Laced Burritos ( and Texas law)
For my first weekend traveling adventure, I stopped at a gas station to buy a quart of oil for my thirsty Saturn. She loves it when I wind out the gears and taunt Semi trucks but knows she deserves her reward: 10W-30 Castrol oil and nuthin but that.
I pulled into the gas station cool and let the engine rev a bit, cruising to a stop just a little too far for the hose to actually reach the tank. I played it off like I didn’t want gas anyway. There’d be another station down the road. The eyes of Biker Man were on me as I walked into the Quick Stop. He was envious. They always are.
Browsing the aisles I found a good deal. “99 cents a quart! Just like Castrol.” I was sold. She’d never know the difference. I resisted the temptation to pick up a “Barney and Friends Greatest Hits” cassette and followed my nose to the sweet savory smell of Cafeteria Burritos. Now we were talking; fried, lardy goodness.
I picked up two and plopped them and the oil boldly down on the counter. The cashier looked me up and down. She could tell I was a badass.
She rolled her eyes a bit and declared some identification was needed. To say I was put off would be an understatement. With my grizzled exterior I coulda walked out of there with an eighth of marijuana and nobody should have thought to stop me. To be carded over a burrito was too much.
“What on earth do you guys put in the burritos?” I asked as I looked at them in disgust and terror.
“It’s for the oil,” she told me.
I imagined myself being seventeen after I had just bought my first car and slinking around outside the parts store like a criminal whispering, “Hey man, could you score me some oil…” There were probably jail cells full of under aged oil offenders. I would not be one of them. I’m a badass. And older. And just to be on the safe side, I wasn’t about to eat those damn burritos.
Walking out of there I narrowed my eyes and gave a don’t-fuck-with-me nod at Biker Man while I tripped over the curb. The burritos broke my fall, their sauces pouring out onto my shirt. They smelled spicy. I decided to tear into them after all.
I pulled into the gas station cool and let the engine rev a bit, cruising to a stop just a little too far for the hose to actually reach the tank. I played it off like I didn’t want gas anyway. There’d be another station down the road. The eyes of Biker Man were on me as I walked into the Quick Stop. He was envious. They always are.
Browsing the aisles I found a good deal. “99 cents a quart! Just like Castrol.” I was sold. She’d never know the difference. I resisted the temptation to pick up a “Barney and Friends Greatest Hits” cassette and followed my nose to the sweet savory smell of Cafeteria Burritos. Now we were talking; fried, lardy goodness.
I picked up two and plopped them and the oil boldly down on the counter. The cashier looked me up and down. She could tell I was a badass.
She rolled her eyes a bit and declared some identification was needed. To say I was put off would be an understatement. With my grizzled exterior I coulda walked out of there with an eighth of marijuana and nobody should have thought to stop me. To be carded over a burrito was too much.
“What on earth do you guys put in the burritos?” I asked as I looked at them in disgust and terror.
“It’s for the oil,” she told me.
I imagined myself being seventeen after I had just bought my first car and slinking around outside the parts store like a criminal whispering, “Hey man, could you score me some oil…” There were probably jail cells full of under aged oil offenders. I would not be one of them. I’m a badass. And older. And just to be on the safe side, I wasn’t about to eat those damn burritos.
Walking out of there I narrowed my eyes and gave a don’t-fuck-with-me nod at Biker Man while I tripped over the curb. The burritos broke my fall, their sauces pouring out onto my shirt. They smelled spicy. I decided to tear into them after all.
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