOW my heart’s bad. At least let me pay for a big fat wedding…”
Hannah shortchanged her father with a demure, toothless grin. “Oh, c’mon Dad. Why can’t you accept that we’re just married for convenience? We’re totally happy with how things turned out at the clerk-recorder’s office!” She turned to Mac, gazing lovingly into his eyes.
Fat-fingering the wrong button, Gordon turned the PA on in the restaurant.
“…We’ll keep you updated about yesterday’s fire and explosion at Dr. Stern’s Mountain Retreat for Dysfunctional Couples as more details emerge. This is KCBS 740.”
Mac and Hannah whipped around to face each other and snorted.
“Ah, fuck. Wrong button.” Gordon found the switch he meant to press and toggled it with prejudice, making the taco truck bounce on its lowrider trick suspension as Tar and Eureka rolled on their workstation floors dying of laughter.
---
The conversation inside Chez Jusfourlaf Gages ground away as the taco truck jived to the horns and strings of “Si No Quieres No” by Luis R. Conriquez and Neton Vega.
Ah, good ol’ narcocorridos… Wait… why dew I hear a crowd outside?
Through the taco truck’s slatted blinds, Eureka spotted a small crowd of bougie-looking dinner refugees, seemingly waiting for the truck to open for business, tired of the pretense and oppressive ambiance of Chez Jusfourlaf Gages. Even the petit-rich had their limits of Bay Area-branded tastelessness.
“Mum, Gordo. We’ve got a problem! These dick’eads actualleh think we’re an authentic taco truck! Mix the watermelon-mint frescas! Start shaving the al pastor! Get the nopales cooking! We need tacos, stat!”
Tar and Gordon shouted back in horrified laughter as they watched Mac THUMP back his seventh gin and tonic. “A little busy here! One more round of Q-and-A and we’ll get right to it. Open up and start taking orders. Ojos y Oídos IS a real taco truck.”
Eureka multithreaded the two tasks, watching Roger continue down his list of questions with 32,767 of her 32,768 cores—each one unwittingly engineered for maximum self-inflicted emotional damage from candor’s blowback—while opening the shutters and taking the first few orders with the measly remainder of her compute.
Roger raged, leaning over the table and almost toppling the flower vase. “Mac. Hannah. You both keep saying it’s for convenience, but you two are clearly in love. Why don’t you all just admit it?!”
Overhearing this, the live band’s trumpeter coughed on a routine circular breath, missing the high note to “Oye Cómo Va” by Tito Puente. The evening’s serenades came to a screeching, painful, shameful halt.
Mac hugged Hannah tighter and smugged behind his mirrored lenses—glasses on, already in her lap since the second gin and tonic. “Just because we’re married and we’re doing this to serve our cover identities? No, we’re just consummate professionals, Mr. Sinclaaaair. Those are some WILD accusations, mayne.”
“COVER IDENTITIES?! CONSUMMATE?!” Roger thundered, crushing his rocks glass in his fist, his immortal indignation making him ignore the huge shards now embedded into his palm.
Hannah just squeezed back and smirked, doubling Roger’s smile dose in an instant.
These fahkin’ idiots… BAHAHAHAHAHA!
Gordon dad-chuckled as he prepared the first few tacos al pastor with salsa, onions, and cilantro while Tar accidentally spiked the watermelon-mint G FUEL pseudofrescas with a little too much Corazón Reposado and Tajín as she also busted a gut watching the feed, slowing down the evening’s service by Eureka’s estimate, 32%. Not that that mattered much. The crowd was plenty entertained by the portable televisions beside the order window: one blasting Mac and Hannah’s antics and the other beaming live from Mexico City a riotous late-season edition of the Clásico Joven from Estadio Azteca. Mac and Hannah were winning the argument outnumbered. So were Cruz Azul against Club América, 5-2 up and down to nine men just coming into the half, but the real faithful always knew how that went. Cruzazulear was a way of life.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“?Eh! Turn it up, güey—the ma?tre d’s about to go nuclear on papá!” a customer shouted.
Eureka happily obliged. On the other television, the referee pipped his whistle twice: a long blow from his lungs followed by a short one from his puffed cheeks to signal the end of the first half.
---
The crowd at the taco truck mostly ignored the next four red cards and the next four goals, all by América, in favor of watching the other television. Even with Cruz Azul cruzazuleando, there were more pressing matters at hand.
“OUT. This isn’t Applebee’s, you… You uncultured SWINE! Go take your trashy family dynamics to somewhere where it’s actually appreciated! Like Applebee’s…” the frowning ma?tre d trailed off, rerunning the numbers on her final answer before locking it in.
“On second thought, Applebee’s is too classy an establishment to take your SHIT. Try the taco truck across the parking lot.”
Eureka giggled as she took the next order, the gag interrupting her cashier process.
“Shit, what was I gonna order?” the customer asked, before taking another beat to process what the ma?tre d said.
The customer’s cybernetic lenses flashed a bunch of complicated math and green text: freezing raindrops falling into the infinite void.
“WAIT. THIS IS ALL LIVE AND UNSCRIPTED?!”
“If I remember correctleh, yew wanted a couple tacos al pastor, a couple tacos de nopales, and one spiked watermelon-mint fresca. Wiv’ regards ta yer second question, I’m nawt quite sure how ta help yew wiv’ thet.” Eureka guessed, not having enough memory and compute dedicated to customer service to answer her second question.
The crowd around the chips and salsa bar under the order counter turned around, eyes now glued to the front door of Chez Jusfourlaf Gages. It swung open. Framed in the light of the doorway, Hannah blushed as she carried Mac face to face, his legs wrapped around her waist like a human koala. Beside them, Roger held a cloth napkin to his hand while Madeline gushed over how cute Mac and Hannah looked together. Rusty just struggled to not fall out of his wheelchair laughing. Bouncers unceremoniously shoved all of the merry punters out.
An otherworldly amount of fanfare ensued, drowning out the groans of the few diehards still watching the fútbol. The fourth official indicated for twenty-three additional minutes to be played.
“YOOOOOOOOOOO!” a tipsy college kid beckoned.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! From somewhere in the crowd, a vuvuzela blared.
Some catty uncles and aunties followed up with a grito, caught in the spirit of Taco Tuesday. “?AY AY AY AY AY!”
The customer took it all in, finally accepting—but not regretting—that she’d moved from Iowa City only weeks ago. “Sure. That sounds about right.”
“Yeah, this is just what Bay Area people do. When in Rome, I guess,” she concluded.
Hannah and the rest of her exiled table sailed full steam ahead across the parking lot to safe harbor.
A drunk Mac unwittingly asked Hannah on another date, as was his nature to do so. “Darlin’, I smell tacos! And I hear fútbol! Chez was a total rip-off and your dad got me hella turnt. Let’s get some. Need something else in my stomach other than that ‘deconstructed risotto.’ That was a grain of rice with a single molecule of cheese on it.”
Hannah glared at Roger for a millisecond before kissing Mac on the cheek. “Sure, Babyboy. I’m pretty hungry myself. This whole ‘meet the parents’ thing was a total bust.”
So Hannah’s table all ordered tacos. A quick play to save a dinner that was blown from the beginning of the evening. In 21 drunken minutes, they all had their plates and were perched on their own parking blocks as they watched the rest of stoppage time.
After smashing his plate of tacos, even licking his fingers to clean up, Roger grumbled, awkwardly managing to swipe at his sweaty forehead with his jacket sleeve while holding steady pressure on his wounded paw with the bloody cloth napkin. “Hannah, sweetheart. I’m just worried about how you’ll look at your high school reunion coming up on Saturday. You KNOW Mt. Ham Prep is full of status-obsessed knuckleheads always looking for an easy one-up.”
“Aww Rog, you’re always doting on her. She’ll be just fine,” Madeline reassured, rubbing his shoulders.
Hannah’s Truthseer lenses bugged out at the mention of her upcoming high school reunion. “Wait… WHAT?! That’s this weekend?”
Mac snuggled up to his wife some more. “Aw, chill Cheryl. We’ll be fine. It was about time to come back from our honeymoon anyways.”
Eureka pinged Tar with glee. “Mum, new plot hook! A lot of Hannah’s cohort conveniently work at CG&E now!”
Tar and Gordon high-fived each other. “Nice work, dear. I knew the taco truck was the right disguise. I told you that this would make for funnier narrative prose.”
“?GOOOOOOOOOOOL!” The television by the counter piped up, eliciting a raucous roar from the taco truck crowd.
Cruz Azul had stopped their choking, as if to stand in for Roger’s now-smirking visage. Shortly after they scored to draw level at 6-6, the referee blew his whistle three times to bring this chapter of the Clásico Joven to a fitting conclusion. The Cruz Azul and América players both collapsed from exhaustion on the pitch, fighting back tears as if to say “All that just to share a point apiece…”
Si No Quieres No - Luis R Conriquez, Neton Vega
Oye Como Va - Tito Puente
