The man shoves a french fry into his mouth in a swift, precise movement. Just prior to that, he dipped it expertly with just the right amount of ketchup from the typical condiment paper cup. The moment the fry disappears off in his mouth, fatally crushed and digested, the man picks up another fry and repeats the same sequence, and again. The movements are mechanical and precise, and hypnotizingly constant in rhythm. The man does not seem to really taste the fries, as each one gets gobbled up immediately after the previous one and is chewed on only twice before the next fry takes its place.
I have been staring at this man for a while now, my horridly bland coffee left untouched in front of me. It has gone cold already, but I could care less. This man fascinates me. He’s reading a newspaper as he eats his fries. His burger is still in its wrapping, and I wonder if he will finish his fries before getting started on it.
He suddenly breaks his routine, one beat after swallowing a fry, to take a sip from his drink. It seems to be a cola or some other dark-colored beverage, judging from what is getting sucked up through the white plastic straw. One beat later, he resumes his fry-eating pace, right on the third beat of what I am certain is a four-beat tempo.
I don’t know whether I am disgusted or not.
This man before me seems to epitomize the very essence of the average city man with his eating habit. The thoughtless, mechanical feeding; the seeming lack of any sort of enjoyment for the food; the equal lack of savoring: the lifelessness. Eating for fuel, eating because it’s what he should be doing right now.
I decide that I am disgusted.
Very soon, the stack of fries comes to an end, and he starts peeling the wrapping off the burger. Unexpectedly, he attacks the sandwich mercilessly, his jaw straining for that first murderous bite. You can see mandibular bone protuberances on the side of his jaw, angry veins on his temple, muscles taut in his neck. The urban predator.
Trans fats, cholesterol, junk food. Everyone knows of the dangers, at least vaguely, yet no one really seems to care. Decline to eat unhealthy for fear of trans fats, and you receive a disdainful eyeroll. I believe in the dangers. In fact, I would not be surprised if this man were to topple over in a fit of acute hypercholesterolemia. There is no wood here for me to knock on.
In what seems like less than a minute, the man wolfs down the burger. He then crumples the wrapper, and takes a long sip of his drink. He sits there for a few more seconds, staring off into space, drinking. Then he stands up, slings his bag over one shoulder, grabs the tray and walks over to the nearest garbage can. I decide to follow him.
This sudden fascination for this man that has gripped me is unexplainable. I have no words for it. It simply is a compulsion, an impulse to see the story to its end. What end this story may have, I do not know, nor could imagine. It’s not even interesting. He’s not even interesting. I mull over these thoughts as I grab my own backpack and stand up. I glance at the coffee, alone on the table. I decide to end its miserable existence and throw it in the garbage. I hurry outside, having lost the fast food predator. I step out onto the sidewalk, and spot the man as he’s about to cross the intersection, a little further down the street. I pull the second strap of my backpack over my left shoulder, and jog off towards the street corner. The man melts into the crowd as the pedestrian signal lights up.
Suddenly there’s a piercing screech, screams, a muted thump immediately followed by a loud crash, then silence. Panicked screams erupt, chaos. I had stopped running, but now I dash towards the commotion. I try to push my way through the massing crowd, to see, to join these vultures. What? What? Who?
Lying halfway on the sidewalk, one leg unnaturally bent, is the burger-wolfing man. His face is down against the pavement, the back of his head visibly cracked open and a massive pool of crimson beneath him, on him, from him is steadily growing larger. A car is stopped about three meters away from him, windshield cracked, red webbings. I stare for a while, and no one seems to react. I don’t know what to think.
Trans fats really are dangerous, after all.
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PS. I really did just write that. What, what.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Mindless Thoughts
Here's another oneshot. I decided to go with a little less structure, and putting as little process into it as possible. Not sure if I'm liking it or not.
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