Taco Ballz Deep- Chapter Four: A Good Ole' Squeezin'

It was still early afternoon when the cosplayers arrived.

Una might have noticed them sooner if she hadn't been staring at Miro's arms.

It wasn't intentional.

At least, it hadn't started intentionally.

Miro was carrying a box of frozen food from the walk-in, and at some point during the morning he'd rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt up over his shoulders. Una's attention had consequently become trapped on the frankly unnecessary amount of muscle in his upper arms.

She wondered what he did outside of work.

Lift weights, presumably.

Possibly cars.

Maybe women.

Una's imagination volunteered to explore that last possibility in considerably greater detail.

She shut it down.

Mostly.

Movement in her peripheral vision finally rescued her from sexually harassing her supervisor with her eyes.

Four people in elaborate costumes had entered Taco Ballz.

One appeared to be an elf. Another wore something resembling futuristic body armor. A young woman with neon-pink hair, thigh-high boots, and a micro-mini skirt was arguing with a man carrying a foam sword nearly as tall as he was.

"I can't believe we aren't supposed to be there until eight," Foam Sword complained as he tossed his weapon into a booth. "Who was in charge of the permits?"

"One of those old guys called me girlie," Pink Hair said.

Her companion wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Forget them."

He looked toward Una.

"Hey. We're ready to order. Where's the menu?"

Una pointed upward.

The enormous illuminated menu was directly over her head.

"Oh. You order up here, actually."

All four stared at her.

Then at the counter.

Then back at the booth where they'd already made themselves comfortable.

A collective groan followed.

"Guess who's not getting a tip?" Pink Hair announced.

Una glanced at the tip jar.

Fortunately, she and Miro had already divided the surprisingly generous haul left by the Civil War reenactors.

Her three dollars and eighty-seven cents were safe.

The elf reluctantly approached the counter.

"We'll take a Hot Taco Ballz Combo and two Double Thick Cream Horchata Smoothies."

Una entered the order.

"And do you accept Dogecoin?"

Her finger stopped above the register.

"Do we accept what?"

"Dogecoin."

Una slowly turned toward the kitchen.

"Miro?"

He had apparently heard everything.

Without looking up from the fryer, he extended one arm and gave her a firm thumbs-down.

Una turned back.

"Sorry. Not today, it seems."

The elf sighed and produced a credit card.

More cosplayers trickled in over the next half hour. Unlike Taco Ballz's usual customers, who apparently preferred obtaining their Ballz through the drive-thru and escaping as quickly as possible, the costumed crowd stayed.

Soon the booths were filled with elves, warriors, anime characters, wizards, superheroes Una couldn't identify, and one enormous man dressed as what appeared to be a seductive mushroom.

Una decided not to ask.

By two, several had migrated into the parking lot and begun fighting with foam weapons.

Miro watched through the window.

"LARPing."

"I know what LARPing is."

He glanced at her.

"Do you?"

"No."

"Live-action role-playing."

"I knew that."

"You absolutely didn't."

Una ignored him.

The battle outside grew.

A knight chased an anime schoolgirl between parked cars. Someone in a cape fell dramatically beside the Tilted Beaver. Two elves were engaged in a sword fight near the handicapped parking space.

Then a breathless wizard burst through the front doors.

"Hey!"

Una looked up.

"Did you know there's a couple of hobos going at it behind your dumpster?"

Una froze.

Slowly, she turned toward Miro.

Miro continued wiping the counter.

"No."

"No?" Una repeated.

"No."

"We've been hearing about these people since this morning."

"Correct."

"It's been hours."

"Also correct."

Una put down her rag.

"That's it."

"What's it?"

"I'm going on break."

"Okay."

"I'm going behind the dumpster."

That got his attention.

"Why?"

"I need to know."

"Know what?"

"If they're actually still there."

Miro stared at her for a moment.

Then reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

"Wait."

Una headed for the rear exit.

"I'm coming with you."

She looked over her shoulder.

"I don't need a chaperone."

"I know."

"Then why are you coming?"

Miro followed her outside.

"Because you've been my assistant manager for five hours, and I'd rather not lose you behind a dumpster."

Una's heart performed an irritating little flutter.

She blamed the heat.

The reports had been accurate.

Painfully accurate.

Una stopped several yards away.

"Oh my God."

The two people behind the dumpster looked exhausted, sunburned, and utterly committed to whatever strange personal odyssey had brought them there. At this point they seemed less engaged in anything romantic than simply tangled together, half asleep and apparently too tired to locate their pants.

Miro lit a cigarette.

Una stared.

"Well," he said.

"What?"

"I was right."

"About what?"

"They're all tuckered out."

Una covered her face.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't narrate it."

"I'm not narrating. I'm observing."

She peeked between her fingers.

"Do you think they're going to bother the customers?"

Miro took a drag and considered the pair.

"No."

"How do you know?"

"I've seen them around before. They don't bother anybody."

"You know them?"

"Not socially."

Una looked at him.

"I felt that clarification was important."

It was.

Miro exhaled.

"We'll give them some butcher paper."

Una stared at him.

"Some what?"

"Butcher paper."

"What are they supposed to do with butcher paper?"

"Cover themselves."

"You're giving naked people butcher paper?"

"Would you prefer freezer wrap?"

She started laughing.

Miro smiled.

"See? Management."

"This is not management."

"This is advanced management."

Una went inside and returned with a generous length of brown butcher paper.

They left it with the exhausted couple, who accepted it with the gratitude of shipwreck survivors receiving a blanket.

Problem solved.

Sort of.

By the time Una and Miro returned to the front of the restaurant, the parking lot had become a convention.

There were dozens of cosplayers now.

Apparently, word had spread that the park wasn't available until eight, and Taco Ballz had become the unofficial refugee camp.

Then the Civil War reenactors returned.

Una saw Duke enter first.

Behind him came Bill, Gene, Lou, and several men she hadn't met earlier.

They stopped.

The cosplayers stopped.

For several seconds, both groups simply looked at one another.

Una sensed trouble immediately.

Miro sensed entertainment.

She saw it happen on his face.

"No," she whispered.

He looked innocent.

"I haven't done anything."

"You're thinking about it."

"Thinking about what?"

"Whatever that face means."

"What face?"

"The face you're making right now."

Miro smiled.

Una pointed at him.

"Don't."

Ten minutes later, there was a fitness challenge.

Una still wasn't entirely sure how it happened.

The Civil War reenactors insisted their generation was tougher. The cosplayers insisted the reenactors wouldn't last ten minutes at one of their events.

Someone suggested arm wrestling.

Someone else suggested a footrace.

Then Miro Wolfgang, thirty-something manager of a restaurant that would cease to exist in approximately seven hours, remembered that he had an entire drum of cooking oil he no longer needed.

Una watched him roll it toward the door.

"Miro."

"What?"

"Why do you have that?"

"Can't leave it here."

"So you're disposing of it?"

"Technically."

"Miro."

He smiled.

"Oh no."

The terms were established.

One champion from each faction.

One wrestling match.

The winner received glory.

Miro received absolutely nothing except entertainment.

The reenactors selected Dale, a fifty-five-year-old truck driver from Florida built roughly like a commercial refrigerator.

The cosplayers selected Roberta Rose, a forty-two-year-old Air Force veteran and mother of six from New Jersey who appeared capable of bench-pressing Una.

Una estimated both competitors were somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds.

Then Miro poured cooking oil on them.

Una watched from the drive-thru window.

She wanted it formally established, at least in her own conscience, that she had not participated in this.

She was merely witnessing it.

From inside.

At a legally significant distance.

Miro came through the door.

Una stared at him.

"What?"

"You poured grease on two customers."

"They volunteered."

"Someone is going to sue you."

"Restaurant closes tonight."

"That doesn't eliminate civil liability!"

"Look at you, Assistant Manager."

He sounded proud.

Una hated how much she liked that.

Outside, someone shouted.

The match had begun.

Dale and Roberta circled one another cautiously, both discovering immediately that wrestling while covered in commercial cooking oil presented logistical difficulties.

Dale lunged.

Roberta slipped.

Dale slipped.

Somehow they collided.

The crowd erupted.

"BERTA! BERTA! BERTA!"

Roberta recovered first and caught Dale in a headlock.

The cosplayers went wild.

The reenactors booed.

Dale twisted.

The grease did its work.

He shot free like a watermelon seed squeezed between two fingers and somehow managed to catch Roberta's arm.

"Dale's got her!" someone screamed.

Roberta looked ready to tap.

Then Legolas intervened.

Una didn't know his real name.

She knew only that he had blond hair, pointed ears, a green cape, and extremely strong feelings about fair play.

He kicked Dale in the thigh.

"How could you?" Legolas shouted. "She's a mother!"

Everything stopped.

Dale stared at him.

Roberta stared at him.

The crowd stared at him.

Then Rick, one of Dale's friends, punched Legolas.

"You're fighting dirty! Don't worry, Dale! I'll handle him!"

"Oh, shit," Una whispered.

Someone dressed as Bilbo tackled Rick.

A Confederate officer punched Bilbo.

An elf jumped on the Confederate officer.

A wizard struck somebody with a foam staff.

Within approximately eight seconds, the first annual Taco Ballz Grease Wrestling Invitational had become a riot.

Una turned toward Miro.

He was delighted.

"You did this."

"I didn't tell Legolas to kick anybody."

"You poured oil on people!"

"They asked me to!"

"They absolutely did not!"

Outside, a knight flew across the hood of a Honda.

The commotion finally attracted the attention of the Tilted Beaver.

The front door opened.

Several patrons stepped outside.

Then the dancers followed.

Apparently, there were limits to how much chaos a strip club could tolerate happening across the parking lot without becoming involved.

One dancer in enormous platform heels marched directly toward the fight.

She wore a rhinestone bikini, nipple pasties, and enough body glitter to interfere with local radar.

"Who's fucking with Tammy's brother?"

Una grabbed Miro's arm.

"No."

Miro was laughing too hard to answer.

The woman waded into the crowd.

Bill attempted to stop her from getting between a patron and a cosplayer.

She slapped him.

Hard.

The sound carried across the parking lot.

Miro doubled over.

Then the rest of the dancers joined in.

Things deteriorated rapidly.

Acrylic nails proved surprisingly effective close-range weapons. Platform heels provided a height advantage. Years of navigating crowded rooms in stilettos apparently translated remarkably well to combat agility.

Their only obvious weakness was the wind.

One dancer temporarily lost visual contact with the enemy when a false eyelash detached and folded across her eye.

She screamed, "MY LASH!"

Someone immediately punched the man who had been standing closest to her.

Una wasn't sure why.

At this point, cause and effect had ceased to matter.

She looked toward the dumpster.

The two exhausted strangers were asleep beneath the butcher paper.

Neither moved.

"Unbelievable."

Miro followed her gaze.

"Told you they wouldn't bother anybody."

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Miro stopped laughing.

His head snapped toward the road.

Una looked at him.

"Oh, now you're concerned?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He immediately ran inside.

"Miro!"

Una followed.

By the time the first police cruiser entered the parking lot, Miro Wolfgang was standing at the fryer with a pair of tongs in his hand.

He looked like a man who had been preparing Taco Ballz peacefully all afternoon.

Una stared at him.

He stared back.

"What?"

"You started a riot."

"I've been cooking."

"I watched you pour oil on them."

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"You are unbelievable."

An officer entered the restaurant.

Miro looked toward the window.

His mouth fell open in theatrical horror.

"Oh my God."

Una bit the inside of her cheek.

"What's happening out there?"

She turned away.

She was going to pee herself.

It took nearly an hour for the police to restore order.

No one seemed seriously hurt, although several costumes had been destroyed and at least one reenactor had lost his hat.

Una answered questions as truthfully as she could without laughing.

A female officer consulted her notes.

"And, ma'am, did you witness a medieval bar wench slap the Confederate major?"

Una pressed her lips together.

"Yes."

The officer sighed.

"Before or after Legolas kicked Dale?"

"After."

"And where were the dancers at this point?"

"Which dancers?"

The officer closed her eyes briefly.

"The ones from the Tilted Beaver."

"Oh. They came later."

The officer wrote something down.

Behind her, Miro was suddenly extremely interested in cleaning the fryer.

Una glared at the back of his head.

Coward.

Eventually, the cruisers left.

The cosplayers dispersed.

The reenactors departed.

The dancers returned to work.

The two people behind the dumpster disappeared at some point without anyone noticing.

By sunset, the parking lot looked like the aftermath of an extremely low-budget war.

A pink hair extension clung to a bush.

Half a fake mustache lay near the curb.

A plastic sword had been driven into the grass.

Someone's shapewear hung from the Taco Ballz sign.

Una stood at the window surveying the damage.

Miro came up beside her.

"Good lunch rush."

She turned.

"I cannot believe you egged them on."

"I didn't."

"You supplied the grease."

"They needed a venue."

"You should know better."

"I usually do."

"How old are you, anyway?"

Miro looked at her suspiciously.

Una studied his face.

"Thirty?"

He seemed satisfied.

She added, "Forty?"

His expression changed instantly.

"Forty?"

Una burst out laughing.

He put a hand against his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Una."

"What?"

"Forty?"

"Thirty-eight?"

"Stop."

"Thirty-seven?"

Miro straightened and adopted the solemn tone of the officer who'd questioned her.

"Why, ma'am, I'll have you know I'm practically the same age as you."

Una stopped.

"You're twenty-five?"

Miro raised one eyebrow.

She realized it immediately.

He knew her age.

Una's smile slowly returned.

"Wait."

Miro suddenly found the countertop fascinating.

"You're thirty-one," she guessed.

"More like it."

"No, no, no. We're not moving past that."

"Past what?"

"You knew I'm twenty-five."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you mentioned it."

"I didn't."

"Then I'm very perceptive."

Una folded her arms.

"My application."

Miro smiled.

There it was.

That devilish, infuriating smile she'd been dealing with all day.

"You read my application."

"Maybe."

"Your uncle hired me."

"He did."

"So why were you reading my application?"

Miro leaned against the counter.

For once, he seemed to consider whether he should answer.

Una waited.

His gaze moved over her face.

Then down.

Not far.

Just enough.

Back to her eyes.

"I may have checked you out."

Una's entire body went warm.

There it was.

Not an accidental double meaning.

Not a lingering look she could pretend she'd imagined.

Flirting.

Actual, undeniable flirting.

Miro Wolfgang had checked her out.

Una wanted to grin.

She refused.

She wanted to twirl around the kitchen like an idiot.

She refused that too.

Instead, she stepped a little closer.

"Oh?"

Miro's smile faltered by half a degree.

Una enjoyed that enormously.

"What else do you know about me, Mr. Wolfgang?"

His eyes held hers.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Journey was still playing softly from the speakers.

The restaurant was empty.

The sun had gone down.

The fluorescent lights suddenly felt much too bright.

Una became intensely aware that they were standing alone in a kitchen.

Miro's gaze dropped to her mouth.

Then returned to her eyes.

"Ms. Gold."

"Yes?"

He leaned toward her.

Just slightly.

Enough that Una caught the faint scent of soap, fryer oil, and whatever cologne he'd put on that morning.

"I think..."

Una waited.

"...you're supposed to be helping me pack this kitchen."

She stared at him.

Miro's grin returned.

Una smacked him lightly on the arm with a dish towel.

"You ass."

He laughed.

She turned away before he could see the enormous smile she could no longer contain.

"Get me another box," she ordered.

"Yes, Assistant Manager."

Una practically skipped toward the storage room.

Behind her, Miro started humming along with Journey.

She was completely, catastrophically smitten.

And judging by the way he'd looked at her mouth, she was beginning to suspect the catastrophe might be mutual.