Amateur Megalomania

This smoke didn’t hang in the air.

It filled the room from the bottom, layer piling upon layer, compressing it well beyond the normal density of carcinogenic poison. This smoke had purpose. It sloshed in the wake of the waitress, sending up eddies and ripples that reminded me more of a storm-chopped lake on a windy day.

At the next table, two old-timers puffed on enormous pipes, sending even more smoke into the reservoir. I could hear them talking about their grandchildren, but it didn’t take much to imagine they were talking about their tumors. “He’s getting so big!” “He’s into everything now, we just can’t stop him.”

I ignored cancerous Gandalf and Sauramon, turning back to the conversation at hand. “Why do we meet here?”

Chris smiled. “Where else are we going to get this ambience?”

I looked around, taking in the human wreckage. In the far corner, a crumpled man chain-smoked while carrying on a conversation with the wall hanging. In another booth, a couple argued about feeding their kid or buying beer: the beer seemed more important.

Behind me, Gandalf began pestering the waitress over some device hanging from the ceiling. I looked up to see a vintage 1960s era box, complete with a nicotine-stained bakelite frame and tarnished chrome nameplate that said SMOKEETER. Gandalf was upset that it either consumed too much smoke, or wasn’t putting out its fair share. The waitress used some sort of coat hanger to randomly toggle a switch that had been installed before her birth.

I turned back to Chris. “Yeah, this is good.”

Chris reached out and twisted the ketchup container so it faced me. The neck of the bottle sported a cheery logo, no doubt written by some six figure Madison Avenue type, certain to hook into the minds of gullible Midwestern types.

Taste and Believe!

“Have you?”

I pushed the ketchup bottle aside. “Not yet.”

“Okay. But I don’t understand. Why fight it?”

I shrugged. “I’m just not ready, okay?”

“Okay. In your own time.” He stopped when the waitress broke the smoke barrier around us, changing from a dim, moving shape to a lady partially obscured by fog. Chris put his order together while I stared at the ketchup bottle.

Taste and Believe!

Slap that on a pack of Eucharist Wafers and it didn’t seem out of place, but on a ketchup bottle? I didn’t reckon a ketchup manufacturer could solve my theological issues, but maybe I’m naïve.

The waitress turned to me with a thousand-yard stare. “And you sir.” Her voice growled with a lifetime of smoke.

I glanced down to the menu. “I’ll have the Supreme Being.”

“You mean the Supreme Burger.”

“Whatever.”

“How would you like that prepared.”

“Medium smoke.” If she heard me, she didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm.

She made her way back to the kitchen, no doubt echo-locating her path through the eternal smoke.

“The Supreme Burger.” Chris smiled. “Don’t waste your time with lesser burgers.”

“Only the best for me.”

We trailed off into silence for a moment before I continued. “So, have you fed?”

“Sure. I’ve got a new guy. Ambitious, bright, and with a little talent.”

“But not too much?”

He laughed. “Of course not. Just enough to keep him going awhile. Thinks he’s going to be a department head someday. Tastes great.”

“It’s really so much better?”

Chris put down his coffee and leaned forward a little. “You have no idea. You think this is great? Sucking up all of this despair? You haven’t really had anything until you’ve torn someone down to nothing. Active food is so much better than passively slurping up the residuals.”

Taste and Believe!

I looked back to the man in the booth chatting up the hanging plant. With a small push in my mind, he changed before my eyes, becoming an amorphous mound of liquid flesh. His features ran together, leaving an undifferentiated scar of a maw, presently consuming his own flesh. He didn’t offer much in the way of food for me, but I soaked up what I could. I tasted his divorce, his unemployment, his gradual decline, along with the residual loss of purpose still present in his shattered mind.

It tasted like ash.

“That can’t even compare. But I’ll stop pushing.” Chris changed the subject. “Have you met Bob in validation? New guy. Walking around with a backpack?”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s one of us. I’ll have to arrange a meeting and lay out the rules. Should I reserve your stake?”

I sat in silence for a moment. I might not be ready to feed, but that didn’t mean I’d never partake. “Yeah, keep my portion reserved.”

The waitress returned with our food and chucked it on the table. She wandered back into the smoke without a word. I flipped the bun off of my Supreme Being/Burger, making sure they hadn’t started using mayonnaise without telling me. I hated the crap. The shriveled patty sat on the nicotine-colored bun. “This is the body of Cow…” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I squeezed a dollop of miracle ketchup (Taste and Believe!) and reassembled the sandwich.

It tasted like the crazy guy in the corner.

*******

For me, food has always been about the basic needs of sustenance.

Imagine if you will, spending your life existing on nothing but flavorless gruel. Nourishing, yet bland. An endless progression of sameness, tasting of wet cardboard.

Now imagine the temptation of a real meal, full of wonderful flavors and textures, things you have heard about but never experienced. Would you be tempted?

Now imagine the price of this marvelous feast.

Could you discard your humanity? Would it make a difference if your humanity had been imaginary in the first place?

Filed under: Writing