SORRY, THAT WAS ME...
19 Writers Cop to Their Vices
Meaty and Sufficient
Why can’t I quit you, gas station breakfast burrito? My mind knows that beneath your shiny foil exterior hides a delicious lie, a meal that will manifest itself in late-morning stomach flips and dangerously unstable gastric palpitations. Your age is unclear—the red heat of the lamp keeps you warm and soft—but when were you rolled down the metal chute to rest snug against your compadres? Was it early this morning? An hour ago? Sometime last night? Are you a daylong stowaway? Did they put you out yesterday, gas station breakfast burrito?
We are fishing the Henry’s Fork today. The green drakes will show about 10 a.m. and the fish will rise hungrily, slashing at the meaty insects. The rainbows will not to let a good meal escape. But mayfly freshness is not an issue. Trout eat worry free.
I circle the candy aisle and remove a soda from the fridge, pick out a granola bar and a package of black licorice bites. I grab the cooler ice. I pretend you do not exist, but at the register I walk into the haze of your aroma and spot your decorative and functional foil wrapper. You call to me. I imagine the eggs and sausage, the bacon and cheese, the tater tots. I remember another burrito from another gas station, one that did not betray me, one that tasted as good as it smelled and never rose up later. I reach down and lift you, trying to judge your age. You feel meaty and sufficient. You have won. I pray to the burrito gods for mercy and look for the salsa... —Quinn Grover
Subscribe for access to this article plus the entire archive of The Flyfish Journal content—and receive a discount on all products. Subscribe Now