“Perfectly fine, completely okay! Want another taco?” “Oh, of course!” she insisted, sweeping away the new wood shavings. Rachel cocked a curious brow at Hutch, who seemed to be fidgeting more by the second. The harsh scraping of metal on wood returned. “Besides, it’s not like you knew that they were gonna-" Me and my fat toad mouth.” She snapped up a taco with her tongue in regret. “It’s not your fault,” Rachel sighed, leaning into her hand. “I didn’t know it would upset you that much.” “Gosh, Rache,” Hutch said with hushed sympathy, smoothing out her clothes. Sorry.” Rachel let go of Hutch’s lapels and crawled off the table, awkwardly avoiding the eyes of every patron watching her.
Her eyes turned to meet the six-foot Franky’s Fat Boy mascot, a large stack of pancakes with spindly legs, a large cigarette, and even larger disapproving eyes. The sound of someone’s throat clearing pulled Rachel back to sanity. And it’s staring you in the face, mocking you with its existence, and all you can think of is the day you finished your magnum opus, your sanity hanging by a string, and the first person who speaks to you after a decade of isolation is some random farm kid who says ‘Hey, that’s not bad…BUT HAVE YOU SEEN WACKY DELLY?!’” Sure, you thought you made peace with it years ago, but now, it’s not just a memory. Imagine your husband driving that mistake down the road, block after block, street after street, reminding everyone who lays eyes on it of the last thing you did before committing yourself to self-exile under the paper thin guise of artistic expression. “Paula, imagine the biggest mistake of your career converted into a food truck. Rachel sighed, setting down the last taco on her plate. “Well, maybe this whole food truck thing won’t be so bad,” Hutch said, nudging the platter closer to Rachel. “Okay, maybe a few.” She picked three tacos off the main platter onto her plate, praying she could keep them down before she got home.
#Rocko modern life wacky deli how to#
She fell with the grace of a tranquilized elephant.Īfter ten clumsy seconds of trying to remember how to sit up, she gripped the booth and table cautiously. Rachel gave her a smile of reassurance, slightly wobbling in her seat. “You should have something in your stomach to balance out your…what was it again?” “You sure?” Hutch cranked her head to the side in concern. “I’ll just take home whatever you don’t want,” she mumbled. “I don’t think I can finish these myself.” “Sure you don’t want any tacos, Rache?” Hutch asked, picking one to set on her plate. Tempting as the smell was, Rachel reached for her drink instead, taking a long nervous sip. The server’s appearance startled Rachel out of her rant, leaving her slightly dizzy from the reigned back adrenaline.Ī sizzling plate of tacos was set between them: two carnitas, two barbacoa, two mystery meat.
#Rocko modern life wacky deli code#
“That…rolling health code violation is gonna be sitting in our driveway for at least a year, until we’re either run out of town for the smell, or eaten by maggots or-"
“I let this happen.” She looked up, eyes manic and slightly bloodshot. Why that place had to be a Franky’s Fat Boy was a different annoyance entirely. Wherever the guys took the truck, she prayed it was at least a mile from the only place in O-Town with a happy hour this early. Rachel groaned into the table, her snaking fingers tangling deeper into her hair by the second. “Oh my,” she said, picking the wood shavings off her hook. She tried to speak with her usual smiling serenity, but the deep scratch her hook left on the table betrayed her seeming composure. Hutch could only stare back at Rachel, gnawing on the straw of her diet soda as her breath sat uneasily in her throat.
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