I don't recall the first time I experimented with chips and salsa, but I know I was young. Perhaps I was home alone and stumbled across my parents' and decided, "hey, why not? I've seen mom and dad enjoy this". Regardless, I was a full blown addict by the age of 12.
I remember some crazy experimentation in junior high. While most of my peers were worried about 8th grade geography, I was busy mixing ranch and salsa. Those were dark days for sure. What is sad is that I never admitted that I had a problem. I would find reasons in high school to get everyone to go to Chili's rather than a movie. Then, subtly as I sat in the restaurant booth, I would ask for one of those "bottomless baskets of chips and salsa" with my Old Timer burger.
Nobody asked, but everyone knew. I was able to keep the habit in check throughout my teen years and even through college. It was probably due to the fact that I was operating on a limited income and could not afford to regularly "kiss the tortilla and tomato".
Everything changed when I got a real job. Suddenly I had disposable income that I could use on anything I wanted. Most people fancy new clothes or a sporty car. Not me. With my first paycheck I went to Kroger and stood paralyzed with awe at all the choices. Doritos and Tostitos, Pace and Ortega, Regular and Baked.
I have had some dark nights. Nights I am shamed to mention. I would be lying if I said there had not been numerous times where the urge has driven me to open a bag and crack a can and before I knew it, I'd cleaned both out completely.
I didn't think I could go any lower. That is, until last week. I found myself watching the AFC championship game on television and that familiar, haunting desire overwhelmed me. I tried to fight it, but my lips desired that thrilling saltiness. As I rose from my arm chair and stumbled into the kitchen I opened my cupboards and refrigerator to find no chips and no salsa.
I was torn. I did not know what to do, and that was when I took the addiction too far. I saw left over pita bread on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator and chunky marinara spaghetti sauce right above it. In an insane move, I actually stripped the pita bread into pieces and used them as chips in a bottle of spaghetti sauce. It gave me my fix, but I was sickened at myself. What kind of monster have I become?
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Short Story #1
This is not a story of romance. This is not a story of spiritual things. Yes, all things fundamentally come down to spirituality, but this story is not about that. This is a story of truncation, a story of precision.
He sat in his chair, his back straight, perfect posture. An article he had read in Men’s Health stressed the importance of a strong core. It was thirteen past the hour and he had been working diligently at his desk since eight. Vincent’s light brown hair sat upon his head combed to the side. His black-rimmed glasses hung across his long, slender face. Today he wore a blue tie with his white, starched shirt. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It had been on sale at Macy’s and she had a coupon. It was a bargain to say the least.
Vincent double-checked his work. No remainder. Everything tied out perfectly. The statement was complete and now he could justify getting his second cup of coffee. It would be his last of the day, because he did not want to chance having too much caffeine. As Vincent stood up from his desk he looked out the window at the St. Louis skyline. He was not sure what to think of the falling snow. It certainly was not beautiful. Snow meant traffic jams, tardiness and disorganization. Vincent hated snow.
It was twenty-seven past the hour when Vincent returned to his desk. He filtered through the emails on his computer, looking for the next task to tackle. Over his shoulder hung an accounting degree from the University of Wisconsin. Carefully hung around the diploma were family pictures. 1998 in Mexico with his brother, 2004 in Maine with his mother and father, and a family portrait from last year’s Christmas. The glass in each of the frames was shinny and streak free.
Vincent continued to work throughout the afternoon and stood to grab his jacket at exactly six. The daylight had already slipped beneath the horizon and darkness remained as the only thing outside his window.
As he gathered his keys, wallet and jacket his thoughts went to the chicken breast marinating in his refrigerator at home. He’d need to check how long it should cook to guard against the possibility of salmonella. Vincent shut his computer down, turned off the light in his office and headed to the exit.
As he let his car’s engine warm, he turned on the radio. The first station was not playing a song to his liking so he continued to toggle between the preprogrammed stations. Content with an evening NPR program, he put his car into drive and headed towards the highway.
Forty-five minutes. The drive normally took twenty-five. He parked his car in his assigned spot and headed to the apartment mailboxes. A credit card statement, a letter from his brother in Europe, and a penny-saver ad laid in his box. He took the penny-saver and discarded it in a waste bin. Vincent disdained junk mail.
Vincent opened his apartment door and hung his winter jacket in the closet. Carefully he folded his scarf and placed it on the end table next to the door. His apartment smelled of air freshener and Pine-Sol. Vincent prized himself on the cleanliness of his apartment. It was sterile and organized.
Records. Records were a terrible inconvenience. What was his sister thinking when she dropped off a box of them last week? Vincent had no desire for clutter, especially clutter that was obsolete. He would make a point to drop them off at Goodwill on Saturday. Perhaps some poor soul would find them useful or get some utility from them. For Vincent it meant a tax write-off.
Vincent pulled the chicken out of the oven and placed it on a white plate from the cupboard. As he sat down at his kitchen table his mind returned to the records. It made him itch. CDs and MP3s were clean and digital. Records were analog. He ate a few bites of his chicken and decided he was no longer hungry. Who would collect records? Why would anyone collect anything for that matter? Collecting was an inefficiency. Unless one is collecting things with an expectation of them having value at a later date, it did not make sense. Vincent took his leftovers and placed them in a Ziploc baggy.
After writing a check for his credit card bill, Vincent put on a sweater and grabbed the box of records. He walked out to the apartment trash compactor and dropped the albums in. The tax write-off would have been minimal he told himself as he walked back to his apartment.
He sat in his chair, his back straight, perfect posture. An article he had read in Men’s Health stressed the importance of a strong core. It was thirteen past the hour and he had been working diligently at his desk since eight. Vincent’s light brown hair sat upon his head combed to the side. His black-rimmed glasses hung across his long, slender face. Today he wore a blue tie with his white, starched shirt. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It had been on sale at Macy’s and she had a coupon. It was a bargain to say the least.
Vincent double-checked his work. No remainder. Everything tied out perfectly. The statement was complete and now he could justify getting his second cup of coffee. It would be his last of the day, because he did not want to chance having too much caffeine. As Vincent stood up from his desk he looked out the window at the St. Louis skyline. He was not sure what to think of the falling snow. It certainly was not beautiful. Snow meant traffic jams, tardiness and disorganization. Vincent hated snow.
It was twenty-seven past the hour when Vincent returned to his desk. He filtered through the emails on his computer, looking for the next task to tackle. Over his shoulder hung an accounting degree from the University of Wisconsin. Carefully hung around the diploma were family pictures. 1998 in Mexico with his brother, 2004 in Maine with his mother and father, and a family portrait from last year’s Christmas. The glass in each of the frames was shinny and streak free.
Vincent continued to work throughout the afternoon and stood to grab his jacket at exactly six. The daylight had already slipped beneath the horizon and darkness remained as the only thing outside his window.
As he gathered his keys, wallet and jacket his thoughts went to the chicken breast marinating in his refrigerator at home. He’d need to check how long it should cook to guard against the possibility of salmonella. Vincent shut his computer down, turned off the light in his office and headed to the exit.
As he let his car’s engine warm, he turned on the radio. The first station was not playing a song to his liking so he continued to toggle between the preprogrammed stations. Content with an evening NPR program, he put his car into drive and headed towards the highway.
Forty-five minutes. The drive normally took twenty-five. He parked his car in his assigned spot and headed to the apartment mailboxes. A credit card statement, a letter from his brother in Europe, and a penny-saver ad laid in his box. He took the penny-saver and discarded it in a waste bin. Vincent disdained junk mail.
Vincent opened his apartment door and hung his winter jacket in the closet. Carefully he folded his scarf and placed it on the end table next to the door. His apartment smelled of air freshener and Pine-Sol. Vincent prized himself on the cleanliness of his apartment. It was sterile and organized.
Records. Records were a terrible inconvenience. What was his sister thinking when she dropped off a box of them last week? Vincent had no desire for clutter, especially clutter that was obsolete. He would make a point to drop them off at Goodwill on Saturday. Perhaps some poor soul would find them useful or get some utility from them. For Vincent it meant a tax write-off.
Vincent pulled the chicken out of the oven and placed it on a white plate from the cupboard. As he sat down at his kitchen table his mind returned to the records. It made him itch. CDs and MP3s were clean and digital. Records were analog. He ate a few bites of his chicken and decided he was no longer hungry. Who would collect records? Why would anyone collect anything for that matter? Collecting was an inefficiency. Unless one is collecting things with an expectation of them having value at a later date, it did not make sense. Vincent took his leftovers and placed them in a Ziploc baggy.
After writing a check for his credit card bill, Vincent put on a sweater and grabbed the box of records. He walked out to the apartment trash compactor and dropped the albums in. The tax write-off would have been minimal he told himself as he walked back to his apartment.
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