Christina Stiles

Existential Lunch

by

Christina Ashley Stiles

MONDAY

            The cafeteria is crowded at lunch hour. The line snakes around the outer glass and into the building proper. I wait patiently, moving inches at a time, until arriving at the drink spouts and ebbing myself a glass of tea. I can see Margaret from where I stand. She’s an older woman in her late fifties, with silver hair and large, fleshy arms. Her white uniform looks like a nurse’s; it fits tightly across her chest and portly waist. Her movements are fluid, not slow, as she passes orders over the counter and wishes the patrons a good day.

            I move up the line, and Margaret nods in recognition.

            “Turnip greens, carrots, and squash today,” she says, while pointing to the vegetables in their respective containers under the protective glass. When I don’t jump at her offerings, she gives me a wink. “Soup, then, right?”

I smile that she remembers my preference. She hands me my large cup, and I edge my way to the register and out the door.

TUESDAY

To my delight, macaroni is the special of the day. My stomach growls just watching the cheesy noodles slide on the plates of those ahead of me. The vegetables look pleasing as well: corn, ocra, and earthy spinach.

Soon Margaret finishes with the customer before me, and she asks me what I’d like. She stands proud behind the selections, reminding me of the primordial Venus statuettes—she a goddess of food, perhaps. She folds her arms about her middle, and stares down at me from her bifocals, and I wonder what great secret this proud, benevolent woman holds. Would it be apocalyptic like Nietzsche? Enlightening like the Buddha? There are others waiting, and I am too afraid to ask her. I point to the macaroni and spinach, and exit stage right.

WEDNESDAY

            It’s been raining. The weather has clogged my sinuses, and I feel like shit. I opt for the soup, hoping it will relieve the pressure. Margaret nods again, and I imagine we’re kindred spirits, though I the younger in search of her knowledge—whatever it is that makes her strong and active despite the mundanity of everyday life, despite time and change.

Still, we are not alone, and I cannot ask.

THURSDAY  

Margaret is not working. I find it difficult to order, as if the rules of edibility have changed. Should I order the ethical mixed vegetables and baked chicken? Or go for the aesthetic chocolate cake fix? I remain undecided. The young girl at the counter waits patiently for my answer. She doesn’t know what I want; I doubt she knows what she wants. She may not even realize the choices. Maybe her own are different, and she’ll just go to McDonald’s after her shift.

            “Soup,” I say, unconvinced it will feed my hunger. Uncertain that it ever has.

FRIDAY         

Ah! Margaret is back. We are alone at last. I smile shyly from my side of the counter, thinking that we are somehow like yin and yang, a Taoist circle separated by meat and vegetables. Margaret is the white of the circle, the enlightened, all-experiencing one—an expert at this game. I am the other half, the confused youth veiled in darkness who seeks illumination.

“What will it be today?”

Today, she says, as if it were somehow different from the one before or after it. “Margaret,” I squeak, “wh-what’s it all about—this life?”

She smiles knowingly. She slowly rotates her head downward. I follow her movements with my eyes. She looks at the veal, the turkey, the green beans, and then the rice. My nose catches the scent of each as we travel the line. Margaret extends an arm to the countertop. It is white, fleshy, and freckled with age spots—human. It rests there, listless, as I await her response from on high.

She breathes a sigh. “Maintenance,” she says finally, shattering the silence triumphantly. Her face beams. Her wrinkles rush to emphasize her green eyes. “It’s all about maintenance,” she repeats with a small laugh.

“Maintenance?” I repeat in awe, as she hands me a plate of turkey smattered with gravy. Realization washes over me.

“Ha, of course! How blind! How profound!” I utter, and then fade into subsistence.