This one was written in response to a dare given during a HWA dinner.
Its inclusion here is merely for fun.
Dinner at the Factory
We sit and watch him over dinner, though I don’t think he knows it. Shelly, beside me, says, “I think he’ll be fine,” but I’m not so sure.
The waiter has come and gone long ago, but our guest at the dinner table still seems happy. I can hear him talking to those around him, those who are complaining about their hunger, but he only smiles and nods his head.
“See? He’s doing fine,” Shelly says, and I start to wonder if it’s true. I want him to do well, but I can’t help feeling that gnawing doubt in my gut. Maybe it’s his eyes – his eyes look a little glassy, a touch vacant, but I’m sitting far from him and it’s too hard to tell.
The waiter passes without a word, and still our guest sits patiently. I wonder if he knows just how long he’s been waiting, but if he’s looked at his watch, he’s done it so surreptitiously that neither Shelly nor I have noticed.
Shelly flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and leans close to me. “I think I’m getting hungry myself,” she says, and I smile despite my misgivings.
Finally, the food arrives, and I can see the tension at the table dissipate. The plates are handed out one by one, each with a different meal, yet they all look the same to me, all look like plates of coloured mush. Even the salad looks like a paste, and Shelly touches my leg and says, “This is the most unappetizing it’s ever been.”
I nod in agreement.
Our guest, though, does not seem bothered by the look of the food. He shovels it into his mouth as quick as he can, not stopping to look or speak to anyone. It’s as though he’s a machine – designed only for eating, and I can hear the disappointment in the way Shelly exhales. I feel it too, a little, but it’s tempered with a slight flutter in my chest whose origin I cannot fathom.
At the end of the meal, long after everybody has finished, the waiter brings around a large metal cart. In front of each person he places a small bowl containing a single spoon of ice cream. I can see the colours swirled together even from behind the glass, and I think I hear, though I’m not sure, the sound of Shelly’s stomach rumble. I look at her and she smiles. “Keep your eyes on our guest,” she says, and I laugh and turn back. He has just received his bowl, and he too smiles politely and thanks the waiter. Then our guest stands up, dessert in hand, and throws it in the waiter’s face.
“That’s for making me wait three hours for my fucking dinner!”
Everyone stops. I shake my head. Shelly looks as though she is about to cry. “I was so sure,” she says, then repeats it, and I write down all I’ve seen on the clipboard in front of me.
I press down the button of the microphone and say simply, “Reset Trial 19”.
There is the sound of motors, of blades spinning, then a gurgle that is nowhere near loud enough to cover the screams.
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