After our performance at the closing of the Cattle Call Rodeo in Brawley, I rolled up to In-N-Out thinking I’d grab a quick bite.

The place looked packed to the gills. Maybe not the best decision I’ve made, but hope is a dangerous thing. 

I was still in my green traje de charro—embroidered jacket, gold botonadura, boots clicking like I was about to challenge someone to a duel. 

Felt dramatic. 

Looked dramatic. 

But that did not prepare me for the scene unfolding before me.

The drive-thru line looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic ration queue.

Cars curled around the parking lot, doubled back on themselves, spilled across the exit, and oozed into the side street like a giant, slow, metal anaconda that had just eaten a Costco-sized shipment of hamburgers. At least thirty cars deep. Some drivers had that thousand-yard stare like they’d been in line since lunch… yesterday.

One guy in a dusty Camry had reclined his seat all the way back, hands folded over his chest like he’d accepted his fate. The Mini Cooper behind him had their windows down, blasting rancheras in solidarity. A Ford F150 far in the back had turned off the engine completely—conserving fuel like they were preparing for a long voyage.

Inside was worse.

The restaurant was packed. A human terrarium.

Every seat was taken, every wall leaned on, every corner occupied. Families, teens, old-timers, dusty farmers, teenagers still wearing their Cattle Call glitter. Even the two service dogs waiting with their handlers looked frazzled—like they were about two minutes from asking the manager what was taking so long.

The crowd was in that special stage of hunger where everyone becomes an amateur comedian or a philosopher of suffering.

A guy near the drink station announced loudly,
“Bro, this is worse than the DMV. At least at the DMV they pretend to skip numbers in order.”

Someone else groaned, “I’ve aged 40 minutes just standing here.”

Every time a number was called, the room reacted like it was a plot twist in a telenovela.

Half the room sighed. Someone muttered, “¿Why are they skipping numbers? I was 68, then 69, then 70… now 71? What happened to 67? Did they eat it? Did someone steal it? Is there a black market burger situation happening?”

A teenager in the corner winced dramatically and said, “That should’ve been me.”

As I waited to place my order, the group of kids behind me pointed out, quite loudly, that I was dressed in a “mariachi suit.” (Obvio, no?)

Then came the question: “Are you a mariachi?”

Part of me wanted to be sarcastic—Nah, I just cosplay as a charro on weekends—but instead I said, “Yes. We just finished performing at the Cattle Call.”

One of them lit up. “I’ll pay for your food if you sing us a song.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“But it’s gotta be a Juan Gabriel song,” she added, suddenly raising the stakes like a game show producer. (I blame that Juan Gabriel documentary.)

“Cash! Or no deal!” I said.

She smirked. “Do you take Venmo?”

I opened the app, displayed my QR code, turned my phone toward her like I was revealing the final answer on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

She glanced at it for half a second and went, “No. Siempre no. Never mind.”

Their loss.

Finally, my turn at the register arrived. I ordered and joined the rest of humanity in the purgatory of waiting.

The loudspeaker crackled again.
“Number 72! Seventy-two!”

The room erupted into a chorus of groans, dramatic sighs, and one guy whispering, “They’re doing this on purpose.”

I looked back down at my receipt.

#99.
Damn.

At this point, I was convinced my Double-Double would be ready in another lifetime—reincarnation-level waiting.

By the time my number was finally called, I had gone through three soda refills, each one a sad, fizzless echo of the last. I had watched entire families receive their orders, eat half, and immediately launch into full-scale arguments over who finished the ketchup. I even contemplated filing a small claims lawsuit against the very concept of waiting in line.

And then—finally—the loudspeaker crackled my salvation: “Number 99! 99, your order is ready!”

I grabbed my bags like a warrior claiming a hard-fought prize and made the trek back to my car. I tore into a bag, shoved a few fries into my mouth, and sipped soda like a man who had crossed deserts and glaciers just to reach this moment.

Worth the wait.

Now it was time to drive home, eat with my wife and kids, and spin drafts of this story until one finally clicks just right.

Some people climb mountains. I just conquered In-N-Out on a Sunday night in a traje de charro, with a near-singing experience.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.