Danny sat on the curb outside El Papi's Taco Joint, legs sprawled like a guy who'd just lost a fight to physics. His shirt was damp with sweat, salsa, and shame. He stared at the shattered remains of lunch—half a carnitas taco clinging to his sock, guac smeared on his elbow like war paint.
His phone buzzed.
> YOU'VE BEEN DEACTIVATED
Reason: "Unsafe delivery conduct + unauthorized trampoline use"
"Unauthorized trampoline use?" Danny muttered. "What is this, the Geneva Burrito Convention?"
A shadow blocked the sun. It belonged to a short man in a tall hat—one of those artisanal hot dog vendors who took their job like it was a spiritual calling.
"You alright?" the guy asked, squinting.
"Define alright," Danny said. Then, realizing he'd already used that line with the rollerblade fairy guy, he winced. Recycling his own dialogue. Tragic.
The hot dog guy whistled. "That was some fall, man. You should've landed a sponsorship."
Danny stood up slowly, like a folding chair unfolding itself badly. His knees cracked. "Great. That's what I need. Branded injury content."
He checked his phone again. One unread text.
[Mom]: Did you apply to that job your sister sent? HR at a bank isn't glamorous but it has benefits!
Danny stared at the screen like it owed him rent. Then he shoved the phone in his pocket and limped toward the bus stop.
The number 7 bus wheezed up South Congress like it had asthma. Danny climbed aboard and flashed his beat-up CapMetro card, praying it hadn't expired.
The driver didn't blink. Just nodded once. "Rough day?"
Danny nodded. "Fired for taco-related misconduct."
The driver shrugged. "Yeah. That tracks."
Home was a garage apartment behind a pale yellow bungalow owned by Mrs. Beverly Clarke, a widow with strong opinions on lawn ornaments and stronger opinions on how to cook a proper brisket. The garage had once stored tools and Christmas decorations. Now it stored Danny and his regrets.
He climbed the narrow stairs, careful not to jostle the crooked railing. The door stuck—like always—so he hip-checked it open and stepped inside.
The room was a shoebox. Bed, desk, kitchenette, all in arm's reach. A mini fridge hummed like it was trying to warn him of something. On the counter sat a stale bagel and half a lime. Danny stared at them.
"Dinner, probably."
He tossed the bagel, drank some tap water, and opened his laptop. No Wi-Fi. Again. He hit the router. It blinked once, defiantly.
Then came the knock.
Mrs. Beverly never texted. She believed texting was how "aliens mapped your soul." She knocked like she meant it—three hard raps and a flourish, like she was auditioning for a musical.
Danny opened the door.
She stood there in a housecoat covered in bluebonnets, holding a plastic container. Her hair was teased into the kind of poof only achievable by people who survived the '70s.
"Leftover casserole," she said. "It's got three cheeses and no kale. Like God intended."
Danny took it like a man receiving communion.
"Thanks, Bev."
"You were on the internet again," she said. "The bad kind."
He groaned.
"I saw it on that TikTak site. Or Taktok. I don't know. You fell like a cartoon goat. Then the chihuahua peed on you."
Danny sighed. "I'm retiring from stunt work."
Mrs. Beverly nodded solemnly. "Good. You're no Evil Knievel. You're more of a... Fragile Frank."
He laughed, despite everything.
She squinted. "You working tomorrow?"
"Nope. Fired."
"Again?"
"Yep."
She shook her head. "You need something steady. Like cat-sitting. Or ghost removal. Austin's full of both."
"I'll figure it out," he said, but even as he said it, the words rang hollow. He'd said them before. Too many times.
She peered at him, softening. "Don't be proud, Danny. You let me know if you need help."
"I'm okay."
She narrowed her eyes. "You say that a lot. Doesn't make it true."
Then she turned and left, her housecoat swishing like a cape.
That night, Danny lay on his mattress staring at the ceiling, listening to the crickets outside and the dull thud of his neighbor's EDM playlist.
He opened a blank Google Doc.
Title: Untitled Screenplay
Page 1:
> INT. GUY'S LIFE – NIGHT
A man lies in bed, broke, sweaty, wondering how everything got so sideways.
He stared at the blinking cursor.
Then he closed the laptop.
Instead, he grabbed a notepad and scribbled down a list:
Danny's Emergency Plan (Version 87):
1. Find a job that doesn't involve falling
2. Pay rent (on time??)
3. Fix scooter (or destroy it ceremoniously)
4. Apologize to ex (optional)
5. Be a better person than yesterday
6. Avoid burritos for 1 week minimum
He underlined #1 three times. Then circled "ceremoniously."
Tomorrow, he'd start fresh. Maybe.
Probably.
First, he needed sleep.
Or at least to stop Googling "can you die from secondhand queso exposure."