Bullet
He befriended me quickly. There was something familiar about him- like the pizza delivery guy from Stranger Things, with the energy to match. I got the impression he would say ‘brochacho’ in his normal speech, and I admired that about him.
We had only worked together a few times, each more interesting than the last. He, a security guard for a candy store, and I, working at one. It’s safe to say our lives hadn’t panned out like we expected.
He had another job too, guarding the Chicago Fire TV set. I couldn’t imagine why he settled for the candy shop gig, but “money’s money”, he said in his valley talk.
“When can I go on my lunch break?” he asked me one day whilst watching me clean up a pile of M&M’s a child had spilled, a common occurrence.
“Um, I don’t know, man, it depends on when you want to take it.”
He looked at me confused, claiming he “didn’t like my vibe”, but his toothy smile indicated otherwise.
“A craving’s box would hit right now, I’m gonna head over to Taco Bell,” he told me as I scooped up the now crushed M&M’s, left in the wake from the overstimulated mother wrangling her snotty child and gigantic stroller out of the store.
“Knock yourself out,” I muttered, wishing I too could be shuffled out of here, cravings box in hand.
He turned toward the breakroom, likely retrieving what I could only imagine was a tie-dye hoodie and a snapback. His long, dark locks coating his back, creased by the dent of his scrunchie. He does have beautiful hair, I thought, scooping up the last of the M&M crumbs.
“Oh my bad dude, I didn’t offer to get you anything. One beefy 5-layer burrito coming up?”
I admired that he thought I’d want to eat anything after watching the booger bubble inflate out of the M&M culprit’s nostrils, let alone a beefy burrito.
“Nah, man, I’m good. I’m heading out for the day after I finish this mess.”
“Righteous, we should head over together. Let me buy you something for your troubles.”
He clearly hadn’t heard anything I just said, but I appreciated his generosity. After all, who was I to turn down free Taco Bell?
Skipping to the breakroom, he sang a little tune of a song I couldn’t make out. I was beginning to regret my decision. Lacking the tie-dye and snapback, he emerged with a flower-printed bomber jacket. Even better.
On our five-minute walk to the cantina, I learned more than I needed to know about the ‘brochacho’ slinging a crystal necklace and cargo pants. He was a 24-year-old college dropout nicknamed ‘Bullet’ due to a shooting he had been involved in when he was 17.
I scoffed in response to this information overload. He didn’t exactly scream ‘Bullet’.
“You don't meet a lot of folks like me, do you?”
He was right. This was a first for me.
Breaking out into the same groovy hum as before, he plucked a tightly wrapped blunt from his pocket, shimmying with excitement.
“You gotta light?”
I always had a light. I dug into my purse, revealing the donut lighter I had found outside a church last weekend.
“Here,” I gestured, slightly embarrassed by my juvenile choice of lighter.
“You really like sweets, huh?”
“It… was a gift.”
With two flicks of the lighter, he lit the blunt– wrapped tighter than the leather bracelet hugging his wrist.
Passing me the doobie (his word, not mine), I inhaled its lemony herb smoke, questioning if sparking up with this Argyle lookalike was a smart decision. I figured I’d decide once I smelled the Taco Bell.
Once inside, he told me to order anything I wanted. Exercising my little restraint, I settled on one crunchy taco- just enough to appease my appetite without feeling like a total freeloader.
“You can't be serious, that’s all you're getting?”
“I’m not trying to mooch off you, besides, you already hooked me up with that doobie.”
“Relax, my flame-haired friend. I gotchu.”
He threw on four more tacos to his order, surprising me with his kindness, and starting to wonder if the weed was hitting him as much as it was hitting me.
“If I’m gonna be a fatass, so are you.”
I didn’t respond. Who was I to question his authority? I politely obliged.
As the Taco Bell worker shouted “Order for Bullet”, I knew this adventure had reached its end. My glassy red eyes could no longer tolerate the fluorescent lights. I grabbed the greasy bag, stuffed with hot sauce packets, napkins, and five crunchy tacos.
“Thanks for the meal, but I’m gonna head home now.”
“No worries, girl. Enjoy those hella good tacos.”
“Thanks again, Bullet.”
“Farewell, my sweet-tooth queen of candy chaos.”
As I stepped into the gentle autumn warmth, I glanced back to see my newfound friend tearing into his cravings box, bouncing side to side to the rhythm of his humming.
Bullet, what an interesting man you are.