The Summer Pretzel

There was a time between my stint in college and my current full time employment where I found myself listless, uninspired, and depressed. That did not preclude me, however, from the ability to find kinship in the most unexpected of places, such as hot pretzel display at Taco Bell.

As the months lumbered by, my friend and I would get together with a couple of other friends who moved to a town off the beaten path, about 45 minutes away. The commute sucked, but one of the perks of their location was their proximity to a Taco Bell.

This wasn't the greatest of Taco Bells, mind you. They didn't have a fryer and that meant no Chalupa shells, among other minor inconveniences. Also, no free drink refills. Still, the closest alternative was a crappier Bell location thirty minutes away.

This Taco Bell happened to be part of a three store complex that featured an ice-cream counter and a pizza shop, neither of which were franchises. It had all the feel of a truck stop with none of the curious conveniences like post cards, third rate books and movies, mini televisions, cb radios, and of course multi-pound bags of beef jerky.

We never bought ice cream, we never ordered pizza. Taco Bell all the way. Minus the lack of refills and a fryer, it was fine faux mexi-merican fast food. There was an oddity, however: between the Bell counter and the Ice Cream stand was a hot pretzel display. In the hot pretzel display were, of course, pretzels - but not many. They looked rather pitiful, that handful of doughy knots in slow orbit under a 400 watt sun.

I can't say I took much notice of the pretzels beyond that, however, until the number in the display shrank to one. One solitary pretzel that remained, paraded slowly in front of all who passed. The first I saw it I thought "oh hey, I guess there was a run on pretzels. Didn't know people actually bought those." I then thought nothing of it until the following week where, again, there was only one pretzel. "How odd" I thought.

Two more weeks passed where only one pretzel circled and I began to wonder aloud about the possibility of it being the same pretzel every week. My friends had already presumed that was the case but I, ever over-estimating humanity, didn't want to think it so. It's not like the place didn't see a moderate amount of traffic, and I didn't want to believe that the staff was that lazy as to not throw away that one last pretzel.

So I went to the case and I studied it; looked for any distinguishing marks that would set it apart from any potential replacements. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for: a thumb print, pressed into the dough, breaking through the brown crust and leaving just a bit of the whiteness below to peek through. I had my clue. All I needed was time.

Time, of course, took care of itself and the next weekend saw me back at the case where I would see the same indentation on the same pretzel in the same spot on its sad and lonely rack. My friends were unimpressed. At first. But the weeks spun and so too did the pretzel, presumably dry as a stegosaurus turd, un-bought, uncared for, unloved. Was employment there so abysmal an existence that the simple restocking of pretzels presented a challenge that could only be tackled after years of counseling and pharmaceuticals? Or did this display inhabit a neutral zone, a No Man's Land under neither Taco Bell's or the ice cream shop's jurisdiction? Was it a buffer between warring nations, or was it simply the pretzel case that time forgot?

I didn't appreciate it at the time, but that pretzel was my mascot for the summer. My kindred spirit. Was it plucked from it's aluminum vine and given the final indignity of a curt disposal, or was it finally sold and consumed by some unknown rube to some other unknown rube who, I could only hope, had a taste for dusty pope-farts? With salt?

Regardless, the pretzel, my unemployment, that summer, all were destined to pass; and so it was.