Having recently finished the manuscript for my book project, I was in the mood for a mini-celebration. Since only a spicy meal could match my
mood, I went to one of the 639 Mexican restaurants in our relatively small town
where I ordered spicy tomatillo sauce instead of the usual salsa with my chips.
The pretty waitress seemed extra friendly, and I could tell right away she was
attracted to me, most likely sensing my imminent publishing greatness, so I was
extra friendly right back. Hoping to make an impression by making her work a little lighter, I used my napkin to wipe up a trail of the dribbled tomatillo salsa and then set it to the side. A few minutes later, the waitress checked on me and then went to get my bill.
Trying to shovel down the remaining chips and salsa before she returned, I got a hunk of particularly spicy pepper stuck in the back of my throat, which led to a coughing spell, which led to my eyes watering, which led to my nose beginning to run – just as the waitress turned the corner to return to my table.
In desperation, I grabbed my napkin to blow my nose; placing the napkin to my nostrils, I inhaled deeply to make sure I had enough air for a good blow, and when the wiped up tomatillo sauce hit my nasal cavity, I exploded in a fit of tears and sneezing, accompanied by a full blown snot waterfall.
The waitress never even slowed down as she paper air-planed my check the remaining couple of feet to my table. As she passed a waiter, she jerked her head in my direction and asked, “Cuál es su problema?” (What’s his problem?)
The waiter, his arms stacked five plates deep, pirouetted to get a better look at me and, coming full circle back to the waitress, responded very matter-of-factly, “Cocaína.”
And that's how my taco addiction apparently escalated to narcotics.
