We were just west of exit 32 when I broke the news, but to say that the decision was an act of spontaneity would be a downright lie. Every hair on my body stood at attention with anticipation and desire for the sheer possibility that my quest would be complete in mere hours. The probability that the task would be completed by sunset and we’d already be back across state lines by midnight produced an almost euphoric sensation that could be rivaled only by the actual exploitation of the fetish itself.
“We’re going to Cleveland,” I told her. “Burritos. We need to get some burritos.”
“Oh? Oh, are we now?”
The inflection in her question was somewhere between sarcasm and concern, for surely my ambition for hand-rolled, quasi-Mexican delicacies bordered between delirium and obsession, neither of which was anywhere near healthy; it wasn’t even in the ballpark.
“Yeah. 170 miles. I checked on the map at that rest stop. We should be there by seven. Quarter to if we’re lucky.”
The first instance that a jaunt into the Buckeye state piqued my gluttonous interest occurred over a year prior. My friend Jason and I trekked to Ohio to catch Morrissey perform at a theatre, and upon a pilgrimage to the kitschiest of toy shops (their antiquated Pee-Wee’s Playhouse memorabilia rivaled that of even Uncle Fun, Chicago’s premiere novelty boutique), we stumbled upon a one-story shrine of fajitas, tacos, and every westernized adaption of Mesoamerican munchie imaginable. Most Western New Yorkers will insist that a Mighty Taco Roastito is authentic Mexican mess, but anyone naive to a sour-cream gun will attest that there ain’t genuine Mexican cuisine outside of, well, Mexico. This was no exception. Authenticity debates were cast aside, however—I was not there to jettison some minimum wage-earning, salsa-slinging apron jockey. I was there to get fat.
The crowning glory of the queso-crammed menu was a burrito so goddamn big, so full of cilantro, and chicken, and black beans, and rice, and good golly, the cheese, man! The cheese! Well there was this burrito, and to our famine-fevered brains (and of course, stomachs), these burritos reigned supreme in size and, soon to be divulged into our own Rolodex of personal experience, fresh, fantastical taste. For all we were concerned, the fluorescent bulbs decorating the skyscape wallpaper illuminated a cash register that was our altar; every ounce encompassed within the tortilla composed the body of Christ; the pitcher of margaritas? The blood of our savior himself. Sacrilege? To think so would be blasphemous to the nacho gods themselves.
“You’re goddamn insane,” she said. She was not buying what I was selling, but her concern was not even momentarily considered. I would not, and could not, be discouraged.
“Onward! Onward!” To render my exclamations maniacal would be an understatement. We sailed down the 90 with fervor unmatched by everyone else meandering down the icy interstate. The fire in my eyes and in my heart ran deep with desire and as the needle on my 1995 Eagle Summit squeaked past “E.” I could argue that the engine appeared to be fueled on nothing more than my longing for a salsa insurmountably delicious, but that would just be silly. Was it true, though? Soon, my darling. Soon you would be inside of me.
We did not stop for gas in Erie. We did not stop for fuel in Warren. As we encroached the Ohio border the car seemed to transcend the laws of the road and science alike. That tank must have been as dry as a bone but forward he marched, relentlessly, like a callow high school sophomore trumpeting along the parade route, endlessly yearning for his 16-year-old sweetheart at the end of the way to meet him and aid in the unbuttoning of his cumbersome uniform. Just like our eager musician, our pants may had been metaphorically chafing and our sashes might have restricted our flexibility (thus limiting our control over the last valve, rendering a low fourth an impossibility), but we stayed on the beat and knew our reward would be delivered soon enough.
The rain started up in Ashtabula, but did little to hinder our endeavor even slightly. With each swish, swish, swish of the wiper blades, images of exaggerated avocados, dancing a guacamole dance that could exist only in my wildest fantasies, plagued my brain. With each flick of the blade, the green fruits swayed to and fro and drew my retinas deeper into their personified dance as I hiked seemingly endlessly on a westward expedition in hopes of justifying my ostensibly insatiable craving.
We parked on Coventry. Despite all sensible reasoning and logic, we had reached our destination and, having not moved from the front seat of my car in nearly three hours, limped to the front door with dragged feet, lifeless and numb. The neon sign on the door flickered, and if I could decode Morse, I would swear it was urging us to step-to. “Your burritos are inside. Come eat your burritos, Andrew. You made it. The time is now.”
Accomplishing the feat was never infeasible, but the glimmer in my eyes, the spark in my belly, the glowing in my smile as I gazed over the counter and into trays upon trays of cheeses and meats and vegetable after vegetable…surely it would have given the clerk on the other side the impression that I had achieved something surely unattainable.
When the bulk of the burrito was finally ingested, I licked my pointer finger and carefully stuck each grain of rice to my digit and raised it to my lips. Every speck of foodstuffs was consumed.
Oh, it was delicious.
“By the time we would arrive in Chicago,” I pleaded, “we’d definitely be ready for pizza.” “The crust…,” I said, “why, the crust is unlike any crust you’ve ever tasted. Five more hours, and we could be there. They’re open all night, or at least until two a.m. I swear.”
To say the journey was just starting or beginning would be to make a prediction that could not be justified until the end, but completing this…this journey, this voyage, this exploration in vagabondage and gorging, and tasting the tastes that pinch my soul, and riding the roads to get there… well…well that—that was something I was just not ready to finish.
When we got back on the interstate we projected west. The decision was only slightly more spontaneous this time, but the fire in my eyes was now embodied in the passenger to my right as well. There would be no regrets.
