Don't Drink The Water (standard:humor, 4772 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Aug 20 2004	Views/Reads: 3209/2184	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

consumption rate now, my body would fall into withdrawals like a blind 
diver stumbling from the cliffs of Acapulco. 

Otis returns with a brimming hot cup of Java and places it on the desk
before me. 

“So, you're starting your vacation tomorrow?  You need a vacation. 
You've been a little edgy lately.” 

“Thanks Otis.  For the coffee that is.  Actually, I don't leave for a
few days, but I figured I would take a couple of days to prepare before 
I left.  You know, unwind, rewind, that sort of stuff.” 

“Yea, I don't blame you.  You've been a little edgy lately.  So, you're
going to Mexico.  They say you shouldn't drink the water down there.” 

“Thanks for the support Otis.  What's that you've got there in your
hands?” 

“I'm fixing the soft drink machine.” 

“What's wrong with the soda machine?  It was working fine for Darlene
twenty minutes ago.”  Darlene is one of the ladies in the front office. 
 She spends most of her time walking between her desk and the 
cafeteria.  She's a major source of income for the vending machine 
company.  She probably drinks more soft drinks than I do coffee.  We 
all have our vices I suppose.  I never understood why she was so fussy 
about eating her low calorie frozen noodle lunch entrée but would 
subsequently go through a twelve pack of soda every day.  Weight 
Watchers would be proud of her. 

“Oh, it works alright.  The Cherry Coke button isn't right though.” 

“So, you're going to fix it with a pair of metal shears and an empty
Coke can?” 

“Yep, that's right.” 

“OoooKaaaaay.  Can you elaborate on your plan for success a little?” 

“Yea.  The button says Cherry Coke, but when you push it, you get a
regular Coke.  I'm cutting out the Coke logo from this empty can and 
I'm gonna put it in the window behind the button.  Then it will say 
Coca Cola instead of Cherry Coke, it'll work perfect.  Darlene will 
quit complaining and everybody will be happy.” 

“Otis, that button's been like that for two years.  Why fix it now? 
Everybody knows it's gonna spit out a regular Coke.”  I'm sitting here 
wondering why he doesn't just cut out the Coke logo from the box.  
Never mind, it would be pointless to debate the subject in greater 
detail. 

“I heard Darlene gripe to Sam about it.  Figured I better change it
before he complained about her carping.” 

Screeeeech.  Otis's two-way radio wailed an obnoxious tone. 
Simultaneously, Otis and I cringed, as if a school teacher had run her 
long painted fingernails across a chalkboard. 

“Otis; can you check out the toilet in the ladies room?  Darlene says
it's plugged up and overflowing on the floor.” 

Otis whisks his hand to the microphone clipped to the shoulder of his
shirt.  “Ten-Four Betty, I'll get right on it.” 

“Great!  Looks like I have an emergency to take care of.  I had better
grab some Tampon's from the supply room before I run up there.  Same 
damn thing happens every month.”  Otis shakes his head. 

“Good idea Otis.  I'm glad I hired you.  You're a guy that can think on
his feet.  The company likes proactive employees.  I'm going to finish 
my project plan now but good luck and don't cut your finger off.  The 
gauze order hasn't arrived yet.” 

Now let's see.  Where was I before the Boss and Otis decided to distract
me? 

I've been nurturing a new relationship with Trish.  Intimate dinners and
dating have the potential to divert anyone from their job and I'm no 
exception I suppose.  I had no intentions of taking a vacation this 
year, but my lady friend was preparing for hers and felt comfortable 
enough with our flowering relationship to ask me to join her.  Our 
destination was to be Cancun, Mexico. 

Other than a few short fishing trips into the mountains around the state
or visiting relatives, I haven't been on a vacation in so long I had 
forgotten what it was like to escape from my daily work life.  It took 
me all of fifteen seconds to formulate an answer.  “Okay, if I can 
afford it.” 

Exactly at 5:00 PM, I dropped my outline for corporate success off with
Betty and then made my way out the door with no fancy drawn-out 
goodbyes. 

“Make sure and get this to Sam before he leaves for the day.  I'll see
you in two weeks.”  Betty didn't look up from her desk. 

“Have a good trip and don't drink the water.”  Betty mumbled. 

I scurried to my car and left a blistering trail of rubber on the
pavement of the parking lot. 

Once I accepted the gracious offer that Trish extended, I notified my
mother and daughters of my plans.  Knowing that I'm on the verge of 
insanity, they each like to monitor my life.  They love me well enough, 
but I can't help but feel like it's more for entertainment purposes.  
Good family gossip is a premium service.  I imagine they have wagers 
amongst themselves on which day I go over the edge. 

During a subsequent telephone conversation with my mother, she imparted
on me her sage words of advice. 

“Have a safe trip honey.  Bring me back a souvenir and don't drink the
water.” 

The souvenir part would be easy enough, but how do you spend a week in a
Caribbean jungle without drinking the water?  This was a conundrum to 
me and not yet fully within my intellectual grasp. 

In preparation for the grand escape to Cancun, I was compelled to
organize my ground rules for the trip.  The first rule was easy to 
conceive; don't take a cell phone.  The basic idea is to utterly remove 
myself from any intrusions from the real world and allow myself to be 
immersed in my new locale. 

Another rule quickly came to mind; don't drink the water.  I was
becoming petrified and this seemed like a good rule to implement. 

Now free from the shackles of work and with only a few days before my
scheduled departure, anxiety takes control of my untethered mind and 
the dreaming begins. 

The first dream was of a trip to the doctors' office.  He said to me
“you have an incurable bone disease.”  I can't remember much of the 
rest of the dream except there was a Taco Gong next door to the 
doctors' office.  As each day worms by, I become more superstitious and 
aware of the supernatural omens that I sense.  I look for an advantage 
at every angle, for the things in life that will give me the slow 
turning ceiling fan of good fortune.  Upon waking, I took an extra 
Calcium pill with my vitamins; no sense in taking a chance with the 
bone disease thing, I thought.  It was going to be a busy day preparing 
for our trip. 

“Sweetie, can you run to the store and pick up a few things for the trip
today?”  Trish's' list was two pages long. 

“Why sure.”  I had my own list and I was anxious to please my newly
found lover.  As I browsed each isle at the store, I came across a 
duplicate item on the list.  Bottled water; we both had put bottled 
water on our lists.  Maybe I'm not loosing my mind.  She's heard about 
the water in Mexico?  Of course she's heard about it, why else would 
she put it on the list?  Everybody knows about the water in Mexico.  
I'm smugly pleased.  I've selected a partner with a brain and she's 
conscientious as well.  She doesn't want her new love to get sick.  I'm 
becoming more pleased.  On the other hand, maybe she's worried for 
herself.  My ego deflates.  I purchased two cases of water, 48 quarts 
in total.  That should be enough.  We spent the remainder of the day 
preparing our clothes and started packing.  I was bone tired when I 
went to bed. 

A second dream came to me.  My mother was sitting on her sofa crying
while I sat across from her eating ice cubes.  There was no 
conversation, just her clutching a tissue as she blubbered and my 
chomping on ice cubes.  I woke sweating and quickly ran to the kitchen 
for a glass of water.  My mouth was very dry for some odd reason.  I 
stared at the forty eight quarts of water, sitting ominously on the 
floor in the kitchen.  I wondered why I intended to lug forty eight 
quarts of water to Mexico.  I haven't heard any news stories concerning 
mass outbreaks of disease from Cancun.  Wouldn't something like that be 
on the news? 

We were busy preparing throughout the day, we confirmed our flight
reservations, stopped the paper delivery, and drank the last of the 
milk in the refrigerator and walked about with little white mustaches 
for a while.  The bags were packed, the lawn was mowed, and the dogs 
were taken to the kennel.  We are finally ready.  Oh, the bank.  I had 
better get some cash for the trip.  It's almost Five O'clock; the bank 
will be closed if I don't hurry. 

“What type of bills would you like?”  The drive through teller asked me.


“Twenties.  Can you do Peso's?”  I replied. 

“Sir, this is the United States, not Mexico.” 

“I know that.  I was just wondering.  I'm going to Mexico tomorrow and
figured I'd get a jump on the currency conversion thing.” 

“Oh, Mexico.  My sister just got back from Mexico.  She said it was
wonderful.” 

“Really, what a coincidence.” 

“She's sick as a dog now; been on the toilet for days.” 

“Yuck.” 

“Here's your cash sir.  Have a nice trip and don't drink the water.” 

Okay, that's it.  I'm lugging forty eight quarts of bottled water to
Mexico, it's settled.  I phoned Trish about the encounter at the bank.  
Now we are both determined to be extra special careful not to get sick 
in Mexico.  She immediately phoned her pharmacy to see if her 
prescription for antibiotics was filled.  It was ready and she scurried 
out to get it.  By midnight on the eve of our departure, we had done 
everything possible.  The next day was travel day.  We figured it best 
to get as much rest as possible.  We had to be up at 3 AM to go to the 
airport. 

I lay awake in bed forever.  The excitement of the trip was on my mind. 
White sandy beaches, cool drinks, palm trees, crystal blue-green 
waters, Mayan pyramids, Bikini's, lovely girls in Bikini's.  Every 
possible thought coursed through my head.  I fell asleep at 1:30 and 
instantly began the third dream.  I was sitting on top of an abandoned 
pagoda in a jungle eating Peach Marmalade from a jar.  Sown about me 
amongst the leaves and twigs on the floor of the jungle were dead Owls. 
When the alarm went off at 3:00 AM, I was licking the spoon. 

We arrived at the airport in Cancun, Mexico at 5:00 PM.  The heat was
overwhelming.  It felt like a hot wet blanket had been wrapped around 
us.  I know why they call it luggage, because, I lugged at least four 
bags with me for 12 hours.  One bag contained forty eight quarts of 
bottled water, the rest was shorts and tee-shirts.  The water must have 
weighed a hundred pounds, my shoulder was bruised from the weight on 
the strap.  I managed to drink two quarts before we made it to a taxi 
cab for the hotel. 

After unpacking, we mused about our room.  I relaxed in a chair admiring
the beautiful view from the balcony, overlooking the Caribbean.  Trish 
was dancing her Cancun dance in the room behind me, shaking her hips 
back and forth, and waving her arms around her shoulders.  I was 
reading the hotel brochure when there on the second page was a blurb 
about the water. 

“Trish.  It say's in the brochure that we don't need to worry about
drinking the water here.  All the water in the hotel is purified and 
filtered.”  What a relief. 

“Really?  Well I guess we didn't need to bring all that water with us
did we?” 

“We?  I'm the one who carried it.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

For the first two days in Cancun, we enjoyed the numerous sites and
festivities without incident.  The hotel water appeared to be safe, as 
promised.  We made a reservation at the best restaurant in town for 
dinner, a romantic evening alone listening to Mariachi music and dining 
on fine Yucatan Seafood. 

Trish ordered the scallop plate and I ordered the lobster specialty.  We
sipped our Spanish wine and bathed in the delightful atmosphere.  About 
us were tourists from England, Japan, Argentina and just about every 
other country I imagine.  I had been drinking ice water in quantity and 
needed desperately to go to the bathroom when the waiter delivered our 
meals. 

“Here are your scallops Madam.”  He said, placing the plate before
Trish.  “Your lobster sir.  Would you care for some more wine?”  He 
continued.  The service was superb.  A dirty fork was exchanged for a 
clean one before it hit the table.  The water glasses were kept full; 
the wine was chilled to perfection and never allowed to dip below half 
empty. 

“Gracias Senior.”  I was being cosmopolitan, trying to speak Spanish
with the only two words in my vocabulary.  The waiter smiled and 
nodded, appreciative of my effort.  I could see though that he knew I 
couldn't hold a conversation worth a hoot.  By now Trish and I had 
consumed a bottle of wine and were well into the second bottle.  I 
thought briefly about taking a bite of lobster but my need for bladder 
relief was increasing. 

“That looks good.”  Trish said, curiously eyeing the lobster on my
plate.  “I should have got that instead.”  She added.  The wine was 
taking its toll on her, I could tell.  I began thinking of the hotel 
after dinner. 

“I'm going to the restroom.  Be right back.” 

When I returned from the restroom, I immediately noticed that my plate
was missing something. 

“What's the matter Honey?”  Trish asked, trying in vain to hide her wine
induced giggle. 

“Where's my lobster?”  I asked. 

“Oh, He got up and walked away.  I don't think he liked sitting there by
himself.”  Trish still had a tiny piece of white flaky lobster meat 
dangling from her lip.  It had a little bead of butter dripping from 
it.  “Isn't the music wonderful?”  She was trying to change the 
subject. 

“You can never trust a lobster.”  I said, sitting and pulling my chair
to the table.  “Yes, the music is wonderful.  Everything is wonderful 
tonight.”  I added.  The scallops were delicious; lobsters are never 
loyal. 

We made it to the hotel by means of the bus ride from hell.  The bus
driver must have been 16 years old and spoke no English.  He weaved in 
and out of traffic as though he was driving a sports car at speeds 
approaching mach-one.  Tourists fled the roadway screaming in fear as 
we careened along; cars honked their horns and flashed their lights 
with each lane change he made.  The passengers in the bus gripped their 
seats in fright; their knuckles white from the strain.  I suppose 
that's what one should expect for six Pesos. 

Our last day in Cancun and we've made it this far, drinking hotel and
restaurant water.  Nobody has fallen ill.  Only one more day and we're 
home free.  This day would be the challenge though.  We had scheduled a 
trip into the Mexican jungle to see the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza.  
It was hot, close to one hundred degrees and we would be drinking water 
all day.  We each took two quarts of bottled water.  That should hold 
us; so we thought.  The water was gone by the time we finished our 130 
mile bus ride through the jungle. 

Our tour group followed the guide around the ruins for an hour and a
half.  We tried desperately to stay in the limited shade of the trees, 
but it was a large site and most of the ruins were out in the open 
ground.  By 1:30 in the afternoon, we were all parched and had no 
water.  Fortunately, a young man was making the rounds with a cooler 
full of ice water and paper cups.  As he approached our group, a lady 
from Texas asked. 

“Is this water purified?” 

We were all thinking the same thing.  She just beat us to the question. 
The young man stood in silence for a moment. 

“Yes lady, the waters purified.”  He turned and looked at me. 

I could see the disgust on his face.  He must have answered this
question thirty times every day.  I returned his gaze with a 
sympathetic grin as he stepped closer. 

“What is it with Americans always wanting to know if the waters
purified?”  He asked. 

I'm feeling very wise so I respond.  “It's a myth in America that any
time you drink Mexican water you'll get diarrhea.”  He looked at me 
curiously as I continued.  “You see, everyone believes that they'll get 
sick when they come to Mexico.  Don't let it bother you, it's mass 
hysteria and can't be controlled.” 

“Okay, I understand.  I'm thinking you people are strange or something. 
I mean, I drink the water all the time, I don't get sick.”  He says. 

The horror of Mexican water is well known throughout the States as the
dreaded “Montezuma's Revenge.”  The saga goes, there's something about 
water in Mexico that gives visitors from the United States serious 
dysentery.  How can I explain this to the young man without insulting 
him? 

“Well, it's not that simple.  You have microbes and such in your water
that your body is used too, but our bodies are used to the water in the 
U.S., so we react differently.”  I'm on a roll now.  I've committed 
myself to drinking from the cooler and I'm just as scared as the lady 
from Texas about drinking this water.  “You have any more cups?” 

Now I am doomed.  I drank Mexican jungle water.  My last day in Mexico
and I've crossed the Rubicon.  It's too late now.  I'm going to be 
dieing of dysentery about the time I get on the plane for the States 
tomorrow; I know it.  It's my destiny. 

We made it back to the U.S. after a tumultuous trip through the Cancun
and Houston airports.  I didn't die either.  I didn't even get sick and 
neither did Trish.  The water in Mexico was no big deal; I'm living 
proof of it.  My bold speech to the attendant at the Mayan ruins turned 
out to be true.  I drank and drank and drank Mexican water for an 
entire week with not a hint of disease.  Maybe my luck was changing.  
Meeting Trish, vacationing in Mexico, having the time of my life, yes, 
my luck had changed.  I was a new man, full of confidence. 

Upon my return to work, Betty greets me.  She was sitting at her desk. 

“Nice tan.  Did you have a good vacation?”  She asks, never looking up
from her desk. 

“It was fantastic.  Best vacation I've ever had.” 

“That's nice.  Did you get sick?” 

“No.  Not in the least.  I drank the water and everything, didn't bother
me a bit.” 

“That's nice.  Sam wants to see you when you get settled.” 

I've been out for two weeks so there's no telling what has happened in
my absence.  I hate the first few days in the office after a vacation.  
It's like walking into a surprise lynching party and you're the guest 
of honor. 

“So, Lang, while you were gone, we reviewed your project plan.” 

Great, my outline for corporate success had made the rounds through
upper management and now I get to hear about the aftermath of its 
dissemination. 

“And?” 

“Well, after reviewing all of your recommendations, we've concluded that
you have some good ideas here.  We're especially impressed with your 
cost savings suggestions.” 

“I'm glad.  I put a lot of thought into that.” 

“The suggestion about the company switching to biodegradable tampons
went over well.  Your estimate that it will save the company $300,000 
in plumbing repairs over a five year period really got their 
attention.” 

“That's great Sam.  Was anything else brought up?” 

“Well.  The V.P. of Human Resources was opposed to the idea.  She didn't
like the fact that we were switching to a tampon that was technically 
an inferior product.  She complained that they were ineffective in 
performing its design task.  She said something about how they dissolve 
too quickly and aren't very good products.” 

“So, we're not going to use them then?” 

“NO.  We are going to use them.  The board overruled her objections. 
Three hundred thousand is a huge chunk of change.  Sam smiled.  “You're 
a lucky guy.  You get a reward for the best cost saving suggestion.” 

A reward!  I love a good reward.  A bonus perhaps; images of a return to
Cancun immediately flash through my mind.  Sam opens his desk drawer 
and removes a white envelope and hands it to me. 

“Good work pal.  Enjoy.” 

Wow, my reward.  The excitement overwhelms me.  I'm back in the office
for twenty minutes and the company is celebrating my return with a 
reward, in a sealed envelope no less.  As Sam sits grinning, I quickly 
tear it open.  I'm flabbergasted. 

“Taco Gong?” 

“Fifty dollars worth.”  Sam replies. 

“I save the company three hundred thousand dollars and I get a fifty
dollar gift certificate for Taco Gong as a reward?” 

“Something wrong?” 

“Well, ah, err...  Sam, I was thinking a little higher I suppose.  I
mean, it's appreciated and all, but Taco Gong gift certificates.  Seems 
a little, err, low end doesn't it?” 

“Lang, I understand.”  Sam replies.  “It's all we had left in the reward
budget.  You know, we just had Secretaries' Day and spent most of our 
budget on flowers for Betty.  The money is just about gone for the 
year.” 

Now, I'm kicking myself in the ass.  I formulated that part of the
budget for this year and I wasn't expecting to do anything more than 
our normal flower order.  I'm now realizing that all along, I've 
unwittingly been the architect of my own demise. 

Three hours later, I'm sitting in my office having just finished sifting
through two weeks of unread e-mail and Otis appears at my door. 

“Hey Lang, nice tan.” 

“Hey Otis.  How are things?”  I notice a large gauze bandage on his left
hand.  “What's wrong with your hand?”  I ask. 

“Oh, that.  Well, I sliced my finger pretty bad.  It took twenty
stitches'.” 

“How did you manage that?” 

“Remember the Soda machine?” 

“Oh, yea.  Hey, I'm about to go to lunch, care to join me?  I've got
fifty dollars worth of Taco Gong to burn through, I'm treating?” 

“Naaa, not today.  I'm fixing the toilet in the ladies room and I've
lost my appetite.  Thanks anyway though.” 

Taco Gong is just down the road.  For lunch I splurged.  I ordered two
Burrito's, Nacho's, Taco's and a large cup of ice water.  As I'm 
waiting for my order, I'm wondering why the food in Mexico wasn't like 
this?  Taco Gong is an American creation, served up by Mexican 
immigrants.  How ironic.  I don't even like Taco Gong.  How will I ever 
go through fifty dollars worth? 

Three hours later, I'm winding up my first day back in the office.  Otis
has finished his sixth repair of the month on the toilets in the ladies 
room.  Sam has left for the day, enjoying a round of business golf and 
Betty has her head buried in her paperwork, ignoring everyone else as 
usual.  I am thinking about my evening with Trish, a movie and a late 
dinner perhaps, when the first rumbles in my abdomen begin.  The tacos 
from lunch are making their presence known.  I continue working, 
hopeful I can leave a few minutes early, but the rumbles are turning 
into cramps, serious cramps.  Beads of sweat are forming on my 
forehead.  A drop dangles from the tip of my nose wiggling for a 
moment.  I stare at it with my eyes crossed.  It splats on my desk as I 
realize I am in serious distress.  I rush to the men's bathroom, barely 
making it to a stall before my butt explodes. 

Thirty minutes later, I leave the bathroom with my gut aching from the
strain, my shirt soaked and the strength sucked from my body.  Otis 
greets me in the hallway. 

“Man, you don't look so good.” 

“I think I have food poisoning.” 

“Mexico catching up with you?” 

“No, I don't think that's it.  I had Taco Gong for lunch.  I think
that's where I got it.” 

“You should go on home.  Anything I can do for you?” 

“There is one thing Otis.” 

“What's that?” 

“I think the toilet in the men's room is plugged up.”


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