Heart Full of Burritos
I went to school in a prototypical college town with all the requisite features: intramural soccer fields, fraternity houses, and, most importantly, a late-night burrito restaurant named BTB Burrito. Originally, it was named Big Ten Burrito. After a cease-and-desist letter from the Big Ten Conference, the restaurant polled its customers for name suggestions. One owner confessed his favorite customer submission was Fuck You Big Ten Conference Burrito. Sensing that the new idea still might not resolve the Big Ten Conference’s trademark concerns, it was officially renamed BTB Burrito.
BTB has a single table. A permanent layer of errant burrito innards resides on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The only décor is a series of posters depicting famous movie scenes, but photoshopped to show the characters holding giant burritos. For example, Al Pacino holds a giant burrito in his drug-fueled rage.
I spent seven years in the college town (don’t worry — I acquired two separate degrees in that amount of time). After my second graduation, I took a real job in a real city halfway across the country. A city where I knew only a handful of people. This was scary, because I was used to knowing hundreds of people who all lived within walking distance from my apartment. And some of whom lived in my actual apartment. People who would bring me burritos when I was hungry, drive me to Trader Joe’s, and let me borrow their clothes. Signs of true friendship, which offset their occasional transgressions, such as forcing me to use eyelash curlers (or eyelash guillotines in my personal nomenclature).
At the real job I would be expected to do work for a salary, not a letter grade. The work was expected to be done between the hours of 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Not between the hours of 11:15 a.m. to 1:00 a.m. with intermittent and frequent breaks for activities including, but not limited to: frisbee throwing, Gchatting (the precursor to Google Hangouts and a cool thing to do in the pre-Snapchat era), real life chatting (another cool thing to do in the pre-Snapchat era), searching for free food, napping under desks in the library in the winter, napping under trees on the quad in the summer, reading the campus newspaper, signing petitions, wearing a donkey costume to encourage voter registration, watching that one guy play harmonica, snowball fighting, and — most importantly — burrito eating.
My first collegiate burrito — surely a secular rite of passage — was after an evening chemistry study session during my dorm’s dinner hours. Hungry and frugal, a new friend and chemistry classmate told me that we could get burritos for only $2, including tax! At almost any time of day! Three blocks from our dorm! And like a baby bird, I imprinted on the burrito.
The burritos marked the passage of time. A big test the next day? Better get a vegetarian burrito and sneak it into the library. A late-night birthday party? Time for a celebratory steak burrito. The morning after a late-night party? Re-heat those leftovers and fry an egg for what could nearly be called huevos rancheros. Testing a new friendship? Ask if they prefer Chipotle or BTB. If they prefer Chipotle, either (a) shun them forever or (b) force feed them BTB until they see the light.
On my final day before moving away, without much thought, I stopped at BTB mid-afternoon. My mismatched dishes and silverware were already stuffed into a car and surrounded by partially disassembled Ikea furniture pieces.
I tried to order, but to my surprise, I started sobbing. I had prepared myself to deal with the emotions of goodbyes to cherished friends. But the burritos encapsulated the total comfort of my prior existence, surrounded by a protective flour tortilla.
The burrito-slinging employee just stared at me, a comparatively “old” graduate student sobbing in an empty burrito joint in full daylight. Eventually he asked if I was okay, I told him I was. He asked if I still wanted a burrito, I told him I did.
Some people find “veritas” in “vino.” But at that point, my truth was found in a vegan burrito with sour cream on the side. The memories of past burritos made me realize I was scared — of change, of drifting away from my best friends, of not being good at my job — like a Jacob Marley of fast casual dining. Past burritos that were shared with people who became my best friends. Burritos that helped me get through late night study sessions. Burritos that were dropped on the ground but adjudicated still edible pursuant to the 5-second rule. Burritos at two o’clock a.m. and p.m. Sometimes within the same 24-hour period. Burritos for my vegetarian phase. Burritos for my vegetarian-in-recovery-eating-a-lot-steak-phase.
I was reckoning with “adulting,” before I had a hashtag to describe it. I knew that I wouldn’t be eating $2 burritos with my new co-workers. I wouldn’t be celebrating my business accomplishments with a round of late night nachos. I would have to cook my own dinner. I would have to work to make new friends. I would have to figure out how to have a job.
The burrito-ista (another word from my personal nomenclature, not a real title) handed me my burrito and smiled. Then he said, “don’t forget your sour cream.”
I walked down the street with visible streams of crusty tear residue on my cheeks, stuffing a burrito into my mouth, leaving a trail of black beans in my wake. Adding my own layer to the bean patina on BTB’s front sidewalk. On to the next thing.
