Night Of The Pickle

*From the 'Now I Can' series, a tale of "Whoa...DUDE"*

Though there are a load of funny moments to be told from my no-longer place of employment, at the request of one co-worker -- and witness to this tale -- I tell first about a night that only three people witnessed. A night all three would remember.

Two recalled it as one of the most hysterical moments they witnessed there.

I was able to remember it that way later. Not at the time.

For a significant period of my employment at a hotel-casino in Central City, CO, I worked in the Surveillance room. The room itself underwent one change before I came to work in it, and several since.

But it was a fun place to work, albeit a very busy place at varying times.

On this particular occasion, I worked with two characters that made the job fun: "Wanda", who covered the 2p-midnight shift (we worked four 10 hour shifts), and "Robert", who worked noon-10p, while I covered the 5p-3a stretch. We were overlapped thus on the weekends, and frequently found work aplenty for all.

There was nothing remarkable for the evening in question, as I arrived to start my shift: the floor was busy, but calls for our services were few, and the crowd was, on the whole, behaving well. As was the custom -- when not up to our asses in alligators -- "Wanda" and "Robert" were engaged in small talk while they attended their respective stations, as I arrived. Small talk of the culinary kind.

They had a huge adorance for spicy food. Both knew that I did not: being a culinary wimp, I considered Pace Picante Sauce, mild, as "hot". The other two considered it akin to drinking soda pop.

Anyway, as I walked in and was getting situated in the available observer station (there were 3), "Robert" had in hand a sheet of wax paper, with some harmless-looking gherkin-like pickles on it. I had overheard him offer one to "Wanda", and as I sat down and began filling out my work log, he casually offered one to me.

*AHOOOOOOOOOOOGA* should have gone off in my head at once; "Robert" almost never offered to share anything with me, unless it was napalm-quality spiced. And I never fell for it.

Until then.

When offered one of the harmless-looking gherkins, I muttered, "why not?", picked one up, popped it in my chops and began to chew.

1...2...*multiple chemical reactions beginning*..3...*sensors in the tongue reacting before the brain could send out the requisite *BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER* to my reflexive *spit it out* command...4...*swallow*...and a simultaneous *IGNITION* and *TOING*.

I was on fahr.

"Wanda" and "Robert" were sitting there, anticipating a reaction. It came in milliseconds:

"AUGH...YOU PRICK!", followed by the water pressure on our end of the building dropping preciptiously, as I tried to drown the wave of napalm overtaking the entry port of my digestive system.

I was trying to douse a four alarm fahr...while "Wanda" and "Robert" were absolutely useless to any kind of work for the next five minutes.

Years later, "Wanda" brands this story as one of her favorite most memorable. I brand it as the "Night Of The Pickle". And one I still owe "Robert" for...