“My eyes drift to the kitchen, more of an assembly line, really. A bunch of teenage employees remove dime-thin patties out of warming trays and squirt random shit on the meat, then place something that may resemble a tomato, more of a wafer-like pink thing, onto the sandwich.”

~ Liz Solms

By Liz Solms  |  Send to Friend

They say you have to try everything once. Of course this philosophy includes drugs, though I see no real benefit in trying crack. I grew up hearing the ubiquitous and well-marketed phrase: Crack Kills. They weren't trying to fluff it up by saying Don't Try Crack Its Whack, or Stay Away From the Crack It'll Make You Feel Funny. The anti-crack powers that be literally launched a two word marketing campaign letting all us young people out there know that if we tried crack it would KILL US. At any rate, I don't think I have to try crack in my lifetime. Well, at least not real live crack. The reason for this is not just because it will apparently kill me. It’s that I kind of already tried it.

Ok, I'll back up. Here are some relevant facts about me. I'm actually not so into that whole try-everything-once theory. When I was little, I was certainly not having it. I was a picky eater in that obsessive small child way and I ate the same things over and over again, narrowing my diet down to a few bland items, certainly eschewing any risk associated with some cacamamy try-it-all philosophy. Now that I'm older, I'm certainly not picky in that kind of way anymore. In fact, I worship taste, and I cherish the moments a new food hits my tongue. I travel the world--from teeming outdoor markets to my corner store--through the lens of food. I will try it all, and usually with great pleasure. But let it be known I am still picky, just in a different way. Though I don't eat a strict rotation of buttered noodles and plain brown rice anymore, I still will not eat certain things. Basically, I refuse to eat food that resembles food but isn't food at all. Anything jacked up on hormones, artificial flavor and colors, infused with a list of entirely irrelevant ingredients, sprayed with chemicals, or tinkered with genetically. That just ain’t right, and that just ain’t food. Usually the biggest perpetrators of selling food that isn't food are fast food chains themselves. So sticking to my real food eating ways, I tend to avoid those establishments, at all costs.

So back to the fact that I kinda tried crack. I have to tell the story. I left New York City the other night hungry as hell. But I knew I would immediately fall asleep on the Chinatown Bus, wake up in Philly, and be able to eat somewhere delicious, close by, and better than any of the nasty options near to the bus stop in NYC. I threw my bike in the storage under the bus, got into my seat, fell asleep. When I woke up, ten minutes later, it was to the sound of all fifty passengers collectively sucking their teeth. We were pulled over on the side of the road by exit twelve, just inches onto the turnpike, with a flat tire, no spare, and no help in sight. Just great, no sleep, insane hunger pains, stranded on the side of the road near mile marker 347 with a bunch of disgruntled chain-smoking passengers and a screaming bus driver pacing the shoulder. One hour passed. Then two. Nothing but sitting on the side of the highway waiting. And at this point I'm utterly starving. Like irrationally hungry where you look around to see if anyone else has food, or you wonder if there is anything edible at the bottom of your bag. And of course I started fantasizing. Mmmm…an over-toasted sesame seed bagel with scallion cream cheese and a thick ripe tomato. A giant bowl of Vietnamese noodle soup. My mother's gazpacho. Ahhhh.

I finally pulled the emergency button at hour three. I called my boyfriend. He lives in Brooklyn, drives an ancient tin can of a car that is not particularly highway legal, and was watching the Phillies. But he got off his couch and came to get me. I tell him that he’ll spot me beside one giant wheeless bus by exit twelve, along with a lot of people standing around on the side of the road like it’s some kind of cigarette party. And lo and behold, as soon as my boyfriend leaves Brooklyn, another knight in shining in armor, this time in the form of a Mexican dude with a tire repair kit, shows up on site. Within 15 minutes our tire is fixed and everyone cheers. But my boyfriend is only minutes away. So I decide to stay. I get my bike out of the bus, have said Mexican Tire Genius take off my back tire (so it can fit in my man's car, always thinkin’), and watch the bus pull away. So there I am, hungry to the point of confusion, one half of a bike in hand, standing on the side of the New Jersey turnpike at night.

Thirty seconds later a state trooper pulls up and asks me what the hell I'm doing on the side of the road. He then follows that question with the jarring "are you looking to get raped?" Being that I am a young hungry lady waiting on the side of the turnpike holding two parts of a bike and wearing skinny jeans, he wasn’t too off the mark. So I just got in the front seat of his car, put my bike pieces in the back, and allowed him to drive me to the nearest recognizable landmark, a McDonald's. Here I will patiently wait for my kind boyfriend to save me from this hell. And truly hell it is--there I am sitting alone and famished in an eating establishment that serves nothing I will ever eat. I stare longingly, almost hopefully, at the menu board, seeing if I can fashion something that sort of resembles food from all of the combo meals and numbered items available.

My eyes drift to the kitchen, more of an assembly line, really. A bunch of teenage employees remove dime-thin patties out of warming trays and squirt random shit on the meat, then place something that may resemble a tomato, more of a wafer-like pink thing, onto the sandwich. The cashier fills jumbo sized cups with a milky white-ish mixture, though the spicket she draws from is labeled chocolate. Finally, I break down. I am going to fucking starve if I don't eat here. Suddenly I feel like a crackhead. Everything smells amazing and nauseating like I can imagine only freshly burned crack rock would. I need a huge pull off a McDonald's milkshake like I need a hit off the crackpipe. I need to sink my teeth into that fish filet sandwich like a fiend needs the rock. I exchange a small amount of money for my frosty container of mystery milk substance and my fish sandwich which resembles a roof shingle. After that first sip, that first bite, I am hooked. When my boyfriend walks in and sees me surrounded by my mismatched bike parts and the messy remnants of my meal, he looks shocked and I look guilty. It was as if he caught me doing something crazy, like smoking crack. Which is kind of what I did. Now I don’t need to try the real thing.