Confessions of a Guac Boy Turned Guac Man (FINAL DRAFT)

            I have made over a thousand batches of guacamole in my lifetime. I have made enough guacamole to fill an entire swimming pool (which would undoubtedly be highly unsafe but would also present swimmers with an opportunity to die the most delicious death imaginable). This information probably raises many questions and possibly a few alarm bells. Why did I make so much guacamole? Am I some kind of sick freak who gets his jollies from mashing avocadoes? Am I one of those fanatics destined to appear as a curiosity on some TLC show alongside people who are sexually attracted to bridges?

            The truth is nothing as pedestrian as that. From the summer after high school to the spring of my freshman year of college, I worked as a guacamole boy (often shortened to “guac boy”) at an overpriced tapas restaurant called Casa Bolero. This was my 100% real, honest-to-goodness job title. I had to put it on my tax form. Note: writing the name of a fruit or vegetable on the line marked “job title” is a sure sign that something has gone horribly wrong somewhere.

            I received this illustrious job title because enough idiots were willing to pay Casa Bolero $8.95 for table-side guacamole that the waitresses couldn’t keep up with demand and the management had to hire four college-aged guys for the express purpose of guacamole production. I was lucky enough to be initiated into this elite fraternity, mainly because two of my friends already worked there. I quickly discovered that guacamole-making is not a career pathway to be undertaken taken lightly; in fact, it is more of a lifestyle than a job. It requires hours of intense preparation, immense focus, and a single-minded dedication to craft.

            Ha ha! Just kidding. Guacamole-making is such an idiot-proof task that even a complete fucking moron can do it well, meaning that I was (just barely) qualified.  

            Basically, it works like this: the ticket would come out of the printer, and I would load a tray with one and a half avocadoes, a basket of chips, and seven black bowls with chopped tomatoes, onions, cilantro, jalapeños, garlic, salt, and lime. I would strategically line these bowls around a large stone bowl with squat, stubby legs called a molcajete, which weighs roughly nine hundred pounds and is supposedly a replica of a traditional Aztec serving dish. If this is true, I believe the molcajete was probably responsible for the downfall of the Aztec civilization, as it is nearly impossible to fight off conquistadors when your wrists are cramped.

            Clad in my uniform of black pants, black shirt, and black shoes, I would carry the tray through the dining room, which was always an exercise in terror. Because I am sorely lacking in basic motor skills, I was never able to get the hang of balancing the heavy tray in one hand, and the tray was so large that it blocked most of my view, so each trip into the cramped dining room was a blind flirtation with disaster. Would I trip over a chair leg and fall face first into the red tile floor, forcing me to quit and flee to Canada to avoid the humiliation? Would my aching wrist fail me, sending the molcajete tumbling onto a customer’s head, giving them a concussion and me a pink slip? Thankfully, much like Atlas holding up the stars in the sky, I kept my vegetables from crashing down on the patrons’ faces for the entirety of my employment. But it never stopped being scary. A complete guacatastrophe was never more than half a second away.

            After navigating this minefield of customers and chairs, I would set my server’s stand next to the table and greet the customer, hoping that I stumbled my way to the correct table. Because numbers confuse me, and I have the short-term memory of a goldfish, I would set up my guac-making apparatus at the wrong table at least four or five times a night. A word to the wise: there are very few things more awkward than attempting to make guacamole for people who absolutely do not want guacamole.

            Sadly, one of those things is making guacamole for people who do want guacamole. Making a batch of guacamole takes about five minutes. It takes about thirty seconds to ascertain what ingredients people want. This would usually leave about four-and-a-half minutes of one of the most terrifying tests of internal fortitude I have ever endured: human interaction.

            I suffer from severe social anxiety. This essentially means that my body is always in flight-or-fight mode, meaning that the slightest situation can send adrenaline racing through my bloodstream, putting me in a state of high-strung, nervous awareness. As a result, my palms are constantly sweating, and social situations often make me feel like an academic vainly struggling to read an inscrutable, forgotten ancient language. Thankfully, over the years, I have developed a bunch of coping mechanisms that allow me to appear (and even feel) like a normal person. But that anxiety is always bubbling below, waiting for a vent in the surface so it can come rushing forth.

            These avocado-filled minutes were filled with many such vents. Like a lot of other socially anxious people, I fear silence. Unfortunately for me, many of my customers had never learned to be polite or were devoid of basic social skills. They were therefore either unable or unwilling to talk to me. This wasn’t so bad when the people at the table would continue their conversation, but some people would shut down all of my go-to questions (“How are you doing? Some weather, huh? How ‘bout that one sports team? I like sports! Do you like guacamole?”). They would then either avoid my gaze and look around the room until I finished, or stare at me intently as if I was solving a differential equation. Either way, the end result was always the same: me furiously mashing avocadoes as fast as fast I could with the deathly silence punctuated only by small bits of pulp squirting up and landing on my pants and shirt.

             After a few weeks of this, I couldn’t take it anymore and decided to develop a shtick to use on unresponsive customers. I looked up a bunch of Fun Facts about guacamole and avocadoes on the internet and began rattle them off to customers. I decided that this was a pretty funny idea, and decided to take it a step further, adopting the persona of crazed tour-guide/guacamole-evangelist, enthusiastically educating my customers about the health benefits of avocadoes while giving them my personal testimony about how the Power of Avocadoes had changed my life forever:

            “Let me tell you folks a story: one evening, I was sitting there in this restaurant, just like you. I ordered the guacamole and it was just incredible. I applied to work here the next day, and I haven’t looked back since. I love my job. Nothing makes me happier than making other people happy with my guacamole. It’s the best damn food on the planet, that’s what I think. Some people in the food service industry get sick of food when they deal with it every day, but not me, no sir! Just between you and me, I sneak a few bites when I’m on break. And it’s good for you, too! Did you know that avocadoes are high in B, E, and K vitamins? They also have lots of good lipids and fats! There’s a lot of stigma in modern society about fats, but your body needs ‘em, and avocadoes got ‘em! They’re the ultimate superfood, Mother Nature’s gift to mankind, I tell ya!”

            Usually, the customers were so taken aback by my seemingly coked-up zeal that they actually interacted with me, albeit at arm’s length because I seemed dangerously unhinged. It was also nice to see people shift uncomfortably in their chairs as I battered them with my stream of chatter. As someone who is constantly uncomfortable, I take evil delight out of making other people feel as awkward and out-of-place as me. It’s always nice to level the playing field a little bit.  

            As hilarious as people’s reactions were, it became exhausting to wear such a hyperactive persona. Also, weirding out customers is not the best strategy for amassing tips. So, as I grew more comfortable and gave progressively fewer and fewer shits, I developed a new, cartoonishly douchey and arrogant character. After greeting the customer, I would say things like “Not to brag or anything, but I’m basically the Michael Jordan of guacamole making, if Michael Jordan was five times better at basketball and ten times as good-looking.” From there I would continue to up the ante, bragging about everything from my ability to eat jalapenos to my own humbleness. I would close with lines like “I hope this guacamole is as good-tasting as I am good-looking,” then throw out a guacamole-related pun over my shoulder I picked up my tray to leave. My favorite was “Have a good night, and rock out with your guac out.”

            I also referred to myself in the third person as Christopher Guacken.

            To my surprise, most customers thought this was hilarious, and I received far more money in tips than ever before. Valuable life lesson learned: act like a huge douchebag and people will reward you with money and adoration.

            So, I was able to triumph over anxiety with silent customers. But I never really figured out how to deal with those who sat at the opposite pole, the ones who talked too much. Because my job was so fucking weird, I think some people interpreted my avocado-crushing as an open invitation to cast aside all social norms and engage in complete conversational anarchy. “This guy makes guacamole for a living,” they thought. “That means it’s time to do some really weird shit. I’ll tell him all about my divorce and/or my bowel movements.” 

            Once, as I was sprinkling cilantro, a very drunk woman who was sitting with a large group informed me that her friend Jeff, a regular, was unable to attend. “So, I made a cutout of his face and put it on this Popsicle stick,” she explained. She pulled out a startlingly professional-looking head-on-a-stick.“Say hi to Jeff, Guac Boy. Here, why don’t you take a picture with me and Jeff, Mr. Guac Boy? I miss Jeff. Here, say cheeeeeeeeeeese…great picture. I’mma upload this to Facebook. I’ll tag you as… Miiiiiisster…Guac…Boy. Done.”  

            I also found out that older women find nothing sexier than guacamole after they’ve had several shots of tequila. Some confined this to a few subtle flirtatious comments, but others were more overt. One fifty year-old woman trying to pass for thirty told me “I don’t want garlic in mine. I love garlic, but don’t put any garlic in there, ‘cause I’m gonna make out with someone tonight and I don’t wanna have garlic breath.” 

            “Very well, no garlic, ma’am.”

            She then downed a shot of expensive tequila. “Would…you make out with someone who had garlic breath?”

            Without really thinking it through, I decided it would be funny to answer honestly. “Yes, that would be incredibly hot.” What can I say? I love garlic.

            Realizing what I had just done, I whipped up her guac at warp speed while looking at my shoes, then fairly sprinted back to the relative safety of the kitchen and informed the head chef that I was going to step outside because I needed some air.  

             Standing out behind the restaurant, I shivered out of sheer mortification even though it was the middle of July. But as I listened to the two dishwashers on their hourly fifteen-minute smoke break talk about all the various household items they’d MacGyvered into bongs (PVC pipe, an empty two-liter, the cardboard from a roll of paper towel), I began to feel a strange, unfamiliar, glowing sensation in my chest. Slowly, it dawned on me that I had, however unintentionally, successfully interacted with a member of the opposite gender.

             This was a big deal. I am very anxious in most situations, but girls utterly fry my motherboard. Once, I went to a poetry reading alone, and sat near the back of the room. I was fine until a pretty artsy girl came in late and sat next to me (Next to me! When there were lots of other empty seats all around!).

            Now, occasionally, people in life-or-death situations speak of time slowing to a crawl. Extreme amounts of adrenaline can cause one’s perceptions to become so keen that everything seems to move incredibly slowly in relation to a racing mind. I shit you not, this happened to me as soon as she sat down. Unwanted adrenaline involuntary coursed through my veins, and the remainder of the reading unfolded in bullet-time. Each poem sounded like a 45 RPM record being played at 33. I sat bolt upright and stared at the poet unblinkingly, trying not to freak out. As soon as she finished her last poem, I made haste for the door, speed-walked to my car and drove home. Without a doubt, it was one of the scariest experiences of my life (and, thankfully, it was the only time something like that ever happened).

            Because my life has mainly consisted of awkward moments punctuated by fleeting instances of normalcy, I’ve learned to take my triumphs where I can get them. Given my history, accidentally hitting on a tequila-addled, garlic-loving cougar seemed like the equivalent of Ahab actually catching his white male.

            I stood outside for awhile, half-listening to the dishwashers jabber on about pot, half-wondering if I had rounded some sort of bend, until one of the waitresses poked her head out the door and shouted “GUAC BOY!” I returned to the kitchen to find five tickets with block letters shouting “GUACAMOLE” hanging limply on the range, waiting for me.  I grabbed a molcajete and started setting up my tray, feeling slightly less dread than normal.