Published: 2025-11-02
No one made better cheese crackers than the Good Ol’ Crackers Company. For generations, kids across the country had made the deep orange squares part of their days. An afternoon snack is not complete without Good Ol’ Cheese Crackers! Or so it went the commercial.
But the company’s sales had been plummeting; there was too much competition, cheese wasn't cool anymore; kids wanted exciting and exotic flavors, something to make their taste buds go into a frenzy, like pizza, but by making less profit, research and development had become prohibitively expensive. The Good Ol’ Crackers Company would need a miracle to save the company from an impending collapse; fortunately, their soon-to-happen miracle had a name: Juan Sánchez and José De La Cruz.
Juan and José worked for the Good Ol’ Crackers Company as part of the cooking crew. They weren’t known for being hardworking, smart, or responsible; in fact, they were the opposite of model employees: they arrived late and left early and did barely enough work to keep their jobs. On top of that, it was rumored that they sold marijuana inside the company. Nobody ever took them seriously.
They were mixing the dough when the incident happened. Juan leaned towards José and asked:
“Did you remember to bring the stuff? The guys have been asking.”
“I got something better.”
“What do you mean you got something better?”
“We’ve been selling for quite some time, we gotta step up if we want to make some real money.”
“What did you do, man?”
José lifted his chair to reveal a kilogram of cocaine tucked under his pants.
“Motherfucker, where did you find the money for that?”
“Relax, man, I used what we had for a down payment—”
“A down payment? This ain’t no toaster we’re talking about here. Who did you get this from?”
“Old Pedro, from the projects.”
“The projects? Oh man, our asses are gone. They’re gonna kill us if we don’t pay them.”
“We’ll pay. We can make four, five times our money by selling this stuff. We pay them, we get the profits, we expand our operation.”
“Yo, give me that.”
Juan took the square from José.
“I’m gonna return this to Pedro and let him keep the money you already paid. That way, maybe he won’t kill us.”
“The hell you are.”
The two men grabbed and pulled from the square. Their arms extended over the mixing machine. The door behind them opened.
“What is happening here?” A voice behind them asked.
They turned their heads to find the chef looking angrily at them. The square was ripped apart, its contents falling into the mixer.
“Did you just add more flour to my mix?” The chef asked.
Juan and José looked at the mixer; the snow-like substance sat on top of the mix. They were speechless. José broke the silence.
“Yes, sir. We thought it would make the crackers taste better.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job?”
“No, sir,” it was Juan who answered him, “we just thought the mix looked a bit too watery.”
“Oh, excuse me. Are you two, pieces of scum, now experts or something? I’ll mark this batch, and if it turns bad, you can say goodbye to your jobs.”
The chef left, cursing under his breath.
Juan and José looked at each other as the powder got incorporated into the mix.
“What are we gonna do now?” Juan said while grabbing his head with both hands.
“Don’t ask me, you are the one who ripped the package.”
“And you were the one who brought it here, damn it. We sell dope, not coke.”
“Right now we won’t be selling nothing, and we still have to pay Pedro.”
“We’re dead.” Juan said, now crouching and pinching the bridge of his nose.
The chef marked the batch of dough as to be sure of the crackers that resulted from Juan and Pedro’s adulterated mix. He was convinced that their mistake could cost them their job. They, on the other hand, had bigger problems to worry about.
A week had passed since the incident. Juan and José discussed how to raise money during their lunch break:
“How much do you have already?” Juan asked.
“A couple hundred.”
“I got another couple hundred. That only covers 20% of what we own. When’s the deadline?”
“This weekend.”
“They’re gonna kill us.”
“Chill out, man. Maybe we can sell some of our stuff.”
“Yeah, who the fuck will want to buy your ugly ass clothes?”
“If you have a better idea, I’m listening.”
Juan closed his eyes tightly and massaged his temples as if to force ideas to come out.
“This is what we do: we leave town.”
“Hell no.”
“That’s the only way.”
“I ain’t leaving no town, I was born in here, man.”
“Yeah, and you’re gonna die in here real soon if you don’t get the hell out of town or find a way to come up with several hundred dollars before the end of the week.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“The fuck you will, you haven’t thought once in your entire life.”
As they argued with each other, an unknown man approached them.
“Are you Juan Sánchez and José De La Cruz?” The man asked.
Any suspicion they may had was lifted after noticing the employee ID in his shirt. They nodded.
“The president of the company has summoned you.”
In the president’s office, the chef stood with straight back and his head held high. Juan and José looked at each other and knew they were busted.
“Oh, Juan and José. Come in, please.” The president said.
The two men complied.
“Now, it is my understanding that the two of you modified the chef’s recipe. Is that true?”
“It is, sir.” Juan said.
“And may I ask what it was that you added? We know it was not flour as you told the chef.”
“You may not, sir.”
“And why is that?”
“We cannot tell you.”
“Do you have any idea of what’s happening here?”
“Yes, sir. We are being fired.”
The president and the chef looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“They’re such jesters.” The chef said. “Fired? We sold the batch you worked on in record time! You are being promoted, effective immediately. On the condition you tell us what the secret ingredient is.”
Juan and José looked at each other, bewildered by the turn of events.
“I’m sorry, sir, but even so, we cannot tell you.” Juan said.
“I see. Well, how about this: you don’t have to tell me, but you’ll need to keep adding your secret ingredient to the mix, and you’ll be promoted to chef.”
“I’m sorry?” The chef said.
“Shut up.”
“How much is the pay?” José asked.
“How much do you want it to be?”
“We accept, sir, but we are gonna need an advance.” Juan said with a smile.
THE END.