The dad pulled into the lot, lowered his window, cut the engine, and said, “Ta-dum!” But the fusion taco truck stood empty and shuttered. A paper note flapped on the pulldown window gate: Closed! Medical Emergency!
His wife groaned. Dumpster fumes drifted through the minivan. His daughter rolled up her window. His son said, “Rip.”
And the dad’s heart died a little bit. It was all coming apart. The family had lost faith in the world and possibly in him. Kids hated virtual school. Son’s braces hurt his mouth. Daughter’s meds numbed her to life’s little Easter eggs. They’d been pinching pennies for months, so takeout was a rare treat to jolt them out of the doldrums before the house swallowed them whole.
A guy in camo cut-offs and pink headphones strolled past. The dad waved the guy over.
The guy studied the paper note on the taco truck then spun like a disco dancer and moonwalked over to the minivan.
“Closed, dudes,” he said.
But the dad wanted to know: “Are the tacos as good as people say?”
“Real good,” the guy said. “But I don’t know how good people say they are.”
“Are there other taco trucks in the area?” the mom asked.
The guy gave her a cringey smile then did the worm with his arms and shoulders. He pressed his hands into a namaste bow and walked away.
So, the dad angled back out of the best space in the lot. If he could score decent takeout on the drive home, maybe this family would hold together for another day.
And in the years that followed, the sad little taco-truck outing grew into family legend retold at gatherings and holidays. The kids embellished it, turning it into a mythic pandemic-era Quest for the Perfect Taco. The dad would sip his whiskey sours and marvel at how a small disappointment could transmogrify over time into a fountain of delight. Across marriages, grandkids, and divorces, the family evolved. That urge to save the day with a grand, whimsical gesture—he’d still feel the ghost of it scratching at the edge of his mind, fearful and alive, whispering lessons too convoluted to decipher.
“Light!” His wife smacked the dashboard. “Light! Light! Light!”
Her voice yanked him back into the driver’s seat of the minivan as he zipped through an intersection half a second after the stoplight turned red, just as red and blue lights flashed in the rear-view.
~
Eric Bosse (they/them or he/him) is the author of Magnificent Mistakes, in more senses than one. Their stories have appeared in The Sun, Zoetrope, The Collagist, FRiGG, Wigleaf, Hobart, and three times before in New World Writing.