Salt Water Taffy Baja Blast™

This came as a result of a writing prompt, and I just kept going. There is a Taco-Bell dedicated magazine, Taco Bell Quarterly, that I decided I would send this too. Since they passed on it, I don’t think anywhere else makes sense to publish it, so I decided to publish it on my blog.

Salt Water Taffy Baja Blast™

By Bridger Cummings

Corporate Memo to Manager: New product—Salt Water Taffy Baja Blast^™. Market research shows salt water taffy is making a comeback, and we will offer it in our drink selection. Incoming is a shipment of salt water taffies. Unfortunately, weight restrictions prohibit corporate from sending the accompanying tenderizer to prepare it for the drink syrups. It is up to you to find a local option.

Rob frowned as he read this. Any day opening was rough with a hangover, but this was as unwelcome as a hair in your burrito. He absentmindedly scratched off some nacho cheese crust from his shirt, which he hadn’t washed in days. Water was expensive on the space station, and Taco Bell didn’t pay him enough to have a clean shirt every day.

It was later that day when deliveries shuttled a cart full of boxes into his backroom. The dim single light flickered, illuminating the shipping contents: salt water taffy. He opened a box and sampled some of the product. Quality control, as he always said. Chewy, sweet, and fun to mold with his tongue. It reminded him of putting peanut butter in his mouth and letting his dog lick inside. He saw why it was popular—the taffy, that is. He came back out to the front, and one of his crew raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?” Sasha inquired. Rob explained the taffy and how they were supposed to mix it with the Mountain Dew syrup.

The two tried several options. Hot water just melted it. The industrial oven dried it out too much. And the microwave left a strong gym-locker odor in the taffy, which was expected because Rob would regularly dry his poorly washed clothes in the microwave.

The dinner rush came and went, and the space station food court lay empty. Sasha had gone home, and Rob was cleaning for the night. He was thankful this space station spun, always creating artificial gravity. Otherwise, there would be food everywhere from the messy tourists.

Rob aggressively pursued quality control while cleaning. Meaning that he devoured the taffy. He chewed a wad that could have choked a porn star, and he accidentally stubbed his toe while mopping. Rob yelped, and the taffy erupted out of his mouth like a squeezed packet of hot sauce. Some of it landed on the intake for the Salt Water Taffy Baja Blast. Rob rushed over to clean it up before it got sucked in, but it disappeared quicker than the Mexican Pizza off the menu. He was mortified yet curious. He tried some of the Taffy Baja Blast soda, and it came it perfect. He found his solution.

For days, when nobody looked, Rob would chew on the taffy until it was soft and would add it to the supply. And business was hotter than the kitchen. The soda was all the rage, and he started to fall behind. He pleaded to corporate, and since his daily sales increased so much lately, they actually agreed.

Two days later, Veronica joined the team. Rob was concerned about showing her how he prepared the taffy, but she was nonplussed—thought it was funny in fact. The two of them got along like tortilla chips and cheese. They would spend hours in the back, chewing taffy and putting it in buckets for the drink mix. Sometimes they would share taffy. Sometimes taffy wouldn’t be involved at all. Oh yes, the beefy burrito stuffed chalupa was on their secret menu—with extra sour cream, of course.

Business was good. Too good. Everyone wanted a Taffy Baja Blast. Even with Veronica’s help, they barely scraped by. It was a vicious cycle of people eating taffy, hearing about and trying the new bomb drink at Taco Bell, raving about it, having someone else try it, and continue ad nauseum.

Rob and Veronica cuddled in the backroom after one of their taffy chewing, chalupa stuffing sessions, holding each other’s bodies close as if they formed a single Crunchwrap Supreme.

“I just don’t know how we can keep up with demand,” Rob sighed. He felt like an emptied packet of hot sauce.

Veronica slid her arm across his chest, brushing his nipples, which reminded her of pinto beans. “I was hanging out with one of my friends that came up a few days ago, and I guess the current trend is to not finish your taffy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess it’s a show of wealth. That you can eat half of it, and then they are kind of jerks about it and stick it under tables and other surfaces.”

“Under tables…” Rob mumbled. His thoughts jumbled like a cinnamon twist.

Veronica sat up and looked hard at him. “We could collect it. There’s got to be tons of it on the station.” The single light in the backroom cast dark shadows across her face.

Rob sat up, his eyes gleaming like the grease-caked kitchen. “Yes, that’s it! Let’s go right now.”

They stood up and got dressed. They picked up their makeshift bed of tortillas off the floor and put them back into the bags, so they could make food with them tomorrow.

Buckets and metal scrapers in hand, they crept out of the Taco Bell and into the food court. Rob looked around, and nobody was there. The night lights cast a faint glow around the expansive room, and it gave Rob a sinking feeling, like when you want Chipotle but realize you can only afford to eat at the Bell.

The coast was clear, and they started snooping around the tables. Just like Veronica said, loads of taffy clung to the bottom of tables. Rob put a bucket under one and started scraping. It rained taffy into the bucket, and it only took a few tables before filling his bucket.

Rob walked over to Veronica. “I’m almost full. How about you?”

She slid her bucket out from under the table she scraped and pulled some taffy out of her frizzy hair. “Yep, pretty full too!” She flashed her brilliant smile. Rob loved it, despite the missing three teeth.

“We have enough for days now, and we barely touched the food court.” He grinned a bittersweet smile. “But I will miss our chewing sessions…”

Veronica stood up. “Don’t worry, Babe. Now we can skip the chewing sessions and go straight to the fiesta.” She winked at him and walked toward the Taco Bell, purposely swaying her hips, her booty perfectly shaped like two sideway tacos. Rob stiffened like when a tortilla goes stale.

They fell into a new groove. After closing, they would lay out a new bed of tortillas, satisfy their personal Cravings Box, and then scavenge for half-chewed taffy. Now the recursive loop worked in their favor. Continuously more people tried the drink based on recommendations, which made taffies even more popular on the space station. With arrogant snobs leaving half-chewed taffy all over the place, they had a sizable surplus. Rob and Veronica were as happy as a chihuahua in a rich girl’s purse.

But their luck ran out. They grew complacent with their scavenging. One evening, as they rummaged around the dim food court, a straggler sat in the corner like a lost fry, cast into the void of a paper bag. Apparently, the cleaners missed kicking him out. Rob and Veronica drifted between tables, dipping down, scraping off taffy, and sometimes making out on the tables.

“What’s going on?” asked the young man in the corner.

Their blood froze.

The man got up and shambled over. He looked between Rob, Veronica, and the buckets they carried. You could see the fajitas sizzling behind his eyes. He made the connection once he noticed their royal purple Taco Bell uniforms.

He pointed at the buckets with a pale, scrawny arm. “That’s how you’re making the Taffy Baja Blast!”

He turned toward the exit, mumbling about reporting them.

Rob and Veronica locked eyes. Veronica’s face echoed terror—her eyebrows nearly squished into her hairline like a quesadilla. How will I pay for getting my new teeth? She thought to herself.

Rob scowled. His brows furrowed in anger, just like whenever he accidentally shot hot sauce into his eyes when opening the packets. No stupid lurker would cost him his job! Rob stood up and quickly closed the gap between the witness. He forgot his bucket by the table, but he wielded the scraper.

The lanky man turned around as Rob’s footsteps drew closer. A flash, and he gurgled like when canned refried beans are on the stove and bubbles float to the top. The lurker reached up and felt the handle of the scraper protruding from his neck. His hand came away redder than the tomatoes used to decorate the tacos. His vision tunneled, and he collapsed. The last thing he saw was Rob’s grease-encrusted boots standing in front of him.

Veronica pulled at her hair. “Oh my god! What did you do?”

“Shut up and help me drag him back into the kitchen. And get a mop! We need to clean up this mess.”

Veronica’s cheeks streaked where the mascara ran, like stains of black bean aquafaba. They dragged the body behind the counter and cleaned up the mess. Sweat gleamed on both their foreheads.

Veronica slumped against the wall. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

A silence longer than when you try to get the cashier’s attention in the drive thru after they said “order whenever you’re ready” stretched between them.

“I have an idea,” Rob said.

He went into the office corner and got on the computer, shooing roaches off the keyboard.

Memo to Corporate from Manager: Inventory Error—too much ground beef. I was performing an inventory audit, and somehow, we have about 60 pounds of extra ground beef. We will be running a promotion until inventory is at expected levels. Half off ground beef tacos—with a large Salt Water Taffy Baja Blast^™.