Life could be a dream, sweetheart

To continue the story of the loneliest Cheeto...


At some point after the climbing trip (or perhaps it was later in the same trip - once again my memory fails me on the finer points), el señor B found a single Cheeto underneath the driver's seat of his car, accused me of being responsible, and ordered me to pick it up. I countered that he himself had eaten the second half of the bag of Cheetos®, and as such was just as likely - nay more likely than I - to have dropped the offending morsel. Why? I offer, as evidence, point number one: the Cheeto was under his seat, and point number two: I am a delicate eater. I eat my Cheetos® one at a time and would definitely notice were I to drop one. El señor B, on the other hand, merely opens his maw wide to dump the contents of the bag in.

Now, had el señor B said something to the effect of "Dear lady, being that you are more compact than I, would you kindly wriggle beneath the seat to retrieve that thar Cheeto of uncertain origin", then I probably would have done so gladly. But his condescending tone of reproachfulness, combined with the fact that I did not drop that damn Cheeto, led me instead to reply something to the effect of "I'm not picking up that fucking Cheeto".

This led to quite the heated Cheeto argument, and for months, every time I got into his car, he would rail at me to pick up that stupid Cheeto. On principle, I continued to refuse. Soon the name calling began: dirty Cheeto dropper, whore of the Cheeto, Cheeto sandbagger, and the like. He told the story - inaccurately - to anyone who would listen, all in an attempt to sully my good name.

Eventually, notes began to appear on my desk at work when I was away from it.

Upon seeing a tiny bag of Cheetos® on my desk:
"Proof! Proof! Cheeto dropper! No love (as indicated by a heart with a line through it), Bond"

Going through a haiku phase:
"You Katie Badsmell / Toes of raisin in morning / You dropped that Cheeto". I have no idea what the raisin toes bit was all about; I guess he needed a line with seven syllables?

And then one day, an actual Cheeto on my keyboard with the accompanying note "Oops! I dropped a Cheeto!"

Some would be disturbed by such behavior, but grad students look forward to just about any form of amusement at work, so I tolerated the abuse. At some point, years later, I finally agreed to stoop down to pick up that lousy Cheeto just to get el señor B to shut up about it once and for all. But it was too late, for the lonely Cheeto had turned to dust - gone to Cheeto heaven, if you will. RIP, little Cheeto buddy.