In My Refrigerator

I've found it's best to eat something with my coffee in the morning. Otherwise my stomach just feels acidy all day, and the caffeine kicks in way too strong making my hands shake like I have some kind of early-onset palsy.

One summer in college I worked as a soccer coach at a sports camp for kids. These kids were eight and nine years old, and they were just as tired as I was at 8 AM when camp started, so I began every morning session by making them run laps around the field to warm up. One morning of the second week of camp, a camper named Riley complained that I was lazy for not running with them.

There's something about being called out by a little kid (because, yea, I was lazy) that kicks in an ego-driven primal defense system in each of us.

"Are you calling me lazy?" I stepped closer to Riley and pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head.

"I bet you couldn't even make it once around," he said, stepping closer to me and digging for a booger in his left nostril.

"Time me," I said. "I'll run it as fast as I can, and if any of you beat my time by the end of summer I'll give you a prize." Little boys love two things almost more than anything else: being timed in a race and guessing a secret prize.

I gave my watch to James, because he was the only one I hadn't seen scratch his nose or his butt yet, and when he said "Go!" I took off running. I rounded the first corner feeling great and hit my stride about midfield of the first length. But then, as I passed the goal at the far end of the field from the kids, I felt the coffee start to turn in my stomach. There was nothing in there but hot water, coffee grounds, a spoonful of sugar and some bile, and I was shaking it like a paint can with each lanky stride. I swallowed hard, but tasted the nastiness in the back of my throat with 50 feet to go. I held my breath with 20 feet to go. James high-fived me as I crossed the finish line, and I heard the beep of my watch as he stopped the timer.

I turned to the kids, my lips pressed together in a tight smile. "How did..." was all I managed to say. As soon as I opened my mouth, the wave of vomit rushed out. Brown and red and liquidy on the ground between me and a dozen eight year olds in shin guards and oversize jerseys. The girls shrieked.

"Eww!" Riley said, and flicked a booger off his finger.

"One minute eleven seconds," James said with his eyes squeezed shut.

The camp director insisted I take the rest of the day off. Eating a peanut butter sandwich in a lawn chair that afternoon I thought, I can beat 1:11.