I think it's quite clear that Taco Bell is one of the essential food groups of the prototypical college student. It is also quite apparent that a Taco Bell franchise has little to no standards when doing their hiring. Though, to be fair, what self respecting person wants to work in a Taco Bell? What happens, however, when the Taco Bell you and your comrades frequent becomes a taboo to you (rhyme)?
The trip began innocently enough, blasting some beats, prime parking space, the cashier did not become skeptical when I ordered my Cheesy Gourdita Crunch (oh it's happened before). The ice machine at this particular T-Bell hasn't been working all year and I didn't even have to remind them to get me ice from the back (you don't question it). However, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something afoot. A black man, wearing clothes that were entirely too large for him and a large rimmed baseball cap, was creeping all up on my friend. He smiles at her, his leering gaze lingering on her lady parts before opening his mouth to say, "Hey, sexy, you got a pen?"
A few problems here. One, grammatically this is wrong. It should have been, "hey, sexy, do you have a pen," and if he were a gentleman he might have added a please somewhere in there. Two, why does he need a pen? He's in a Taco Bell! And three, if he needed to borrow a pen, calling her sexy probably wasn't a great word choice. Miss, or even lady might have been better. Okay, and then I have to add the fourth, HE HAD A SMALL CHILD WITH HIM. A daughter, I assumed. Someone clearly never told this man that a Taco Bell with your child was NOT the place to pick up a lady. I mean, honestly.
My friend handled the situation with great grace and poise, "Oh, no, I'm sorry," she said with a broad smile, edging away from him, her voice betraying only the slightest bit of panic. He left her be as she waited for her food. I joined her momentarily, hysterical with giggles. She only shook her head declaring, "we're not leaving until he does." I glance to the door and find him waiting in the entry way of the restaurant, again leering at my friend. Gross.
"Order 199," I hear the her-whole-life-smoker wheeze from the counter. Retrieving my food did not mean that we were in the clear. The pen-needer was still lingering outside the Taco Bell. Eventually, he seemed to get the message that my friend was not, in fact, going to give him a pen and rounded the corner, heading to the bus stop, his small child in tow. My two friends and I were then able to leave the establishment in piece, our warm "Mexican food" in tow.