The Bell Curves

The Taco Bell at Mile Marker 38 sits on a road that does not end.

If you are reading this story to understand the why or the how of that situation, I am sorry to disappoint you. Talk to the math or physics people in the government vans. They have clipboards and measuring devices and long words like topology that seem designed to explain things no one else noticed were a problem.

If you want to discuss romance, talk to Suzy from the 7-11. Everyone loves Suzy.

I am here to tell you about the business of running a Taco Bell on a road that doesn’t end.

Before anyone asks, this isn’t like that movie Groundhog Day. The road never resets. The sun still rises and sets. People still age. Cars still get rust spots. What goes around does come around, but it doesn’t stay the same. It evolves. The funny thing about revisiting the same place again and again is that it’s how you notice change.

The nice thing about a Mexican Pizza is the edges mean the end. You can see where it stops. On a Möbius strip, the edges mean you’re right back where you started. If that hurts your head to think about, have a Baja Blast and relax in the booth.

I’ve been managing this Taco Bell for eleven years, or possibly about thirty-five minutes. Time behaves strangely when the road never stops moving under you. I try not to worry about it. My job is to keep the soda machines running, the fryers hot, and the mild sauce stocked.

You’d be surprised how much stability people can find in a place that technically shouldn’t exist.

Most nights follow a rhythm.

The truckers come first. They tend to arrive in pairs about twenty minutes apart, though on the Möbius strip, that’s a rough estimate. There’s a guy named Larry who orders two bean burritos and a large Diet Pepsi. He says it keeps him regular. He’s been planning to retire for three years now. Every few loops, he updates me on the plan.

“Thinking next spring,” he’ll say.

“Sounds like a good time,” I tell him.

Then he drives off, and eventually he comes around again.

Suzy from the 7-11 usually shows up after midnight. Her store is somewhere down/up the strip, though the exact location depends on how you measure distance on a one-sided surface. Everyone loves Suzy because she laughs easily and remembers people’s birthdays. She has the kind of pleasantness that makes people relax without quite knowing why. Sometimes she brings coffee.

“Thought you might need this,” she says.

“I always need coffee,” I say.

She sits in booth three, which gets the best light from the parking lot sign. The Bell feels more familiar when she's here.

Then there’s the kid in the Civic. He’s been going through a breakup for about four loops now. The first time he came through he ordered nothing but a Choco Taco and looked like someone had stolen his dog.

“Breakups are like bad tacos,” I told him. “You think they’re the end of the world until you have a better one.”

He didn’t laugh, but he did take the free Gordita I slid across the counter.

The interesting thing about the strip is that people keep coming back around. At first they’re strangers. Then they’re familiar faces. Eventually they’re neighbors.

That’s something the government scientists took a while to understand.

They arrived last fall in three white vans with tinted windows and small American flags on the doors. They parked at the edge of the lot and started unloading equipment that looked like it belonged on a spaceship.

One of them came inside and ordered a Crunchwrap Supreme.

“Is this establishment aware that it sits on a non-orientable topological surface?” he asked.

“Is that with or without sour cream?” I said.

They set up instruments along the road and placed little reflective markers on the asphalt. For several days they drove the strip taking measurements and arguing with each other about geometry.

At first they ate in the vans.

They would pull through the drive-thru, collect their food, and then park out by the instruments. I’d see them through the window holding tacos in one hand and notebooks in the other.

They referred to the Taco Bell as “the anomaly site.”

One night the tallest scientist came inside because the soda fountain in the van had stopped working.

He sat in booth four and unfolded a map that looked like someone had taken a perfectly good highway diagram and tied it in a knot.

“According to our models,” he said, “this road should be impossible.”

I wiped down the counter.

“According to my models,” I said, “the fryer oil needs changing every two days, or the complaints come from both sides: customers and corporate.”

He stared at me like I had just answered a different question.

Which I suppose I had.

After a few trips around the strip, the scientists started coming inside more often.

One of them discovered the hot sauce packets.

Another one realized booth four had an electrical outlet that was perfect for charging laptops.

Eventually, they stopped bringing clipboards to the counter.

That’s when they started noticing the other thing about the road.

The people.

They saw Larry the trucker talking about retirement plans. They saw the kid in the Civic slowly ordering real food again instead of just desserts and large Dews. They saw Suzy bringing coffee for everyone like she was hosting a very small, very strange block party.

One night, the tall scientist looked around the dining room.

“Do these people all live here?” he asked.

“As much as anyone lives anywhere,” I said.

He frowned.

“But the road loops.”

“That’s right.”

“And everyone keeps returning to the same location.”

“That’s right.”

He stared out the window at the endless curve of highway.

“Then eventually everyone will encounter everyone else.”

“Pretty much.”

He thought about that for a while.

The thing about the Möbius strip is that it only has one side. That’s the whole trick. No matter how far you travel, you’re still on the same surface.

Despite our differences, we’re all on the same side.

On this road that means something literal.

The scientists eventually stopped trying to explain the road and started paying attention to the neighborhood.

One of them started helping Larry map out retirement routes that would still loop him past the Taco Bell once a week.

Another one gave the kid in the Civic some advice about graduate school applications.

Suzy started bringing extra coffee because the physicists drank it like a resource that might disappear at any moment.

The tall scientist began referring to the Taco Bell as “the center of the strip.”

“That’s not technically correct,” I told him.

He nodded.

“Maybe not geometrically,” he said. “But socially.”

I had to admit he had a point.

Then he introduced himself: Bob. Of course, the kind of guy who studies the strip has a name that’s a palindrome.

On a road that never ends, people still look for a place to stop for a minute. Somewhere with lights, warm food, and someone who knows their order before they say it.

Eventually, you realize that neighborhoods aren’t really about geography. They’re about repetition. People crossing the same space often enough that they start to recognize each other.

On a normal road, that takes years.

On the Möbius strip, it happens naturally.

After enough loops, the scientists stopped calling the place an anomaly.

They started calling it ours.

Bob sat in booth four one night and looked around the dining room at Larry, Suzy, and the kid in the Civic and a few other regulars.

“You know,” he said, “a Möbius strip technically has no inside or outside.”

“That sounds about right,” I said.

He nodded thoughtfully.

“That means everyone here is on the same side.”

I handed him his taco.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Outside the window, the road curved away into the dark and eventually returned from the other direction like it always did.

Cars passed.

Then they passed again.

What goes around comes around on the strip, but it doesn’t stay the same. People change. Lives move forward. You just happen to see the same place again and again, as it happens.

That’s how neighborhoods grow.

My job is just to keep the lights on and the tacos warm while it builds.

And if you’re ever passing through Mile Marker 38, you’re welcome to stop in.

Eventually, everyone does.