Four days of the bad burger

DAVID SILVA

Day one: 11 p.m.

Some people find glamorous and exciting ways to get food

poisoning. They eat bad caviar or errant canapes while on a seven-day

cruise to Jamaica. They turn green and swoon over Oysters Rockefeller

and veal medallions at the governor’s inaugural ball.

But not me. I’m not one of those people. Me, I had to get food

poisoning from a Monster Burger at a greasy diner.

There’s something fundamentally embarrassing about getting deathly

ill from a burger named after a supernatural creature. I lay in bed

and moan and during lucid moments trying to think of a way to spin

the story without humiliating myself. Unable to find one, I decide to

go with the truth, which, as usual, proves to be a mistake.

“Oooh ... but I was really hungry ...”

“So you ate a Monster Burger on an empty stomach? You can’t do

that, Dave! You’re not a spring chicken anymore!”

“Oooh ... will you stop saying that? I’m dying here!”

Call it vanity, but it’s important to me that the last words I

hear be something other than “You’re not a spring chicken anymore.”

Day two: 4:30 p.m.

The thing about being accidentally poisoned is that it feels

exactly like being intentionally poisoned. You writhe and groan and

your only comfort is the thought of what you’d do if you ever got

ahold of the person who did this to you.

Every waking, cramping minute, my stomach making noises so

disturbing they keep freaking out the cat across the room, I nurse

the image of wrapping my hands around the neck of that cursed cook.

But the problem with this, of course, is I can barely move. I can

barely make it down the hall to the bathroom, can barely stagger to

the kitchen for a glass of water. Even if I did manage to get to my

car and drive down to the diner and seize the cook by his throat,

he’d probably just push me down and pelt me with Monster Burgers

while calling the cops.

There’s just nothing I can do except lay here and grow weaker. I

am helpless. I am undone. Surely, this was how the victims of

Lucrezia Borgia felt, shaking their fists impotently in the air as

they slipped into unconsciousness.

Day three: 11 a.m.

The doctor walks into the office, introduces himself and asks me

what’s wrong. Before I can answer, he spots the cover of a glossy

magazine I had been reading, on which is a close-up photo of a fancy,

twin-engine jet in mid-flight. A look comes over my doctor that I can

only describe as pure lust.

“My God, look at that thing!” he exclaims, scooping up the

magazine and holding the cover close to his face. “Is that not the

most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? Isn’t it? How many seats do

you think it has?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I say.

“My God, that’s beautiful,” he sighs. “Well, too rich for my

blood.” He sets the magazine aside with some regret. “So, what seems

to be the problem?”

I describe my symptoms, and after a quick examination the doctor

tells me I have food poisoning. He advises me to eat bland foods and

drink lots of water, and to stay away from things like dairy

products, sauces and Monster Burgers.

“What about Eggs Benedict?” I ask. “Soft-poached, with a nice

Hollandaise sauce?”

My doctor’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, no,” he says. “No. That would not be good.”

“How about pepperoni pizza?” I ask. “Extra cheese, maybe some

green peppers. I was going to have that tonight.”

My doctor scratches his face nervously. “No, no pizza for awhile,

I’m afraid.”

“Really? Even if I skipped the green peppers? I like green

peppers, but I can live without them, I suppose.”

My doctor shakes his head.

“How about paella?”

I keep thinking he’ll eventually figure out I’m messing with him,

but he never does, so I continue with this line of questioning.

Day three: 2 p.m.

It seems almost a contradiction in terms to say I am feeling well

enough to watch daytime TV. My stomach still feels like I swallowed

an epileptic weasel, but at least I can sit up. I flip through the

channels in search of something, anything, of interest to watch, but

all I can find are talk shows and “People’s Court” rip-offs. On one

talk show the topic is men who like to dress like circus clowns. On

another it’s women who steal their best friend’s circus-clown

husbands.

I find it strangely comforting to watch the “reality” court

programs, in which the circus clowns have traded their miniature

bicycles for judge’s robes and dispense sassy “justice” to bewildered

“defendants.” It’s not that I feel that justice is being served. It’s

just that it helps me keep things in perspective.

Watching one particularly unfortunate “defendant” insist to a

booing audience that the check for his hair-plug surgery bounced for

reasons entirely out of his control, I can only conclude there are

some fates worse than food poisoning.

Day four, 9:30 a.m.:

I consider it a continuation of my bad luck for my appetite to

fully return before I’m fully recovered.

For four days, I’ve kept my strength up with rice, broth and

papaya -- a diet I was able to maintain only because the very thought

of food caused my body to tremble uncontrollably. But driving into

work today, it’s all I can do not to gnaw on the steering wheel.

Visions of food invade my thoughts in pairs. Steak and eggs.

Pancakes and hash browns. Coffee and doughnuts. Pizza and beer. And

the only thing that keeps me from hurling my car toward the nearest

restaurant is the knowledge that my revived appetite is a big lie.

My stomach has not fully recovered. My stomach is trying to kill

me in retribution for that Monster Burger.

But my stomach isn’t fooling me. I know that if I give in to it

and wolf down a pizza, I’m dead. And I’m not talking dead as in

drop-dead-of-heart-disease at 50. I’m talking dead as in dead by

morning.

I go into my office and am sorting through three pages of spam

e-mails and frantic “Where are you?” e-mails when I hear a rap at the

door. Through the glass, I see the general manager of the paper

looking at me. Yesterday I had called him from the lobby of the

hospital to tell him I wouldn’t be coming into work again that day.

Today, he is holding a white box of Krispy Kremes in his hand and

raising his eyebrows in a “Hey, wouldn’t you like some of these?”

gesture.

I look at him. After a moment, the look makes him grow visibly

uncomfortable, and he walks away.

* DAVID SILVA is a Times Community News editor. He can be reached

at (909) 484-7019, or by e-mail at [email protected].