No, you haven't heard it? Excellent. Then allow me to explain.
Her name was Oralia Silva. (Well no, it actually wasn't, but I am sure you understand that I can't put her real name here, liable and all that, but this name has the same ethnicity and syllables.) She was a small woman standing at about 5' 2' or so, had short black hair, and brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. And I am pretty sure that she lived alone in a house made of gingerbread and candy.
I met her in the summer of '95 when I was working on a special project away from my normal building and coworkers. In fact, there were about 20 of us that had been selected from across the company as being good at what we did and, therefore, perfect for this assignment. We were given temporary workplaces in areas that normally housed other people, but who happened to be away on vacations. Their equipment, desks, etc. were all secured, naturally, but we still had access to most of what we needed. It just so happened that the area I was in was usually occupied by a friend of mine, so he had given me his keys and access codes so that I could use his equipment and materials if I needed. A blessing, you say, since I had access to everything while my temporary coworkers had to do without? Not exactly, for this is how my battles with Oralia Silva began.
It was the first day of our new assignment and I was sitting at my desk trying to map out everything I had to do over the next 4 weeks. I had already taken a couple of simple pieces of equipment out in preparation of a presentation I was going to give the next day. My head was down and I was completely focused on the task at hand when my concentration was broken by my door opening and closing. I looked up to see Oralia Silva standing in my room with a huge smile on her face. Though she was facing me, her eyes were darting about the room, looking at the materials I had out.
Now, I had only met her very briefly that morning and, must admit, I was not impressed. But there you are. I wasn't in charge of hiring.
"Can I help you, Ms. Silva?" I asked. I would like to say that I addressed her politely, but the truth is she was bothering me and I made no secret of that fact.
"Maaaaaaaandragore," she said. (Not my real name, but the syllables are the same.)
"Yes?" I asked again.
"I don't have one of those transparency machines," she said.
"Transparency machines?" I asked. "You mean the machines that make transparencies? You make them in the photocopier," I said with more than a bit of exasperation in my voice. (I fear I was rather impatient in my younger days.)
"No," she pouted. "The transparency machines!" she said more loudly, as if that would help me understand her gibberish. "The machine that shows the transparencies!"
Suddenly, I understood what she meant. "You mean the overhead projector? This belongs to my colleague, and he left it out for me to use."
"Well, I want one of those," she said, smiling that weird smile of hers again. I swear, she looked like a toad when she smiled, her thin-lipped mouth wide and glistening with slime. She also had the habit of nodding her head after asking for something, as if her actions could will me to nod in assent along with her. It truly was a disconcerting sight.
"I am afraid I can't help you, Ms. Silva," I answered, and I went back to my notes. She stood there silently for a moment or so before saying, "Mandragore, I am talking to you," in a soft voice.
Cringing inwardly, I slapped my mechanical pencil down on my desk, swiveled towards her in my chair, and said, "What is it you need, Ms. Silva?" in a friendly voice dripping with insincerity.
She quite correctly took offense at my cheek and said, "Well, nothing now," and flounced out of my room.
These ridiculous conversations went on and on for the entire four weeks we worked together, with her continuously asking for supplies, both big and small, because she went completely unprepared. Pencils, erasers for the electronic display board, transparency sheets, books, the overhead, etc. She wanted it all and got nothing from me. And each time she asked, she had that odd smile on her face, her head bobbing hypnotically.
Well, it was the last day we were together. I had one last presentation to give before I could pack up my materials and go back to my normal routine and was looking forward to never seeing that place or those people again. Just as I was about to walk out of my door, in come Ms. Silva, a huge grin on her face.
"Maaaaaaaandragore," she said, he black eyes glinting, "I made you a breakfast taco."
"A taco?" I asked. I have to admit that I was rather thrown by this unexpected and unwelcomed gesture.
"Yes, a taco," she said, smiling and nodding like a possessed bobblehead. "I made you egg with chili," she continued as she unwrapped a foil packet. I could see that there were two tacos inside.
"Well, that was very nice of you, Ms. Silva," I answered and reached for the taco closest to me.
"No, not that one," she said as she jerked her hand back. She turned the packet around so that the other taco was now closest to me and said, "This one."
Immediately, my paranoid self reared its head, whispering to me to run, and run fast.
"Um, ok," I said as I reached for the indicated breakfast taco.
She smiled happily, said that I was welcome, and left my room.
I took a bite out of the taco and my mouth was immediately assailed by a hot numbness like I had never felt before. I spit the food out of my mouth and opened the tortilla to see what was inside. There on the tortilla was a pile of egg covered in an oddly green sauce. Now, as a Hispanic, I have seen, made, and eaten a variety or salsas, but this concoction was new to me. I sniffed it. There was a spicy sourness to the salsa but nothing that screamed of danger. But let's be serious, what exactly does poison smell like? So, I threw the taco in the trash and continued what I was doing.
About a half hour later, she tracked me down, her mouth stretched wide in her typical grin.
"Did you eat it? Did you eat the whole thing?" she asked as her head nodded up and down faster than usual. I can only assume it was due to the thrill of a kill.
"Yes. Yes, I did," I lied. "It was good."
And then she sort of hopped up and down and clapped her hands. "Oh good," she trilled, and rushed off. I can only assume it was to stoke the flames in her oven back at the Gingerbread Homestead.
I managed to evade her the rest of the day, and when I was finally able to leave, I grabbed my box of materials and got out of there as fast as I could.
I told my coworkers about what had happened, but they only laughed at my telling and retelling of the story (I have a tendency to embellish stories to make them funnier, you see) and refused to believe that my life was ever in danger.
However, let me just warn you now. If you ever meet up with a small Hispanic woman named Oralia who offers you green sauced tacos, I suggest you run, and run fast.
