Getting lunch to go at the Taco John’s. Ten people lined up at the till, ten more in line in cars at the drive up outside. The number on my ticket is 76; 71 was just called, and I’ve been waiting a while, so there’s probably another ten awaiting their food inside, and probably another three or four outside in cars between the menu with its speaker and the window with its cash drawer. From where I stand, I can see through into the kitchen. There’s just five people in there. They’re several races, span three generations in age with hair ranging from bright blue to none. They are surrounded: six against 30+, but they work fast, efficient and smooth. Their eyes and faces constantly looking up at a monitor I can’t see that shows them the orders. Not just glancing at it, concentrating on it like faces staring over battlements, and that leads me to think how brave they are. Outnumbered six-to-one, but getting it done, filling the orders with the knowledge that one slip-up could end up with some impatient yo-yo screaming at the poor kid behind the counter out front. I could not do it. I tell the woman who brings me my order in its brown bag, I tell the woman who brings me my order — 76 in a brown bag — “They’re working their tails off back there, I’ve been watching. You tell ’em, I’m going back to work, and if I can work as hard as they are, the rest of the afternoon, I am going to get a lot done. You tell them that, OK?” She gives aa big smile, “I sure will.”