Fresonke

Isolation from what had been a pretty normal life during retirement has changed me in some weird way.  

Going through a drive-through restaurant turned out to be an adventure in its own right. 

My pick was a carnitas burrito at Super Sergio’s.  

I paid with a $10 bill and got my $2 change back. I then reached over to toss $2 into the tip jar.  

Unfortunately the window attendant did not see my act of generosity.  So in an attempt to get recognition for this act of kindness, I reached for the jar again when he turned back around, pretending to drop in the previous $2 tip.  

Well that clumsy reach for the jar looked like I was taking a tip, not faking a tip.  

At this point I knew my day was not going well.  

As he handed me my bagged burrito he asked if I wanted red or green sauce. “Both, along with extra napkins,” I answered.

He tossed the plastic tubs into the bag with two more of those small, tiny, see-through 1-ply napkins commonly found at Mexican fast food restaurants, “Oh, and thanks for the big tip,” he said.  

There was no choice for a pleasant location to eat, so I spotted an open parking spot with a scenic view of traffic.  

Unwrapping this delicacy of slow roasted and deep fried pork with pico de gallo in a giant flour tortilla might be a mess. 

Unfolding my three napkins to make a relatively thicker 3-ply napkin would minimize interior damage inside my SUV.  “Mucho gusto,” very messy. 

As I got down toward the end, gravity had taken all of those delicious juices down to where the burrito folds were beginning to burst.  

As typical for most men over 60 leaving a restaurant, it was inevitable some food was coming home with me.  

The explosion of pork grease with red and green sauce splattered onto my shirt, missing the special 3-ply napkin by about 4 inches but resulting in looking like I was impaled by a medium-sized psychedelic pizza.

Not wanting to interfere with the rest of my mission for the day and unable to change into a clean shirt, I took off my greasy sweatshirt and flipped it around. Hey the collar was a little tighter but that svelte 12-pack was clean in front.  

Heading off to Home Depot to finish my errands, a helpful, orange-vested associate came up behind me on the paint aisle. 

“Hey mister,” he said. “The paint tarps are right up there on your left.”

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