evil chicken burrito

I must record this event before it is too late. For posterity. It happened recently, but because of the traumatic nature of this incident, I have already almost completely blocked it out of my memory.

I was in a rush to get ready to go to work - no time to make lunch - when I remembered that there is a little shack in my neighborhood that whips up and sells what must be authentic Mexican food. "Perfect," I said to myself. "I've always wanted to sample this place."

The trouble was that the restaurant was completely hidden among a myriad of warehouses, garages, loading docks, and fenced off truck part cemeteries. I had forgotten exactly where I had seen it, and to find it meant I would have had to zoom up and down cracked paved roads, dodging fork lifts and men in muscle shirts, with the visibility hindered by whirling dust devils and giant unpredictable trucks. I had, however, made the decision that I needed a burrito that fateful day in May.

Burning up in my car and tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I finally shoved the delivery trucks out of my way (or I like to think I did), and made my way to the parking lot of the tacqueria. To my surprise, the restaurant offered indoor and outdoor seating. The white walls, turquoise trim, flowers on the tables and curtains over the windows transported me instantly to a world south of the border. What cleanliness, I remarked to myself. One could eat off the floors. This time I dared to speak to the lady in Spanish, which I am normally too shy to do. What the heck, I thought.

I told her that I lived in the neighborhood and that this was my first time at their restaurant and how excited I am that their place is nearby. She was polite but didn't engage in idle chatter with the gringa customer that I was for very long.

My chicken burrito came out of the kitchen fast and traveled to work with me. While eating it later that day, I thought of my favorite chicken burritos and compared mental notes. This one fell in the average category. A little too salty and not enough lard.

Off to teach my class I went, and lo and behold - some three hours after eating the darn burrito, my stomach began climbing into my throat. Oh oh, I panicked. Am I pregnant again? Can't be.

I told my students I would be right back and went to the bathroom to check the day's vomit alert scale. "Red, orange, yellow, blue or green?" I asked myself. Orange: high. A couple of dry heaves later it was time to return back to my students, intently working on their computer assignments. "Oh, I feel so much better," I thought. But not for long.

The computer screen shivered in front of my eyes. It hurt to look at it. People passing by began to comment on how pale I looked. I sat there looking at the clock while my students stayed busy with their work.

And sure enough, the wave surged again. Off to the bathroom I ran. But nothing happened. This time I told myself that it's better to get whatever was bothering me out... and I did. Red alert: danger severe. And while I puked I thought, "It really is a pity that the staff bathroom is adjacent to the lunch room. Whoever came up with that design?" First time throwing up at work. And I wasn't even pregnant or drunk. It was clear. The burrito was the culprit. What a shame. I regret to inform you that I have resolved to never go back to that Mexican joint in my neighborhood again. And my students? They never knew I had just turned inside out in the employee bathroom adjacent to the staff kitchenette. And Jonah? The evil chicken burrito cast no spell on him, thank goodness.