His accent is so thick and fast that I can barely see through to the other side. It just sounds like he’s just repeating the same few sounds real fast, over and over.

I can’t understand a thing he’s saying.

I’m focusing on his mouth, real good now, trying to untangle and separate what’s coming out. The fate of my lunch depends on this programmed interaction.

“For here or to go?â€? he says, flipping and folding two flour tortillas.

“To go,â€? I tell him, side-stepping to the next checkpoint in Taco Del Mar’s ‘Build-a-Taco’ workshop.

He mirrors my step the right, still working the tortilla like a cardboard box, folding along imaginary dotted lines in his head, packaging day-old taco meat and processed cheese.

“For here or to go?â€?

One more time?

“For here or to go?â€?

Didn’t he just say that? Is he trying to say taco? I don’t get it.

“To go,â€? I say, again.

He nods his head, curling each taco into aluminum foil. He either didn’t understand me the first time and was asking again, or he understood that I wasn’t understanding him.

Now I’m confused.

Stop to collect your thoughts.

Before he’s at the register, I’ve already got my debit card out, waiting to be handed to him. He peels off his plastic gloves, yellow and oily red with taco bits. When I think of this hand-off of currency at fast food places, I always remember what my high school football coach would say to us out on the hot summer field.

“Catch it first, and then turn your body to run,â€? he goes, for like the fiftieth time today.

There’s a blood vessel on the upper right-hand side of his bald and lobster red forehead, pulsating and growing. He pauses after speaking, touching every one of us dead center in the eyes.

“Again,â€? he says, all calm.

The next kid that was up, I really felt sorry for. Chance McGuiness.

If he didn’t catch this next rocket from our quarterback Ritchie’s arm, Coach Byers would erupt. I imagined the quivering vein above his eyebrow exploding, dribbling sticky red all down his face. Coach Byers would probably just grit his teeth and let it run down his face, telling us it was just weakness leaving his body.

It was a blistering hot day, the kind where the sweat would start to sting. It was the middle of August, in the plains. Your pads would rub against your soft underarms, wet with salty lubricant, and rub your skin red raw. Mosquitos, who liked to hang around the warm pools of mud, they only made it worse.

The helmets they gave us were really just crock pots in the heat, slow-cooking your head, turning your brain into chili. My hands felt like wet jelly, beaten and bruised from catching passes all day, and slick with sweat. I bet Chance McGuiness’ hands felt somewhat the same.

I felt sorry for him, seriously.

So Chance steps up to the line, his eyes fixed in nervous concentration

It was one passing drill, but I bet for Chance, this is the Super Bowl, and we’re in the fourth quarter. Tie game.

Ritchie, in his scratchy quarterback voice, yells “Hut!â€? and off Chance goes, running a slant route.

Ritchie fires it off, and my head snaps with the ball, following the brown bullet across the horizon. Just as the ball gets to Chance’s outstretched arms the sun, already starting to set, blocks my vision of the point of impact.

I didn’t need to see what had happened to know.

The sound of a leather football, bouncing off of a chest pad.

The sound of Coach Byers, losing his voice for a week.

Coach Byers is practically running out at Chance who lay on the ground, utterly submissive and defeated. He’s stomping up dust, chucking his clipboard into the ground.

“If you don’t catch it first,â€? he says, his voice squealing and cracking in violent anger. “If you don’t catch it first, this is what’s going to happen!â€?

My ears completely shot from being yelled at, I see him stomping around Chance, bald, throwing his fists around like Elmer Fudd.

Hey, it was funny when it wasn’t you.

So anyway, now I remember. Catch it first.

This guy that was working at Taco del Mar clearly never had Coach Byers. In his catatonic and autonomous-like state, he fumbles my card and it skitters from the oily counter and onto the floor.

Skip from one action to the next a little too fast, and you fumble around a lot.

He snaps out of it, moving his hand around a second too late, trying to make a visible effort to save it. I bend over, picking my debit card back up and off the maroon tile.

“For here or to go?â€? is what I hear, but I’m pretty sure he just meant “Oh, sorry.â€?

After a brief interruption in the script, we’re both back into character. He bags the two hot rolls of aluminum foil and hands it to me.

“Take it easy,â€? I say, like always.

The worst part of all of this is the walk home. When you’re high, the paranoia of having your plastic satchel of tacos inspected is always at full. I put my hood up, blocking out anything in my peripheral vision. I’m working mostly off of a ‘if I can’t see them, they can’t see me’ thing here.

I’m gripping the handles of my plastic bag so tight in my hand; it’s just bunched up into a little ball in my palm at this point. I’m squeezing it so tight and my palms are so hot that I feel like my hands might melt it right there, and the bag would stretch from my hand to the ground, spilling taco meat all over the street.

Sometimes I picture homeless people, appearing out of the alleyways and dog piling on the exposed carcass of my Mexican take-out, like zombies.

Soon, even through the cold rain, I’m home. My brain is boiling itself inside of my skull, seething hot with a new idea. I set my plastic bag on the counter, hardly interested in what’s inside any more. I don’t even take my shoes off, running to my computer. I’ve been holding this idea in my mouth, trying to get to a place where it’s safe to throw it up.

If you hold these things inside for too long, they start to taste sour, like stomach acid.

I reach into my back pocket, taking my wallet out, so I don’t have to sit on top of a brick with half my ass. I do my routine check inside, making sure that each part is called for and in its correct position.

Skip from one action to the next a little too fast, and you fumble around a lot.

I left my debit card at Taco del Mar’s.