I can still picture the scene in my mind’s eye.

I see my buddies lying face down on the linoleum floor, shielding their faces from the pepper-infused crimson sauce splattered everywhere. The cries of young men brought down in the prime of their lives by puddles of hot nacho cheese beneath their feet; the visceral smell of ground beef too damaged to ever be seasoned.

The hours after the lunch rush had been quiet, the summer heat keeping the customers away and lulling us into a false sense of security.

That’s when Charlie came calling.

We weren’t prepared when his big order hit, demanding two dozen Craving Packs with no time to waste. Our crew went to work. Hacksaw got the fryer running while Shooter manned the grill and Big Louie began preparing the shells. The air filled with the smell of sweat and oil, of men and ingredients under pressure. Just boys really, but already as seasoned as an order of fiesta potatoes. The whole team pulled together, as in sync as the flavors of the crunchwrap—so long as no ingredient failed the test.

It was the rookie, the kid we called Johnny. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen, working a summer shift. We should have known better than to put him on that line so early. 

He was rushing, and his elbow hit the fry basket too hard. The kid tried to catch himself, but it was too late. The hot oil hit Hacksaw square in the chest and he went down, screaming. I took some in the leg and tried to steady myself on the metal counter. Shooter tripped while rushing to help, failing to secure his station and sending aloft pellets of half-cooked ground beef that began raining down on us all.

The other men froze, unsure whether to help or to man their posts. All except the rookie. He saw the steam when the beef hit the floor full of hot oil, and his mind fogged as much as the kitchen air. The kid panicked.

“Fire!” he screamed, as he threw whatever he could at the crackling meat. Cheese, sour cream, and red sauce flew into the fray, coating the bodies on the floor like a layered dip. Louie tried to stop him, but the big man crashed into me and we both fell. My foot slipped in a viscous mix of cheese and sauce. My ankle did its best to hold position, twisting in the process.

Johnny fell too, holding his head in his hands as an angry Nicky P threw sauce packets at him. No one had the strength to stop him, as the occasional packet burst and painted the floor in spicy red splatter.

We were in no shape to serve any longer, and the dinner rush was about to hit. Charlie had bested us this day.

Through the glass doors we could see cars pulling into the lot. Customers would have us surrounded, our supplies too low to withstand the onslaught. We couldn’t let them breach the perimeter.

“Someone get the door!” Shooter yelled, his face dripping with fire sauce and low-grade sour cream. I was closest, our best hope. Dragging my singed leg, I pushed through my fallen comrades, working my way toward the entrance.

I dragged my twisted ankle over streaks of sauce, oil, and cheese, around booths covered with the carved symbols of long-departed customers, past the soda machine that never stopped leaking Baja Blast like an open wound. My strength waned as a few of the cars emptied and shoes began to touch the asphalt.

Ignoring the trail of red sauce left in my wake, I strained against the entrance, reaching heavenward toward the top of the door. Only once I flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed” and turned the lock did I allow myself to rest.

I did it for Johnny, for Hacksaw and Shooter and Nicky P, for all of them. For all the others who could never go home until we mopped up. On a day so quiet and still that the door would no longer toll for arriving customers, and the drive-thru window remained shut in a silent vigil. Not a single gordita would be sold that night, but the sun would come up tomorrow.

– Jeff Fleischer