The Taco Express

(Derailed)

In a former life, I owned a hair salon—stylist, manager, janitor, and sometime emotional support human. My partner and I hired a very young woman named Lisa. She was all charm, full of pep, and had a deep commitment to wearing high-heeled shoes, apparently designed by someone who hated ankles.

And that’s just fine. As long as I’m not wearing them.

It was a dead-slow day, pouring down rain, and we were all parked in the breakroom, just hoping someone would walk in and hand over their head and a few bucks.

Then hunger struck. Not your average “I could eat” hunger. Salon hunger.
The kind that demands tacos, burritos, heartburn, regret, and maybe a side of Gas-X just to keep things civil.

Lisa, ever the eager beaver where food was concerned, volunteered to go.
Off she strutted—heels clacking like a caffeinated woodpecker.

Now, let me paint the salon layout for you: the breakroom was in the back, and to enter it, you had to take a hard left turn before a wall.
No signs. No warnings. Just a sharp corner waiting to destroy someone’s afternoon.

When we heard tap, tap, tap—like machine gun fire, we knew she was rushing back with the grub.
Then suddenly: BLAM.
What the hell just happened?

Lisa, in full gallop had missed that sharp left into the breakroom—and hit the wall face first.
Then bounced off it like a bird flying into a glass door.

Tacos? Airborne.
Me? Speechless. Running back to see if she was hurt.
My partner? Folded in half, wheezing with laughter.
Lisa? Checking her knees and ankles. And laughing like a hyena on nitrous.
The wall? In need of a new paint job.
The formerly folded and filled Mexican fare? Fallen warriors of a lunch not to be.

Turns out, the rubber tips on the bottom of her heels—you know, those things that actually grip—had fallen off.
It was like trying to steer a shopping cart across a greased skating rink in flip flops.

We didn’t get to eat that day. But what we got instead? Unforgettable.
You can’t choreograph a taco explosion with that kind of flair.
It has to happen naturally.
Like a fart during yoga.

Lisa survived.
Her pride? Slightly dented.
Her shoes? Retired.
The laughter? Eternal.

These days, Lisa probably DoorDashes her tacos.
But in ’86? You had to earn your lunch—sometimes with a collision and possible concussion.

Life rarely goes as planned, but sometimes the mess is the best part.
It’s all part of The Condition.

The truth isn’t always pretty—
And neither are high heels without brakes.