Lately, I’ve been trying to shake off some of the rust on my creative writing. Here’s something I wrote about aliens, burritos, and the existential horror of food service.

Adaptation of "ET2485 3 aliens" by interdimensionalguardians is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

(Some folks didn't like the cover art I'd originally generated for this story, so I'm going to try to follow Jenn Schiffer's advice for finding non-AI images for blog posts and switch it up. This one, I found via Openverse search and then ran through my grungification filter. Anyway, on with the story...)

Monday

The fryer wouldn't stop beeping. She'd already pulled the cinnamon twists twice, but the timer had gotten stuck again—a problem since last Tuesday that Derek said he'd fix but hadn't, because Derek never fixed anything, just wrote "AWARE" on the maintenance clipboard in increasingly aggressive handwriting.

"Excuse me." The customer at the counter was tapping his credit card against the teal formica. "I said no tomatoes. This has tomatoes."

On the TV mounted in the corner, CNN was showing a massive spherical ship hovering over the Pacific Ocean. The chyron read: ALIENS REQUEST WATER TRADE - PENTAGON RESPONDS.

"I can't eat tomatoes," the customer continued. "I'm allergic."

She looked at his Supremo Chalupa. Three small tomato pieces were visible. The fryer continued beeping. On the TV, the Secretary of Defense was saying something about "measured response" and "unprecedented opportunity."

"I'll remake it," she said, taking the chalupa.

"This is the third time this month you people have gotten my order wrong."

The aliens, apparently, communicated through mathematical frequencies. They wanted four million gallons of water. They were offering improved solar panel efficiency algorithms.

She dumped the chalupa in the trash and grabbed a new shell.

Tuesday

Derek had put up a sign: "We Support Our Alien Visitors!" Nobody had asked him to. The sign was taped crookedly to the door between a faded "Employees Must Wash Hands" notice and a sun-bleached poster for a discontinued Choco Taco knockoff called the Fudge Torpedo.

The morning rush was normal. Guy wanted extra beef but didn't want to pay for extra beef. Woman insisted they used to have a breakfast quesadilla that was different from the current breakfast quesadilla. Teenager tried to order "whatever's cheapest" then complained it wasn't enough food.

The aliens had started harvesting helium from the sun using some kind of magnetic scooping process. Scientists on the news were losing their minds about it. The President had called it "concerning but not hostile."

"Is your beef real beef?" a customer asked.

"It's seasoned beef product," she replied, the way corporate had trained them to say it.

"But with the aliens here, how do we know it's not alien meat?"

She stared at him. The fryer beeped. It had never stopped beeping.

"Our beef comes from Ohio," she said.

"That's what they'd want you to think."

On the TV, France had offered the aliens champagne. The aliens had politely declined, citing incompatible digestive systems.

Wednesday

She woke up to fourteen texts in the group chat. Brittany couldn't come in because her boyfriend thought the aliens were going to activate 5G towers. Marcus was late because there were protesters blocking Route 9. Derek had sent a gif of a dancing taco.

The news was saying China had fired warning shots at the alien vessel. The aliens had responded by turning the missiles into what appeared to be frozen nitrogen, which had fallen harmlessly into the ocean.

She worked register alone for three hours. A woman ordered seven burritos, all with different modifications. While she was reading them back, the woman was on her phone, watching a livestream of people in Times Square holding "WELCOME TO EARTH" signs.

"I said no beans on the fourth one," the woman said, not looking up.

"The fourth one is chicken, rice, cheese only."

"No, the third one."

"The third one is beef—"

"Why is this so complicated?"

Someone had started a rumor that the aliens were vegans. Someone else had started a rumor that the aliens were here to steal Earth's cows. The beef sales hadn't changed.

Thursday

An alien walked into Burrito Chime at 2:47 PM.

She knew it was an alien because it was seven feet tall, had skin like an oil slick, and three arms. She knew it was 2:47 PM because she'd been staring at the clock for the last hour, willing her shift to end.

"Welcome to Burrito Chime," she said.

The alien approached the counter. Its movement was fluid, like a lava lamp in reverse. Derek was in the back, pretending to count inventory but actually watching TikToks.

"I would like to inquire," the alien said, its voice like a synthesizer trying to harmonize with itself, "about your refried beans."

"They're... beans. That we fry. Twice. Sort of."

"The protein structure is fascinating. Partially denatured but maintaining cohesion through lipid integration."

"They're $1.99 for a side."

"I would like forty pounds."

She blinked. "We sell them in 4-ounce sides."

"Then I would like one hundred and sixty sides of refried beans."

The fryer beeped. On the TV, North Korea had declared the aliens were a Western hoax. Brazil had offered them coffee and carnival tickets.

"That'll be $318.40," she said.

The alien produced what looked like a credit card made of crystallized air.

"We only take Visa, Mastercard, or cash."

The alien tilted what might have been its head. "I will return."

It left. Derek emerged from the back.

"Was that—?"

"Yeah."

"What did it want?"

"Beans."

"Oh."

They stood there. The fryer beeped. A human customer walked in, saw them standing there, and sighed dramatically.

"Is anyone actually working here?"

Friday

The morning news said Russia had formed an alliance with the aliens. The noon news said that was wrong, Russia had tried to form an alliance but the aliens had politely declined, citing "developmental concerns." The evening news said Russia was mobilizing troops. The late night news said Russia had stood down after the aliens turned all their tank engines into very expensive paperweights.

She worked a double because Brittany's boyfriend was now convinced the aliens were reading his thoughts through his fillings.

A regular came in—Dale, Chalupa Supreme, no lettuce, extra cheese, Mountain Dew Baja Blast knockoff they called Citrus Typhoon.

"Hell of a week," Dale said.

"Yeah."

"You see they're talking about a draft?"

"Yeah."

"My kid's eighteen. Just started community college."

She handed him his chalupa. On the TV, someone was explaining that the aliens' EMP weapons were actually more like "selective electron dampening fields" that could target specific electronics without affecting biological systems.

"At least they're not hostile," Dale said.

"The aliens?"

"Yeah."

"Customer yesterday lost his mind because we put tomatoes on his chalupa."

Dale laughed. "Some things don't change."

"Three years I've been here. Three years of chalupas. Aliens show up, and I'm still here making chalupas."

"Job's a job."

"Yeah."

The alien from yesterday walked back in. It had exact change in US dollars.

Saturday

The President gave a speech about "humanity's resilience" and "cosmic cooperation." The aliens had agreed to share some neural network architectures that would improve weather prediction by 0.3%. In exchange, they were siphoning water from the Great Lakes, promising to take less than 0.001% of the total volume.

Someone had tagged "ALIENS GO HOME" on the Burrito Chime dumpster, right next to older graffiti that said "DAVE IS A BITCH." She didn't know who Dave was.

The lunch rush was brutal. A youth soccer team, two families having separate reunions, and a bachelor party that had somehow ended up at Burrito Chime at 1 PM. One of the soccer moms complained that the mild sauce was too spicy. One of the bachelor party guys tried to order "the most extreme thing you got," then complained when it was just a burrito with extra jalapeños.

The alien came back. It waited patiently in line behind the soccer team.

"Refried beans," it said when it reached the counter. "Forty pounds."

She'd already started bagging them. Derek had actually helped, possibly the first useful thing he'd done in six months.

"Your beans have optimal portability," the alien said, "and surprisingly complex amino acid structures for Earth-based legumes."

"They're pretty good on nachos too."

"Nachos?"

"Chips with cheese and stuff on top."

The alien considered this. "I will research nachos."

It paid, took its bags—all three arms full—and left. The next customer immediately stepped forward.

"Excuse me, but I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, and my app says my order should be ready."

The TV was showing footage of the alien ships departing, their water tanks full, leaving behind some USB drives containing what scientists were calling "disappointingly incremental" technological improvements.

"What's the name?"

"Jennifer. With a J."

She looked at the order screen. Jennifer's order had been sitting on the pickup shelf for twenty minutes.

"It's right there," she pointed.

"Well, it's cold now."

The fryer beeped. It would always beep. The aliens were leaving, humanity had made first contact, the world had changed forever, and she had four more hours on her shift.

"I'll remake it," she said.

Sunday

Her day off. She didn't watch the news.

Monday (Again)

The fryer was still beeping. Derek had written "AWARE - ALIENS?" on the maintenance clipboard, which didn't even make sense.

A customer approached the counter. Middle-aged woman, pursed lips, phone in hand.

"Excuse me, but I ordered a Burrito Supreme twenty minutes ago, and what I got was clearly a Burrito Regular. This is unacceptable. I want to speak to your manager."

She looked at the burrito. It was definitely a Supreme. It had sour cream. Regulars don't have sour cream.

"The manager isn't in right now."

"Then I want corporate's number. This is the worst service I've ever experienced. The absolute worst. Do you understand me?"

On the TV, muted, scientists were analyzing the neural network algorithms. Early reports suggested they would improve iPhone battery life by 4%.

"Yes ma'am," she said. "I understand."

The woman stormed out, leaving the Supreme on the counter. She threw it away, then made herself a quesadilla with extra cheese. Derek wouldn't notice. Derek never noticed anything.

Outside, the world continued. Bills needed paying. Rent was still due. The fryer was still beeping.

She'd been employee of the month once, two years ago. They'd spelled her name wrong on the certificate.

The door chimed. Another customer.

"Welcome to Burrito Chime," she said, and meant it about as much as she ever did, which wasn't much, but was enough.

The Earth kept spinning. The sun kept burning, minus a little helium.

The fryer kept beeping.

Life went on.