I come bearing another creation based on a Writer’s Digest writing prompt.

I call it Rancho…

People thought I was crazy. They didn’t understand how I could eat Rancho Taquito every day. Having worked as a chef with a partner company, I knew the restaurant’s secrets. Unfortunately for everyone else, I wasn’t able to tell anyone. All I can say is that it’s not as bad as they think.

An ambulance siren sang on this sunny afternoon in Palm Beach. Being from New York, I learned to ignore them. Right now, I was craving a Guaquito like no other, so I turned up the radio and sped down the street past brightly colored buildings and some trees.

When I rolled up to the box, convertible-top down, I gazed at the menu. A minute later, I heard a familiar voice say, “Welcome to Rancho Taquito. What can I get for you?”

“Hey Randy,” I said. “I’ll have a Guaquito con queso, Ranchito Burrito extra spicy and Jalapeño Nachos.” I paused. “Yea, I think that covers all the food groups.”

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the Fleetwood Mac song on the radio. Randy was taking too long to respond to confirm my order, so I turned the music down, leaned out of the car and was taken by surprise when the sound box came back on.

“Hey Booger, can you cover for the new girl at all this week?” that was the manager, Leroy.

“You serious?” Booger shouted.

“Yea, man,” Leroy yelled. “Girl got bit by a shark!”

I was astounded. Sure, I knew most of the staff personally, but the new girl was my girlfriend Shandra – she’d just accepted a position as a part-time chef at the restaurant. And I hadn’t heard a thing about a shark bite. The blue Honda behind me honked its horn.

“Yo, Randy!” I said into the box. “What’s up?”

“That’ll be eight-fifty, Mr. Rhodes,” Randy said, in his usual bored tone. “Please drive up to the window.”

I think my eye twitched as I accelerated. I hoped they were going to talk to me there.

“What’s up?” Randy asked. Nothing. He was a pale-faced, perpetually uninterested 23-year-old who hadn’t gotten over his acne, yet.

Leroy came to the window. “Hey Joe,” he said, smiling sympathetically. “Food’s on the house today.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, not concerned with my Guaquito.  “What’s going on with Shandra?”

“Oh,” Leroy scratched his head. “You don’t know. You should probably go to the hospital.” He tossed my food out of the drive-thru window and closed it as the bag landed in my lap.

Disturbed by how detached everyone seemed, I drove out of the parking lot toward the hospital down the street. I’d seen shark attacks on the news, but wasn’t prepared to handle one.

I walked, timid and shaky, into the emergency room.

“There was a lot of blood,” the nurse said.

It was a while before they let me see her but when she showed me the gashes, I said, “That’s gonna be a sexy scar.”

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