"Um... Hello?"

I stand behind the counter at the Chipotle restaurant, awkward in my new uniform, which includes a full length apron, and I see that I'm alone. No other employees show themselves, and I certainly don't see the manager. How am I supposed to do this job alone... when I haven't been given any training...

In truth, I'm not alone. Behind the counter, sure I'm alone, but in the room... nope.

A line of customers reaches most of the way to the front door. As a repeat customer myself, I've seen far longer lines, but at the moment twenty or thirty people are way more than I can handle.

Absently, my hand dances across the keys of the cash register. Astoundingly, I manage to log in and open the drawer. Ok, so maybe I got a tiny bit of training at some point... and I just don't remember it...

Trying to smile, but unable to hide my nervousness, I make my way to the start of the food line, where the tortillas wait. Thankfully, someone at least got the food ready. "What would you like, Sir?" A hateful glare triggers a horrifying epiphany. "Ma'am! What would you like, Ma'am?"

It takes me at least four times as long as I've ever seen from a Chipotle employee for me to assemble the first burrito. Thankfully I manage to ring it up correctly in the register. I also get some guac on the keys though, so I pull off my gloves partway through the procedure. I start the next burrito and the customer clears his/her/its throat reproachfully. Okay, this one is almost certainly a man, but my confidence was shaken by the first customer's unforgiving reaction. I grab a new pair of gloves and regretfully chuck the tortilla when that alone doesn't satisfy. This time I accidentally scoop way too much meat onto the burrito, but at least this mistake is greeted with delight, and I just go with it. If the manager can't be bothered to train me, I won't cry about giving away a little extra. I remove my messy gloves to ring up this order, and when I turn to head back to the start, a marvelous sight greets me.

Though clearly bored, the uniformed, aproned employee looks like a rescuing savior in my eyes. The uncommonly short woman that joins him a moment later boosts my morale still further. Sure, this isn't difficult, considering how doomed I felt ten seconds ago.

Now there is hope.

But not a lot.

Sure, the food is getting mostly prepared by people who know what they're doing, but suddenly ringing up the orders is getting tricky. I don't know what code system they're using, but I can't even guess what any of it means. The next two burritos are labeled "JGY" and "RRM." Nothing on the menu sounds similar, and nothing on the register is labeled that way either. I ask the customers what they ordered, but the first one answers "Vegetarian" with an evil smirk that suggests he actually got double beef and guac. The second customer just stares at me like my brain is offline. Ultimately I know I'll just ring up everyone as getting the vegetarian burrito, cuz I'm less likely to end up in an argument from undercharging rather than the reverse.

And now, another curveball.

Apparently there's a new product that I haven't heard of. The next... burrito? Mega-casserole? Uber food bucket? It's just absurdly gigantic. At least three times the size of a burrito, this heap of rice, beans, meat, and veggies fills a huge tortilla that in turn overflows the sides of a large basket. It hasn't been closed up yet, so I add the demanded sauce and try to wrap up the mess.

"Filthy," the customer mutters, and I realize that I've once again forgotten gloves.

I grit my teeth, put on gloves, manage to barely seal the gigantic burrito monster, remove the gloves, and stare at the register. Seriously, none of the keys give any hint as to how to ring up this thing.

I punch in a barbacoa burrito. This beast must cost at least that much, right?

Then, a miracle. Two more employee's arrive! One takes over the end of the food line. The other hesitates for just an instant, not sure what to do. Frantically, I remove my apron, throw it at her, and bolt.

I head for the back of the restaurant, hoping to find the manager and beg for some real training. But I must have taken a wrong turn. I now face the ordering counter of a pizza place, which apparently shares our building. Weird, but whatever. I cast my gaze about, and I finally glimpse the doorway to the Chipotle kitchen. There is a stuffy looking woman staring out at me in disapproval. Yeah, that's probably the manager. I take one step toward her, trying to muster the right mix of polite indignation and respectful submission, but there's a tap on the glass door behind me.

I turn.

Uh... What?

Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee stand side by side, looking in through the glass, waving me over with insistent expressions. By the time I reach them and step outside, I realize that I'm only a little taller than them. Is it possible that there were stools behind the counter and I just didn't consciously register having to stand on them?

"Come on Pippin," Frodo whispers. "We're almost to The Mountain."

"Just a little further and we can be done with this mess," Sam says.

I look around, and see that the surrounding countryside is barren and rocky. Jagged mountains line the horizon, and a towering volcano stands not far from the restaurant.

"Um... we're in Mordor?"

"Where else?" Frodo hisses, annoyed.

"I was working at the Mordor Chipotle?"

"You thought it would be a nice cover story for getting into the Enemy's land," Sam reminds me.

"Oh. Um, sure."

Without another word, Frodo heads off toward Mount Doom, with Sam scurrying after him.

Looking over my shoulder, I note how the Chipotle/Pizza restaurant isn't totally out of place. A paved parking lot is serviced by a well-maintained street heading off into the distance, most of the cars are in decent condition, and the street lights look like they'd work at night. I note the moderately clear skies, not bad considering the active volcano. The sky is even blue not too far from here. "I guess Mordor's been working on its image, huh?"

Frodo and Sam don't acknowledge this observation, and I trudge after them, mildly self-conscious in my apron-free Chipotle uniform. I wonder where my elven cloak got to. I don't mind wearing shoes though. The ground isn't the steaming, mangled ruin I'd expected, but it still doesn't look comfortable for bare feet.

I see the fortress of Barad-dur in the distance, but the Eye of Sauron doesn't menace its highest pinnacle, and it seems less spiky and generally deadly than I expected. The clencher though, proving that Mordor is really trying to lighten up and present a friendlier public front, comes when we're stopped by a Nazgul.

Nothing could get the Ringwraith to change out of its scary black hooded cloak, but it's not riding a dragon-like Fellbeast or even a black horse. Its high-dollar bicycle has good shocks and all-terrain tires, and a few fancy bits that give a vaguely Steampunk air, but otherwise it isn't especially intimidating. The breathy, whispery voice is clearly trying to sound perky and polite rather than menacing. "Welcome, travelers. What brings you to Mordor?"

"I'm Mr. Underhill," Frodo answers warily. "My friends and I want to take the hiking trail to the Cracks of Doom."

"Oh, you must mean the Volcanic Canyon Overlook," the Ringwraith corrects, with a pathetically-transparent attempt to lighten the sound of it. "That's our most scenic route. Be sure to enjoy the view, but do you have enough water for the journey?"

Frodo ignores him and trudges past. Sam glares, and I smile apologetically.

Though its features are invisible, I can tell from the Nazgul's bearing that it's offended but trying to hide it. Before we get far, it gives up and says, "If you plan on destroying the Ring, you should know that we have Sam's family in custody."

A chill goes up my spine, Sam cries out in grief, and Frodo whirls angrily. "I knew you couldn't have reformed! Dirty, scheming, vile—"

"When are the visiting hours?" I ask, surprising everyone by interrupting the Ringbearer.

The Nazgul visibly slumps, for I've taken the wind from his sails. "Visiting hours are unrestricted," it sighs, reluctantly pointing around a bend of the mountainside. "Their cells are over there. Please remind them not to escape."

"Thank you, Sir," I say, with a mixture of confidence and sincerity. Frodo and Sam follow me, disbelieving, frequently looking over their shoulders at the deflated Ringwraith. He still slumps on his bicycle, knowing he's lost his only advantage over us.

Just around the corner, we see the "cells." Talk about Minimum Security. Calling this a prison would be a total lie. It's practically a hotel.

We've arrived at a house. And not just a house, this structure, though inexpensively constructed from mostly plywood, clearly mimics a Hobbit Hole. Good grief. They've actually embraced the whole "be nice and win the world over" mentality.

A human guard in a not-remotely-threatening cotton uniform stands sorta near the door, but he doesn't even look up as we approach. He seems focused on a book.

"I guess this 'prison' operates on the Honor System," I observe as I open the unlocked door.

Inside the sparse but comfortable interior, Sam's extended family lounges around, playing board games and nibbling inexpensive but perfectly-palatable snacks. I pop a Cheeto in my mouth as Sam awkwardly greets his family, and Frodo just stares flabbergasted.

"They asked us to be their guests," a hobbit girl says, "but this isn't terribly exciting. I think we'll head out now that you're here."

"Are you sure?" asks the worried guard who has stepped up to the doorway.

"Yes," says the Gaffer. "We'll be off."

"Oh," says the nervous guard, totally powerless. "Well, um... enjoy the rest of your day..."

As we leave the "prison," Frodo finally admits that destroying the Ring probably isn't such a big priority anymore. "It looks like Mordor's lost its teeth," he half-whispers. "The Ring isn't even heavy."

The young hobbit girl notices my uniform and perks up. "Oh! If we go to Chipotle, could ya use your employee discount for us?"

Everyone looks at me, and I shudder at the memory of how awkward that job was. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not sure I actually got hired."

"No worries," Sam says. He's very cheerful now that he's accepted the Quest is over, or at least unnecessary, and that his family is safe. "Burritos are on me!"

Author's Note:

I most certainly didn't make this story up, not consciously. It's one of the silliest dreams I've ever had. I deeply enjoyed the experience, and writing it out was a load of fun.