"The Del Taco!" says Cock Bombay with unbalanced excitement.
Brooklyn and I exchange a look. We’ve eaten all over this town and there are no fewer than 20 breakfast-serving estabilshments closer than the Del Taco on La Cienega off I-10. Whatever, you don’t argue with crazy. We get in his Honda and I climb in the front seat and gingerly move a child’s shoe from beneath me. I can’t help but think it belongs to “the fucker” who is still sick at home. Not wanting him to speak ill of his family, I don’t even ask. Instead, Cock Bombay starts the chit-chat.
“So, how’s things? How’s the life?”
“Good” I swear I can’t do this.
“How’s wifey?”
“Wifey is fine.”
I’ve mentioned my wife’s name a dozen times. The blatantly natural forgetfulness by someone who simply could not care less is inexcusable to me. Saying “wifey” is bad enough to begin with, but he doesn't even try to learn her name.
He takes over.
“Yeah, I know how the marriage is.”
Oh really?
“Last week was our anniversary so I ask the wifey, ‘what would you like?’ and you know, she says ‘nothing much’ so I don’t get her nothing much at all. Suddenly she gets very upset and I say ‘listen, I work hard all day long and I don’t need to come home to this.’ But she is still upset so I take her to Costco and she picked out a ring.”
Keep going, Casanova, I’m taking notes.
“You know, when I’m home, I don’t have to get up for anything. If I want tea, I say ‘bring me tea.’ If I want food, I eat. It’s the culture.”
“Yeah,” I agree like it’s the same thing in our household. I’d rather not get into it. He goes on and I resist the urge to turn around and make eye contact with Brooklyn in the backseat. I’m sure I would lose it. Finally we get to Del Taco. Aside from three unengaged employees in the back, we’re the only people there.
“It’s on me!” As if anyone else was about to offer. Cock Bombay moves to the front and throws a coupon on the counter. “Three Burritos!” he barks. “I have this.”
I look down and see the 79¢ coupon slowly uncrumpling itself on the counter and the look of disgust on the employees face.
“What kind of burritos, sir?” The employee is deliberate, patient and a little condescending in return.
“The breakfast kind.”
I offer to pick up the coffees because I doubt he has a coupon for that. I bring the coffees to the table and we sit there eating while Cock Bombay checks his Blackberry for something more important to come through.
Having avoided the conversation about our customer satisfaction scores, Brooklyn and I bring up some new ideas to drum up business and a tool to follow up with customers better down the road. Nothing earth-shattering, we just want to get permission from customers to put their e-mails in a database so that we can inform them of “special events” happening at the store down the line. We can then sort them by address and target them when we need a boost in The Company’s growing television services department. Cock Bombay dismisses the idea, not seeing it fit into the established structure that his superiors have set out. He was not promoted to his current level of ineptitude for taking creative risks.
We get back in the car and start the long drive back to the store. We keep talking about business plans and entrepreneurship. Brooklyn and I have plenty but know not to share the best with someone who would gladly take all the credit. I paraphrase Lee Iacocca just for fun and Brooklyn quotes something from Glengarry Glen Ross. We’re proud of our inside jokes and know that our driver is completely unaware. Suddenly, though, he feels the need to join the party.
“My father once told me something I can never forget. He was a great success. He once told me, ‘I will know you are a successful businessman when you take a profit and turn it into a loss.”
The car falls silent and remains so all the way back.
