Lunchtime Conversation By Myself…
He looked at his soup.
His stomach grumbled.
His tongue grumled back.
He thought, "No more favors for millionaires."
And also, "No more shit sandwiches."
The stomach was insistent, not to be bargained with. Still stretched out, swollen from last night’s debacle with the lousy 22 dollar pizza. The soup looked like a job too easy to be bothered with.
But the gut wants what it wants. The gut is not a body part to be bargained with. The blade of the soup probed the reflective skim that skimmed the top of the paper soup bowl.
Slimy, tangs the tongue- crinkle their dry lids atop his dry eyes. The lips darken at the corners.
The brain (peacemaker that he is) pipes in:
"Might be okay. Remember the mussels from a couple nights ago? They smelled like catshit and they were okay."
The stomach grumbles in agreement. The stomach is capable of grumbling from several places at the same time and thereby sounding like a non-descript crowd murmuring assent.
The tongue hears nothing. The cat shit comment from the brain triggered a sense memory of stinky litterbox mussels in spicy catshit sauce and the tongue in response has chosen paralytic detachment. The tongue has packed its bags for the rest of the day.
The stomach says words like "watermelon" and "rutabaga" over and over again. It will still get the food it needs, but without the tongue’s enthusiastic approbation the hand will only lazily move the spoon to the mouth and leisurely dump the contents there. The opportunity for the urgent gorging to which the stomach feels entitled, to which the stomach has become accustomed seems all but gone. The stomach is now pissed off.
The brain (arbiter in cases like these) steps in. He announces that he will graciously cover for the tongue, operate the hand, and placate the stomach. He can do all of these things! He’s a hero! See how easy it can be to get along?
The brain waits for appreciative comments that will never come.
The brain sighs and swings the right hand into action.
The spoon breaks the skin of the lukewarm tomato soup. The soup passes the lips slides across the tongue down the gullet to the skeptical and unsatisfied stomach.
"See! See?" says the brain. "It’s- whadyacallit- it’s- you know- salty!"
The tongue says nothing. Only lies in the mouth looking off at the opening and closing teeth and lips and thinking of fresh baked blueberry muffins.
January 16th, 2007 at 3:24 pm
I resigned from my job yesterday via email because I called in sick so I could interview for another job which I think I’m passing on.
The General Manager called me into his office. I sat down. He held out the trash can across the desk at me.
“Your gum,” he said.
I took the gum out of my mouth and held it between my fingers.
“I think I’ll hang on to it.”
I want to thank the management for making my decision seem even righter today.
January 22nd, 2007 at 11:29 pm
You need to chronicle your journey towards waifdom twice a month. I enjoy. He’s off bread everyone! Watch out!
January 26th, 2007 at 4:04 pm
Fucking millionaires. So where are you working these days? Day schedule? Perhaps we will be seeing more of you now.
I like the consciousness stream style of this one. “Slimy, tangs the tongue- crinkle their dry lids atop his dry eyes. The lips darken at the corners.” Mmmm. Cummingsy. I like.
Boring. Sick food. A culinary punishment. And I eat Pax soup atleast 3 times a week. Across from Citi. Can’t beat 3 bucks for lunch. As soup goes, Pax is excellent. As soup goes.