A little while back (in the grand scope of time), I was bored, so I started a blog. In this blog, I consistently picked on a target of populist criticism: the Caf. After a period of non-boredom, I eventually became bored once again, which led to a fresh round of assailments. Eventually, the barrage become too intense to handle, and a temporary cease-fire was called. We scheduled a meeting. The following is a rendition of that meeting:
I pause, my pen hovering above the page. “Thank you for doing this,” I say, raising my gaze from my notes.
She surveys me from across the table, sizing me up. “My pleasure,” the voice says, but the body is shut off, protective. “I’m glad we organized this.”
And I think about Salisbury steak. I think about seafood casserole. I think about hot dog buns. I click my pen. Then I click it again. I invent a fake header and put it down on the paper, awarding myself with a break from her scrutiny.
“I’ve visited your Web site,” she says, sliding a manilla folder to rest between us. “You’re a very… witty writer.” She opens the folder, revealing a stack of printouts glowing with fluorescent highlighter ink. Multicolored sticky notes poke out like bookmarks.
“Ah. Well,” I say, an awkward heat creeping up my neck. “You know, it was never my intention to be mean. The way I like to think of the stuff I write–fundamentally, it’s truth. Wrapped in satire.” Feeling particularly smug, I add, “Smothered in sausage gravy.”
She, the Ice Queen, remains unblinking. My eyes water on her behalf.
“But I will say this,” I say. I add an extended index finger for effect. “Before I came here today, I received a passionate plea from a fellow student who’s considering getting a feeding tube implanted over eating in the Caf–that’s what we’re talking about here.”
“I understand this line of reasoning. Some of our items are optimized for ingestion–as you well know.”
My index finger slumps to the table. “No, that’s not the point! She–uh, or he–it could be a he–is talking about the quality of the food. The nutrition. You know.”
The response comes almost instantly. “Our goal is to make your dining experience the best it can be by providing good, nutritious food in a relaxed atmosphere.”
“Yeah, okay, but you’re not,” I say.
“We also strive hard to deliver superior service each day.”
“Let’s talk about something else.” I glance at my notes as though checking for a talking point. “Actually, let me get a glass of water first.”
Behind the scenes, the intermission takes a detour when I notice the store-brand knockoff of my favorite peanut butter-infused cereal. As I return to the table, I notice two Caf drones, their faces ashen and dull, flanking my opponent. “Sorry about that,” I say. I smile wanly, my gaze flashing between her and her reinforcements. Noticing the logo on their uniforms, I go on the offensive: “You know, let’s talk about Aramark.” I lean forward in what I hope is an aggressive move. “A lot of people are under the impression that the Caf took a hit after Aramark came into the picture.”
The reaction is instant–finally, a direct hit; a left hook! Eyes shut, she places a hand on the table, her head twisting away as though I had dealt her a grievous personal insult. The drones tense–they share a mortified glance!
Under the table, I clench a hand into a fist. “That’s what this is about! Tell me about–”
“How–do you know–about Aramark?” Her voice issues from some guttural depth, the glare snapping back like a rubber band.
I blink at her. “How do I know? Why wouldn’t I know?”
“Who told you of Aramark? Who gave you access to such information?”
The bodyguards flex threateningly.
I buy myself some time with a spoonful of cereal, my jaws and mind working furiously. My gaze falls on the spoon.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Still chewing, I look wildly about the room. It is silent. It is clean. It is open before five in the afternoon. The cereal has turned to mush in my mouth. I ask myself a question that causes my stomach to tie itself in knots. Then I ask the same question out loud: “Where… are we right now?”
For a moment, she appears lost in thought. Then, consulting her notes, she gazes upon me with a certain profundity. “Your knowledge of Aramark is… perplexing, and yet… Yes, you must know.”
The drones return to shifting uncomfortably.
“Leave us,” she commands.
We are alone in the Caf.
“This is not how I want things to be,” she says, gesturing at our surroundings. “In fact, this is not how it ought to be. You see, the Aramark is the idyllic Caf homeworld you have referred to in the past as the… yes, the Shadow Caf. Its protrusion into your world has been tainted by rumors and slander, creating a twisted mirror image. It exists because you allow it.”
After ten breathless seconds, I scoop my jaw from the table. “Exists because you allow it–what do you mean?”
She extracts a yellow piece of paper from her folder. “Do you recognize this?”
I blink. “Yeah, that’s a–that’s one of those comment cards. People use them for anonymous hate mail.”
She places the golden slip between us. “While I do not know of these… comment cards of which you speak, these constructs serve as monitoring drones between your world–” she slides the comment card toward me “–and ours.” “The connecting gateway exists by the central desk.”
“The comment box?” I exclaim, my voice rising to an incredulous squeak. “A gateway…? Between worlds…?”
“As they pass through the gateway and into Aramark, the drones transmit their data. Negative readings are discarded into your world, upsetting the balance. The overwhelming influx of such readings has led to the gradual creation of Aramark’s sinister opposite–the Caf you have experienced on a daily basis.”
The concepts slowly connecting in my mind, I return to the offensive: “So you’re saying that the only way to restore the Caf–my Caf–to Aramark is by praising the food?”
“Not praise. Constructive criticism. An indication of preference from time to time. These will all add to Aramark’s eventual unification.”
“And the split exists because I allow it to…” I echo, the epiphany surging through me like a bad case of spontaneous combustion. “Everything I’ve ever written about the Caf. Every snarky comment. Every exaggerated critique.”
“Indeed.”
“But they weren’t comment cards! That was just a writing exercise I turned into a blog!”
“You too played your part. Observe your response to last year’s Breakfast at Night: ‘Breakfast at Night is a serious cop-out. I come to dinner for dinner.’” She reads the words with a cold resignation.
“That was… You don’t know I wrote that,” I say defensively.
“We have a team of handwriting analysts working closely with your faculty. For the record, all your professors know how you have responded to your course evaluations, thanks to your compliant habit of filling in the ‘Male,’ ‘Major/Minor Requirement,’ and ‘Equally Well in English and Another Language’ bubbles.” She closes the folder in a satisfied sort of way. “Some of them are not amused.”
My face burning, I revert back to the previous topic. “I’m graduating. I’m going to stop writing about the Caf.”
“But the others won’t.”
“What if I told them? What if I go back and tell them what to do before I’m done with college? I could make it my last entry, I guess.”
She pauses. “Perhaps a viable strategy.”
“Then we have reached an agreement.”
We rise from the table and shake hands. “Is it really that easy?” I ask. “Constructive criticism? A friendly pointer along the way?”
“The easy choice has already been made. You have experienced the results yourself.”
“Very deep,” I say. “Very Dumbledoresque.”
“Thank you for your time.”
“Yeah, you too,” I say slightly dazedly. I move around the table and take the first steps toward the exit. As I draw closer, the room appears to grow hazy–tables blur at the edges, and the corners fade into nothingness. “I can never come back, can I?” I call over my shoulder.
She has been watching my departure. “Haven’t you suffered enough already?” she asks, the voice sounding as though issuing from the bottom of a well.
Once outside, I turn to the Caf doors and test each handle. Locked. I check my watch. 4:46.
“Open from seven to seven my ass,” a would-be diner grumbles from the Caf steps. “Maybe in a different world.”
