At Qdoba

October 6th, 2024

I often go to Qdoba when Karin or I are too tired or lazy to cook supper. The restaurant advertises itself as a place that serves “Mexican eats”. I’m not sure about that. The people there use a lot of tortillas, salsa, and guacamole, but that does not necessarily qualify their product as being authentic Mexican food. The employees are friendly. Their service is fast, and the food is plentiful. They operate an efficient assembly line. Qdoba provides an industrial version of Mexican cuisine. They always ask the customer to select a “protein”, and that is a term that somehow reminds me of the old sci-fu movie, “Soylent Green”.

I generally order grilled quesadillas for my wife and myself. I go through the line and have the server load up the tortillas to overflowing. The quesadillas usually suffice to more than two meals. The prices are inexpensive, so getting takeout at Qdoba is cost effective. As I mentioned, the assembly line is efficient, and people get their orders quickly. It takes a bit longer with quesadillas because they have to grill them for a few minutes. I’m not in a rush, so I don’t mind the wait. It gives me a chance to observe the clientele.

Most customers are like me. They are there to grab some takeout, and the restaurant is designed accordingly. It’s not a place where I would want to sit and relax. It’s too noisy and too busy for my tastes. The only people who hang out there are the students from the high school across the street. They get a soft drink and some taco chips and talk smack with their friends.

As I waited for my order, I saw eight young guys sitting together at a table. I’m guessing that they were about sixteen years old. If they had driver’s licenses and cars, they would probably have been somewhere else. In any case, they were talking and joking and basically being teenagers, everything age appropriate. They all looked happy and innocent. I felt a surge of melancholy as I watched them. I have half a century more life experience than they do, and I thought to myself,

“These boys have no idea what they are in for.”

That’s probably a good thing. They seemed to be living in the moment, and more power to them for that. I’m sure that they have their worries, but probably not the existential adult-sized versions. They are still protected to some degree. I remember my youngest son, Stefan, telling me,

“When I was a kid, I thought that adults knew what they were doing.”

It’s a cruel realization to find out that those whom you thought to be older and wiser were just older. There is no operator’s manual for life. Everybody ad libs the whole thing. We fake it as best we can, but sometimes that’s not good enough.

What will these young men grow up to be? The possibilities are endless. One of them might fall under the spell of a smooth-talking military recruiter and wind up fighting a war in a country he has never heard of before. One might become a rich entrepreneur. One might end up as a homeless addict. Most of them will settle into a “normal” life: find a job, find a partner, find a home, raise a family, retire, and die. High schools are designed to train worker bees and most of these guys will be just that. They will be cogs in the corporate machine. I was one for a long time.

Perhaps one of them will step onto the roller coaster of adulthood and embark on a grand and terrifying adventure. I don’t think many boys do that anymore. I did that. I’m still on that ride. I can’t get off until it comes to complete stop.

Do I envy these young men?

No.

I take comfort in knowing that I have already made most of the big decisions. Now, I just live with the results. I would never want to do it all again.