Help Me Love Again

Let it not be said by our progeny that this generation was without merit. The New gig economy in my town invited anyone to become a Dine-N-Dash driver. 

The prerequisite is that you have to have been a wheelman for at least one successful larceny. You must prove that your tool of motion (car, turbo skateboard, etc) has at least a fifty percent chance of evading law enforcement. Some people go all out and order a custom 1500-horsepower Trackhawk with the modifications by Hennessy. Me? I have a 68-mile-per-hour scooter which is barely visible in the dead of night. 

Honk honk.

It's important that a Dashing Diner and driver are in full synchronicity. The family of our Greek restaurant will actually follow the dasher out with cleaver knives and bolas. For these reasons I tell them that I am around the corner, “the northeast corner” and if the Dasher can't figure out simple directions I am going to document their stupidity and upload a claim form. It is important to get paid before people try to make bail. 

Now the other day, I was picking up a Dasher in front of our oldest Taqueria. That is to say, I was going to have the electronic engine ready, gear 4, but I noticed that the neighbor to the Taqueria is a pothead edible shop with all the security and bouncers. So I texted the Dasher: I'll be waiting over in front of the casino with my hoodie. 

The Dasher got a little off-focused when I mentioned the Marina Cardroom. “Do they have Texas Hold-em?”

WTF? I texted them to stay focused. “Don't do crime if you have a gambling problem. You ready?”

I took the scooter off its kickstand and got ready. Sure enough, the Dasher came out with pico de Gallo all over their shirt. The owner, whose name is Connie and names dishes like “Connie Fajitas,” “Connie Con Carne” etc. – Connie comes out throwing peppermint candies at the Dasher and can’t believe she is getting robbed even though everyone says her food is very good.

The Dasher runs past the edible shop, crosses a street without lights, and becomes this flickering shadow despite the magnificent glare of the casino. I'm making engine revving noises with my mouth “vroom vroom” (you know, to be thematic) and this guy just races right past me until the glow of the casino is like an alien spaceship with a tractor-beam light. I see this slob go right into the card room and doesn't even acknowledge his search and rescue team. That's me. 

My buddies all say “Dine-n-Dashers are terrible tippers.” I didn't mention that I can get my scooter going so fast that they piss their pants. I slow down to a jumpy twenty or thirty miles an hour so they can tip before I let them off. It's all about the ambiance. 

Some of the ladies try to hold on tight. I can appreciate that they are very scared for their life. I can appreciate that they may not actually be good criminals but prefer a little excitement in a small town. Does this mean they have to hold onto my boxer briefs? I mean the wedgie pressure becomes intolerable and I cannot take the corners or jump the railroad tracks without dangerous hesitations. One Lady says, “You can take me all the way home if you’d like” And I'm struggling with a scrotum that has been pushed up into the digestion tract. It is painful to tell her that I must be a constant professional while hunched over with a form of hernia or venus flow blockage.

She says, “Can I ask for you again?”

And I have to say “The app will always give you the closest driver.”

I wanted so bad to go to the clinic AND SHE WOUDN'T LEAVE! 

“What if I give you my home number. Maybe we could Dine-N-Dash together sometime. Do you like bulgogi?”

Now a Korean BBQ is one of the harder places to Dash from and I'm starting to get the suspicion that this woman actually wants me to pay 40$ a person of my sorely earned driver dollars. 

She's fluttering the long eyelashes and looking all demure in that skirt. Yeah, she's the kind to order a glass of Screaming Eagle Cabernet which does not pair well with kimchi and fish sauce. She's got pouty lips like she could just shame a manager into comping her meal cause the broccoli was undercooked. 

But I say, “Sure, why not.” Because I am a hot-blooded American male. Because you can drive ten felons all night and never have a decent conversation on a scooter. Even with their mouth so close to your ears, the bleating wind pushes up collars to flap and the road base makes grunts at every divot. I tell you it's lonely being a getaway driver. We agreed to meet the following night. 

I talk her into meeting me at Smash Burger. It's one of those reinterpretation restaurants. The ones who argue they have made the hamburger better than all the millions of hamburger stands in the world. The burger is so good you have to smash it from standing proud. Also, you don't get any food until you've paid for your order. 

I arrive ten minutes early, pay for my smashed burger and a shake, and take their plastic tent number 26. It had absolutely no numerological significance, in case the woman was a hippie. She was not going to goad me into star signs and horoscopes. We weren't going to talk about the stupid numerology of the Torah or how the movie PI claimed that a Mong chip could break the stock market. I already decided we was going to bond over crime. 

Yep, she came in five minutes early and didn't see me sitting down at a table. I saw her go up to the counter, bend over the counter, and whisper something to the order taker. What was her con? She wasn't wearing anything too girly, just those parachute pants with all the pockets, a hoodie sweater, and a small loot purse with mace on the string. Her shoes were Reebok trainers which are harder to remember than Socone. Everyone seems to forget that the Brits haven't won a foot race since we sent them fleeing out of Washington. Her hair was in an army beret. 

The guy at the counter gave her a thumbs up and a glass of ice water. She stood by the door peering around every corner. I came from behind her leaving the number tent on the table. 

“I got here early.”

She jumps. I don't remember her name because the app makes Dashers come up with criminal names. If you haven't decided upon a good criminal name they ask “What was the name of the first street you lived on?” And then “What did your dog eat last night for dinner?” They put the two words together. You might be Carmel Bits, Elm Tuna, or a combination of random possibilities. 

“Real name's Tommy. How's you'z?”

The date is shocked that I am using my real name and takes a gulp. Then she comes forward and tries a fake giggle. “Tanya. I'm good.”

I tell her I'm all ready. If she wants to get in the line we can meet at the table. 

”You already paid and ordered and everything?”

 Seems like she's getting nervous because I already paid for my share. 

So I tell her, “Look, Tanya, I'm not trying to get in your pants so if you want some food….there's the order line.”

Then I turn and sit down. You have to be very stern like this when you're dating felons. Last thing you know, your date has signed you up to get welfare benefits before you even kiss. This one time a Dasher said they had to get off the scooter to use the restroom. I waited ten minutes and they never came back. Uploaded another claim form. 

So Tanya is trying to figure out if she's gonna use a credit card, which is evidence, or a prepaid card, which is still attached to a security camera, or a cell phone. She's trying to do the math for combination meals versus burger only versus the amount of cash she has in her bag. I looked down and my burger was slid by tray into the trough section of the table. It looks ok except a bunch of burger tenderers is leering around my table like they have nothing better to do. 

“What gives?”

One of the larger burger tenderers says, “We heard you were a food critic. So we just wanted to come over and get your take.”

I look at Tanya who seems very excited. 

I take a bite. There is no discernable sauce of saliva or extra condiments which should be under a blue light. I open the bun. The pickles seem kosher and the lettuce looks firm and crunchy. The fries on the side of the burger are probably dipped in ice water. They have the texture of Cheetos or tempura. The ketchup says “house blend” but I know it's just generic Heintz. 

Tanya comes over and gives the kitchen staff a smile for good luck. I put my lips over the sharp green straw. It probably rips out part of the mouth ceiling but I can't complain because they think I'm a professional. The chunks of the strawberry are too big for the straw. I suck and suck until my head is going white/red/blue in lack of counter-suckage oxygen. The chunks of berry have clogged up the straw and I remove the straw from my lips and push it on the side. 

“Sorry.”

The staff looks panicked. Like they actually had food pride, like they really wanted to know how to become better burger Smashers and purveyors of chunky strawberry frozen emulsifiers. Tanya bounces down beside me while I am beating my heart to unstick from all the burger fat and tracheal inhalation. Felt like someone poured concrete down there. 

I motioned for a glass of water because I wasn't choking but I could get a little slime down the proper pipe. Tanya actually moved her water away from my groping hand. She ignored my gasps for air from the lungs stopped working. Then Tanya said it was time and all the burger people started singing….

Happy Anniversary to you….

     Happy Anniversary to you!

           Happy anniversary T &T Ploddings….

                   Happy anni-versary to youuuuuuuu~

When it was done, everyone in the restaurant clapped and I fell forward with the knowledge that my heart hadn't really stopped but probably had a cardiac version of brain freeze. It felt like concrete inside. 

Tanya came around and checked my forehead. Her left arm felt it out while her right hand went down and did the ugly. Didn't matter that I only brought out fourteen dollars and had spent most of that in the combo meal. She found the emergency credit card. She yelled for an ambulance. 

The manager came over and tried to hug me to life with a bear grip. My arms went way over my head and by the small slits in the swollen eyes I could see Tanya go around the register counter. The entire restaurant was watching me croak. Someone screamed, “PUT HIM OVER YOUR KNEE AND PUSH…. Like a baby.”

I was out over the Manager's knee and he pushed. He pushed and pushed until my lunch came out of the back hatch. 

Someone screamed, “Get a pen and stab his throat!” My entire town watches way too many sitcoms. The manager had the closest pen ready and he he ripped the ink cartridge away from the spring using his mouth. Then he tried taking the blunt half of the pen and stabbed my throat as hard as he could. This was really a large man committed to burger love and fat. He put all of his weight on the blunt end of the pen until I was told my trachea collapsed. 

Now in these harsh times of traffic jams and throat hoses with a kink… someone might scream “Give him a colostomy bag!” I have never heard if this works on Myth Busters though you _can_ get drunk ten minutes faster by an alcohol enema. The manager turned me over, dropped my pants, saw or smelt my lunch, and gave up his hero complex. I am told that there is no permanent damage for up to eight minutes if you fall through ice.

Unfortunately, the ambulance needed nine minutes though they lived directly across the street. Tanya got to ride all the way to Community Hospital of Monterey, pretending to cry and that we had a great love, her and I. 

I found out later that she called my buddy, Russ, to be her getaway driver from the hospital. He remembered her after four months of my rehabilitation because she didn't tip and then he scratched his head and said, “I think she was flirting pretty good with me and we were supposed to go out. In fact, I don't know if I ever got paid.”

It hurt too much to ask if he put in a claim form. Russ was one of the only people who visited anyway so I didn't really want to push the issue. 

Now after the hospital, the bills, and the admission by Russel who had failed as a man and a driver – I took it upon myself to spend the next few years tracking this woman. Always a few miles behind. I couldn’t smoke and forgive with the bruised trachea. They used a stint to bring it back to shape but I was stymied. I joined a gymnasium for old people and opened a van full of delicious food with a catering license. I put a large sign on the front that read EAT NOW PAY LATER and a happy face. Everyone loves a happy face. 

Unfortunately, I started making so much money with my Korean crepe fusion that I soon forgot to work on the revenge. I was just wrapping a crepe with a page from the newspaper when I read: Woman Dies From Food Poisoning in Local Eatery. USDA says no foul play.

I reread the description of the woman who the police identified as Tonya Winters, not Tanya. She was a liar to the end.