Such a bittersweet prospect, looking back on my adolescence in Northfield through the lens of… a friggin’ Taco Bell. Bitter because I remember pulling into this Taco Bell, as the police flagged me down, an underage driver who forgot to turn his headlights on. In an instant, my teenage life seemed to be over, sitting in the back of a squad car, so close to those delicious, crispy tacos. Sweet because of the many weekend-night trips my friends and I would take down to TB, for the taco bellyache special. Our huffy ten speeds whirring past St. Dominics in the darkness, neighbors none the wiser. Waking up those Saturday mornings was part pleasure, part gut-wrenching pain. I had been a bad boy, an image I cultivated relentlessly as a zit-popping teenager. Mission accomplished, one bean burrito at a time. The taco bell of my youth, in it’s many permutations, helped me to become a better man. Well, no it didn’t.