Reaper Madness
By Steve Sabatka
For the TODAY
Ridin’ high I got tears in my eyes
You know you got to go through hell
Before you get to heaven
- The Steve Miller Band
Seasons don’t fear the Reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain
- Blue Öyster Cult
Best as I can tell, there aren’t any support groups for people like me, or even a name for my affliction, for the monkey on my back. But my AI-generated sponsor says I need to take a first step and admit I am powerless against the nightmare of my choosing, so here goes:
My name is Steve, and I am working hard to free myself from the searing grip of a bad, bad jones. (You’re supposed to say, “Hi, Steve,” but I won’t know one way or the other.)
My share, my testimony, begins at a quiet high school somewhere on the Oregon Coast. Maybe you went to school there. Maybe your kids attend now. By any objective measure, it's a good school with a strong, supportive administration, a highly qualified staff, and a safe, accepting culture. Some classrooms even have an ocean view. Mine does.
But something unsanctioned by the school district, something downright infernal, operates just beneath that wholesome surface. On certain days, before class, a clandestine, nameless group of five professional educators gathers in a quiet corner of the science lab to share small plastic bags containing a mind-expanding substance: our own handwrought heat- seasoning, something we call Captain Jake’s Private Reserve (in honor of the infantry commander who, when surrounded by the Viet Cong, called a Napalm strike on his own unit.)
We take our fire seriously. Sriracha? Child’s play. That hot wings show belongs on Nickelodeon with the other cartoons, far as we’re concerned. So, during our off hours, we haunt local farmers markets and produce departments in search of shishitos, piquillos, serranos and various reapers, depending on the season, market influences, etc. A team specialist, who may or might not be a Yakuza-tattooed history and civics teacher, then air-dries the raw ingredients and grinds them into the green and red fever flakes that we crave.
“Why for you do that?”
-The Tasmanian Devil
Because that initial tongue-burn triggers the release of natural opioids and a rush, a flood of euphoria and enlightenment, resulting in a two-part harmony of agony and ecstasy that some compare to a runner’s high: pain and gain.
On a recent weekend, another of our members (maybe he’s a chemistry/ecology teacher and volleyball coach, and maybe he isn’t), brought something new to the process, something he had created, a crimson, warty, freak-spawn hybrid pepper that he named “Yaquina Bay Reaper.”
Into the mix it went to be dried and pulverized. There were no trials, no questions and no reckoning on God. What could go wrong? I would shortly find out, when, like Icarus, I was careless, flew too close to the sun, and paid a hellish price.
A week later, the finished product was distributed as usual, quickly, quietly, and we all went about the education of America’s youth.
But I was impatient, careless and, most of all, hungry. I sprinkled some Captain Jake’s onto a McDonald’s “burrito.” It was a careful pinch, just enough to bring about that brimstone-and-dopamine jolt, and remind me that I am ALIVE, ALIVE, do you hear?
I chomped into that “burrito,” just like that mechanical shark chomped into Quint in “Jaws.” I chewed and waited, eyes closed. Sure enough, my tongue began to shrivel and blister like a poblano pepper on an open flame. I started sweating. My ears rang with air-raid sirens.
A second of Alfred Hitchcock suspense.
And then a flood of feel-good chemicals and hormones came riding to my rescue in crashing, king waves of exhilaration. I was, as the surfers say. in the slot, gleaning the cube, totally barreled, man, pure vida! But then, awash in delirious awareness, I broke the second rule of our furtive organization:
DON’T TOUCH YOUR EYES!
Instant regret. The pain was immediate, intense and escalating, moment by moment, with no peak in sight. Worse, my natural opiates were overwhelmed. Pain without the gain.
I tried to keep my head. There is no cure for “Thai Fry Eye,” but the sufferer can take steps to reduce the misery, if only by a precious little. H2O, even ice-cold, only spreads the torment, like throwing water on flaming bacon grease. Milk helps, but you need a lot of it to counteract capsaicin, the oil-based compound that gives peppers their heat.
I gave serious thought to blasting myself with a fire extinguisher. Then, for whatever reason, I remembered those poor shorebirds, drenched in crude oil when the Exxon Valdez ran aground back in 1989. As you know, rescue crews used a well-known dishwashing detergent to save them.
I lurched to the sink in my classroom, squirted a good quantity of that self-same detergent into my palm, and then rubbed it into my shrieking eye. The flames banked almost immediately, then subsided to an earthbound, just-bareable level.
By third period, I was back to normal, but shaken to my core. How could I have been so careless? What kind of person would risk such misery for a few moments of blazing, William Blake illumination? That eye-scalding experience was my rock bottom, and the beginning of my recovery.
As I wrap this up, I realize that I mentioned the second rule of our group, but not the first and most important one. In the interest of discretion, I’ll just remind you that your eyes are not the most vulnerable, susceptible part of your anatomical landscape. If you ever fall prey to the “Chili Willie” effect, just remember one thing:
It’s always hottest before the Dawn.