While leaving Panda Express last night (that’s right, we’re high rollers), Bri kicked the door open with such force that it smashed hard enough against the wall that the handle stuck for a split second before swinging back as chunks of stucco and plaster rained from the newly installed hole in the wall.
It was pretty loud and as I turned to see if the manager had witnessed Bri’s destruction, I caught sight of more than a few patrons staring agog, their mouthfuls of orange chicken frozen mid-chew.
We made a run for it and as we peeled out of the parking lot, I asked Bri what he would have done if he’d finally broken a door. This sort of behavior is not uncommon for him and I’m not quite sure if he finds it thrilling, truly does not know his own strength, or simply has a grudge against glass doors.
“What would I have done?” he asked, calling his depth perception into question as a potential fourth motive when he sped toward the bumper of a raised up truck, the objects in the windshield suddenly closer than I preferred they appear.
“You mean if the glass had actually shattered out and gone flying everywhere? If they even got upset, I’d be like, ‘Dude, there’s something seriously wrong with your door. You’re lucky I didn’t get a shard through my jugular. I should sue you!’”
He loves nothing more than smashing grocery carts into the automatic glass doors when they open too slowly at our local Ralph’s. It really fucks up the system and I swear one of these days security footage of us crippled over the cart laughing as we push through the broken glass is going to show up on America’s Dumbest Criminals.
Today, while tucking into my veggie fajita salad at Chipoltle, I got a little food karma of my own. (This is also quite common for us. See Life-Threatening in far right column.) I was stabbing my next bite, distracted by the obnoxious pop rendition of “Jingle Bells” blaring from the outdoor speaker above my head. I pulled up what appeared to be a very long onion strip, smothered in bean juice, only to find that it kept coming, parting the lettuce as I yanked it higher.
Turns out it was a lengthy wad of Saran Wrap, which Bri promptly stormed inside to reveal to the manager and shocked customers. He dangled the eight-inch-long transparent ribbon over the counter.
“You see this inedible object?” he demanded.
Everyone turned to look at this strange man holding a dripping wad of plastic. “My wife just choked on it. It was in her salad!”
Gasps all around.
“Aiee! Ees she okee, man?” the woman spooning guac asked.
Instead of keeping up the good work and getting us some free burrito gift cards, Bri became aware of the attention he was garnering and panic set in. We eat there often, though usually without fear of having to Heimlich hug each other between bites, and Bri suddenly worried that he wouldn’t be welcomed back if he kept it up.
I was hoping he would have clutched the soggy plastic wrap harder, squeezing the sauce on the floor, as he wept and screamed, “No, she died! She’s gone. I pried this from her cold, dead esophagus. Her last words were, ‘Uachhh kahhh!’ How could you? How could you!”
But instead he said, “Can I get some salad dressing?” and bolted through the door with his small consolation prize in hand.
Had he destroyed the glass door on his way out, threatening that Gloria Alread was really going to make them pay now, I might have been pleased with the extra sauce. But as it was, I poured it over my remaining veggies, and hoped my next bite contained a finger.
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Until I saw that first photo, I had no idea Panda Express had a drive thru. I will take my taxi there the next time I get, how you say, the munchies?