Three Scoops of Super Hot and a Dabble of Sour Cream

Regrets have a way of sneaking under your bedroom door in the middle of the night or turning your stomach into a wrung out sponge the moment you see a man in a uniform.

As a seventeen year old, I spent the majority of my time working at a small town Mexican grill, Chipotle style, but with fresh homemade salsa and locally bought produce. Sounds too good to be true? Just ask the authorities. Our town’s police officers were our most loyal customers. They would wait a whole hour in line for our burritos, and most of their orders, we knew like the back of our hands.

I will never forget you, Officer Three Scoops of Super Hot and a Dabble of Sour Cream.

One summer night, after washing a ridiculously large mountain of dishes, my manager approached me.

"B," she said, "it’s been a crazy night. If you take the recycling out, you’re free to go home.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. My hands were blistering from the hundreds of quesadillas I’d placed on the panini press and my short cut hair had officially escaped every bobby pin I’d used in an attempt to pull it away from my sweaty face. I couldn’t wait to take a shower, to wash the smell of garlic from my arms and legs. I gathered the recycling hastily in my arms and rushed to the back door.

Refusing to take two trips, I’d piled everything high above my head, and although I could walk the entirety of that restaurant blindfolded, the floor had just been mopped. I lost my footing. The floor bruised my knee caps, but somehow the mountain of boxes stayed afloat.

Whew, that was a close one.

I got to my feet and felt for the door. There it was. If I gave it a nice, hefty kick, I could swing my tiny body and the mountain of boxes into the alleyway, no problem, before the door slammed shut again behind me.

Pretty clever, huh.

I leaned back, balancing the boxes carefully between my arms, and swung my foot as hard as I could.

A yelp followed by a groan followed by three ferociously suffocated f-bombs erupted from the doorway.

My stomach backflipped, then sunk to the center of the earth.

No. Oh no oh no oh no.

I peered cautiously around the boxes. A body sat crumpled in the doorway.

“OH. MY GOSH! I am so sorry! Are you oka-”

The boxes crashed to the floor. I froze as the body unraveled, revealing those shiny black boots. The bullet proof vest. The handcuffs and the hip holster

Holy fucking shit.

I just kicked an officer. In the groin.

I stood there, mouth propped open so wide you could see the chicken stuck in my back tooth.

What was I supposed to do? Arrest myself? Help him up? Pray a million times over that a meteor shower wiped me off the face of the earth?

When he finally managed to pry himself off the ground, I pinched myself and attempted another apology.

He said nothing, but stooped down and began gathering the fallen boxes. After handing me the last one, he nodded, gently pushed me aside, and walked down the hallway.

My heart felt like a trapped boomerang. I hobbled outside, dumped the boxes in the giant blue bin and gasped violently for air. An eternity passed before the back door opened.

“B, how long do you need to toss a bunch of boxes in the dumpster?”

I shook my head, unable to open my mouth.

“Girl, I need you inside. AJ needs help and I gotta take a phone call real fast. I think there’s just one more customer up there. Make his food and then you can go.”

Walking felt impossible with the ground swaying back and forth. I stumbled back inside, and through a fog, I slowly wove my way to the food line.

“Hi there, what can I make for you?”

My voice caught in my throat. I slid on a pair of gloves and glanced over the glass.

I nearly shrieked.

The officer chuckled.

“I’ll have a chicken burrito please, with three scoops of Super Hot and a dabble of sour cream.”