Night Tacos and Kidnappings

Tacos have always been my late-night craving.

Coming out of a local brewery, I led my friend down for an eight-minute walk to the taco spot around the corner. As we walked, we passed by the Burger King where federal agents have been spotted frequently now. Memories mixed in with casual, 24/7 social media news. A thousand-yard stare.

“You alright?” they ask cautiously.

“Yeah,” I look at the empty parking lot as we stroll.

I remember seeing a boy wail to see his mother taken away from his side. A wall of comments illustrating a defiant Chicago. Outpour of concern and questions. Can they do that?

We reach the taco spot, and I pull on the door. Locked. The hours say ‘till 2 AM. A couple enjoys their meal and watches as the woman in charge unlocks the door, letting us in. We approach the counter as she locks the door behind us. I take my time scanning the menu and daydreaming of eating a bigger entree on a weekend. Next to me, my friend sits uncomfortable in the thick air inside the establishment. Dos de al pastor y dos de asada. 

“You can eat them at my house,” they comfort me as I’ve taken to flipping the same menu around a couple times. The cook’s spatula scrapes the meat across the grill.

A small doggy bag is placed beside the register as I’m being rung up. I haven’t brought it up yet, maybe I shouldn’t. The Square device takes longer to process my phone tap.

“¿Han pasado por aquí?” 

“¿Quien—“she deciphers my look, “No, por aquí no.”

We stand no less than five minutes from where they took employees in broad daylight on an unsuspecting morning.

She continues, “Están más al sur. Alla abajo. Agarran a los malos, a los gangeros.”

My payment has been processed for a while now. 

“Gracias, señora.”

As we leave, she unlocks the door and thanks us for coming. A pressurized can begins to hiss in my head. The door locks behind us.